Pop Kult Warlord

by Nick Cole

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Pop Kult Warlord

  Soda Pop Soldier #2

  Nick Cole

  Copyright

  Pop Kult Warlord

  Nick Cole

  Castalia House

  Kouvola, Finland

  www.castaliahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Nick Cole

  All rights reserved

  Version: 001

  Chapter One

  A million-dollar jackpot is moments from going up in smoke in a firefight inside a make-believe simulation called WarWorld.

  That’s as real as real gets.

  Digitally rendered bullets are chewing Hemingway’s Bar and Steaks to shreds all around me, and the rest of Havana is burning to the ground, when they redirect me to take out a high-value target. I’m down to twenty heavily armed grunts and a couple of new pros who’ve just signed on with ColaCorp.

  Game Over is looming and the winner is still undecided even in these last moments.

  Ubermart is throwing everything they have at us, trying to push ColaCorp off the objective. It’s the bottom of the ninth. The fourth quarter. Whatever works to paint the picture that the entire WarWorld season has led up to this frantic machine-gun free-for-all moment. We went for broke and punched through their defenses around a simulated Havana. Now all we have to do is hold the objective for twenty minutes, and we’ll win the first ever WarWorld Super Bowl.

  RangerSix comes over the gaming suite speakers. “Question, this is Six…”

  On-screen, within my HUD, Ubermart Ubermarines are storming the front entrance of an in-game digital representation of an actual restaurant that exists in the real Havana. Supposedly, it’s one of the fanciest dives in New Havana City. And right now, Super Bowl partiers sit in that very restaurant, watching via holographic projection as the battle between ColaCorp and Ubermart goes down live. Tens of thousands more partiers are packed in the streets all around, viewing the battle on the big-screen PrismBoard.

  We’re fighting in a digital facsimile of the same world they’re drinking themselves blind in. It’s like the sweatiest, most drunken hour of Mardi Gras in full riot, and I can hear the noise of it all even through the concrete-reinforced walls of my gaming suite beneath Conquistador Light Stadium. This was already the party to end all parties, and then suddenly a war broke out for everyone’s amusement. Which is how pro gamers get paid. Fight to the digital death using state-of-the-art weaponry for corporate teams while half the world watches via gaming streams.

  What can I say… it’s a living.

  Our heavily armed avatars—combat troops skinned in camo-tattoos and carrying high-tech automatic weaponry while fighting alongside bots, tanks, mechs, and close-air-support crafts—are being broadcast holographically throughout the world. But right now, right here, right above me, New Havana is this moment’s capital of the world. Ground Zero. Party Central. Everyone at Conquistador Light Stadium cheers and roars and stamps their feet or waves their sonic bolo noisemakers as directors’ cuts play on the ultrajumbotron and a rock band threatens to deafen half the island of Cuba. I think it’s ACReduxC. Good stuff. Old-school war metal.

  “Say again… Question, this is RangerSix, stand by for priority mission tasking.” The cacophonic assault rifle chatter across the bar slash objective we’re holding, in-game, is making the BattleChat cut in and out. Plus we’re slowly getting slaughtered by wave after wave of Ubermart Ubermarines.

  I’m down to eighteen grunts now. With fifteen very long minutes to go until Game Over. I see a Marine come through one of the bar windows and try to block out what that must be like for the spectators who paid big bucks to watch murderous holograms invade the bar in real time and blow each other to bits with lethal weaponry. He’s carrying a Mossberg Tactical with Dragon’s Breath rounds. I know they’re Dragon’s Breath rounds because of the hot liquid napalm covering the machine gun team he just knocked out. The digital grunts, just bots really, die horribly for everyone’s entertainment, on fire and screeching as they blink out on my roster list inside my HUD.

  “Little busy right now, Six,” I reply over BattleChat as I burn through half a can of ammo.

  I don’t even sight the Ubermarine as he weaves through the debris. Just drag the roaring M249’s stabilized laser sights across the bar in front of me, rounds chewing up simulated teak and mahogany and shattering cut crystal glassware, until the three red targeting beams land on the muscle-swollen Ubermarine, Predator-style as we say. I think I hit him with about forty rounds all at once.

  “Player kill!” shouts the bombastic in-game play-by-play announcer. CoCoBoom’s dog tags suddenly appear in the bottom corner of my screen with a flourish of triumphal trumpets. Cash floods into my account, but there’s no time to count it. Too many of his buddies are coming through the walls. They’re rushing the objective.

  I have fourteen grunts left.

  The money I just earned for taking out another player doesn’t really matter anyway. It’s not much compared to the big prize we’re all fighting over, and besides, I’m already loaded these days. Still, the old me never stops adding it all up, because I was so poor for so long.

  The million-dollar bonus ColaCorp will pay for winning the end-of-the-season Super Bowl, on the other hand… that matters. That’s a lot.

  And then there are the endorsements.

  “Barely holding o
n here, Six,” I manage as I rake the far side of the bar with suppressive fire. “Support would be nice right about now.”

  “Yeah, about that, Question. Jolly and Kiwi are inbound with Wolverine armor to support your left flank. They’ll take command of the action and draw fire from the Plaza Real. Highlighting on your HUD… now. But son, we’ve had a major development. And holding that objective won’t matter in about ten minutes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I’m burning through the rest of my ammo as more and more Ubermarines rush the marbled steps that lead up from the Plaza Real into the famous nightclub that is Hemingway’s. In real life as holographs; in-game as enemy players. One of my fellow ColaCorp players goes down when a grenade goes off inside the bar. Eleven grunts left. Three players.

  More Marines coming through the doors.

  The M249 goes dry and I discard it with a quick tap on my keyboard. I pull my AMT .45 Longslide, a sponsor item from Vintage Weapon Systems, and engage as many as I can. This thing puts holes in the digital super-roided Ubermarines’ chests like there’s no tomorrow. Which is an appropriate turn of phrase. Because if we lose, a lot of people will think there won’t be a tomorrow. People who’ve gambled quite a bit more than they can afford to lose.

  Still more Marines are coming through. This is it. This is the big push to dislodge. It’s about to turn into a real knife-and-gun show in just a few seconds.

  We’re being overrun.

  RangerSix is talking but I’m not hearing anything because I’m dropping Marines as we fall back toward the kitchens. Everything is splintering teak, bullet-smashed metal, and smoke as tracers from both sides mix and form a crossfire hurricane.

  A big Ubermart Marine, a player by the looks of his tats and camo customization, closes and pulls a knife, hoping for a glorious webwall kill he can be proud of. I’ve heard the networks are paying bounties to get kill cam footage of me in particular. So this guy’s just greedy.

  I ventilate him with a dozen rounds after pushing in a fresh mag and notice I have enough rounds for two more full mags. My grunts have fallen back to the secondary line of defense and are opening up from behind the kitchen.

  We’re killing three to one, so I can only imagine Ubermart is going for broke right here, right now. They have to. This is for all the marbles. The first ever WarWorld Super Bowl. There used to be another Super Bowl, someone told me, before the Meltdown. But it got all Social Justice and no one watched it anymore.

  All the game-streaming networks and the directors are cutting in close, looking for that spectacular moment to capture the victory that’s just minutes away. For either side.

  “Enigmatrix is going for the old fort, Question. We believe Ubermart rolled the dice and got an orbital gun positioned above the battlefield. She puts eyes on the objective and we lose. That’s it. She’ll vaporize what’s left of your combat team, never mind how many of her own troops she takes out in the process. Not to mention she can strike our assault carriers off shore, and just about everything else we’ve got on the board. Gotta stop her right now, Question. We’re tasking you.”

  “Airstrike?”

  I’m reloading. Waiting for the big push that’ll throw us out of Hemingway’s. Beyond the shattered windows of the opulent party palace, Ubermart tanks and mechs are shooting across the Plaza Real and into the defenses on this side of the square. Everyone on both sides is on full auto and crawling, dashing, surging forward to rip the enemy players’ guts out live on TV, phones, SoftEyes, PrismBoards, and ultrajumbotrons.

  Whatever happens in the next few minutes, the network will get their big finish. And the world will go nuts.

  “Negative, Question,” replies RangerSix. “Nothing mission-capable on station for an airstrike at the moment. Plus she’s got anti-air on all the buildings.”

  Well what do you want me to do, I think as my fingers dance across the keyboard getting out commands to what assets I still control. I’m pinned down on the objective, pretty much out of ammo, and one physics-computed digital bullet away from being Game Over-ed and beyond the ability to make a difference in the match. That’s what I’m thinking as I drop down to no players and nine grunts on the roster in my HUD.

  “Well, son, it’s your lucky day. We’re airdropping a vehicle package just for you. I need you to make it out of the AOC and get to the coast road. You can intercept and stop her before she reaches the fort above the city. She needs a high vantage point to target for strike. Leave your team to guard the bar. Your ride is arriving now at the rear of your location.”

  Suddenly Kiwi is in my HUD. A small video chat window.

  “Cheers, Question. We got this, mate. Now take her out and let’s finish this thing.” I can see he’s leering intently at his screen. I can hear his fingers slamming at the keys like there’s no tomorrow. Like he’s composing a symphony of bullets and destruction one kill a second. And I know he’s down here with me in another immersion suite. My best friend. Not half a world away in Australia like normal. They flew us all into Havana to do this in real time.

  “Roger, Six. I’m on it.” I roll my shoulders and head for the back door to the restaurant in-game. On screen, all hell—rendered in explosions and gunfire—breaks loose behind me.

  Chapter Two

  The dropship, a ColaCorp supply-variant Albatross, is just climbing off into the firework display of artillery and rockets that is New Havana City’s skyline in the middle of our virtual online battle. Missiles streak up from blocks away to knock it down, but the dropship lumbers on, popping flares that rain like sparklers and reveal my ride by their color-shifting lights.

  My ride. It’s not uncommon for corporate sponsors to lie in wait for just such an in-game moment in which to promote their product. In the executive “party suites” way up in the gleaming upper levels of Conquistador Light Stadium, brimming with ultramodels and haute cuisine tapas, advertising execs are digitally inking deals and doing business on the fly to monetize our little war in any way they can. Anything to get their products in the game. On the streams. And in front of a large portion of the worldwide viewing audience that is currently tuned in to watch the Super Bowl.

  I look at my new ride in the back alley, away from the gunfire and celebration. Apparently whoever’s repping Maserati China just hit one out of the park and got their product a spotlight showcase in the closing moments of the year’s biggest game.

  It’s cobalt blue. Vintage 2000s. But late-model sci-fi. Big fat Run-Flat tires. Tinted windows. I hit ‘E’ on my SoftPunch keyboard. My combat-kitted avatar slides smoothly into the interior of a vehicle everyone around the world is suddenly salivating for and most likely googling the specs on. Its interior is the very essence of machine-engineered cool. Muted brushed steel and soft lighting. Premium leather that my screen tells me smells like a million bucks and feels like a calfskin glove. Dials, smart interface, readouts. Luxury. Everything anyone could ever dream of owning in a vehicle with a nigh-unobtainable price tag.

  “Welcome to your new Maserati, PerfectQuestion. I’m HAL, a 9000-series AI. It’s a good day for a war,” intones the onboard intelligence in a soft resonant baritone. It’s calming, despite the fact that an Uberwasp close-air-support fighter is exploding in the sky a few streets over. Then HAL says: “I love the smell of victory, sir… It smells like Maserati.”

  That probably means something to someone from the last century. The HAL reference also. The execs are always trying to throw in callbacks to their latest blockbuster remakes of once-great movies that have been rebooted to death.

  No one writes anything new anymore.

  All I know is it’s some sort of product placement line that has to run before I can access the vehicle.

  “Booting up… start engine sequence engaged,” HAL announces.

  In the passenger seat is a weapons package. I right-click it and download it into my inventory.

  A silenced MP10 Specter. A silenced Walther PPK. Both very old-school. Last century. What the hell? No
one would bring these to a battle. They’re like bringing a fake knife to a real gun fight. Then I notice another product placement. The splash logo for the new Bond movie. It’s stamped in relief on each of the high-tech secret squirrel spy weapons.

  The Maserati comes to life like some starship headed for Alpha Centauri on full burn. I know. I’ve been watching TED Talks about that when I can’t sleep at night in wherever in the world I am. A girl I once barely knew is on her way there now. To Alpha Centauri. We could have been something, but she tried to kill me. And that’s another story.

  “Question…” It’s RangerSix. “You’ll need to intercept her along the coast road, near the waterfront. Along the Rio Azul. This’ll be close, son. Activating your nav for intercept now. Do not let her reach the castle. I repeat: terminate before objective.”

  I’m not one for car racing sims, but… why not, it’s only the Super Bowl. It’s only everybody in the world watching us go for broke. It’s not my specialty and half the world is tuned in, but as I like to say… buy the ticket, take the ride.

  The key commands are simple, and a moment later a steering wheel peripheral deploys from within the smartdesk inside my gaming suite. I hear the crowd above watching the ultrajumbotron and stamping their feet on the floor of the stadium. I drag the steering wheel around on a hydraulic swing arm and lock it into place. Six seconds later I’m doing a hundred and twenty down a wet alley as New Havana City burns to the ground all around me.

  I pass the melting remains of a tank half stuck out of some old-school colonial building. Dead grunts litter the streets. ColaCorp grunts, mainly. We paid dearly for this section of the city. Through the cross streets, I can see the battle for the Plaza Real heating up to end-of-the-world proportions. JollyBoy and Kiwi are in it now. I see the massive articulating feet of a Mech Tank lumber past the narrow window of an alley I’m speeding by. Smoking missiles are trailing away from its hexagonal pod launchers. It’s one of ours, and it’s going in hot.

  I downshift through a wet intersection fronted by ancient bullet-riddled pink, white, and yellow colonial houses and corner at eighty. All four of the massively fat carbon-fiber tires turn at the same time. In real life I probably just pulled six g’s. I spin the wheel back to center and punch the accelerator to follow the directions in the HUD for the coast road and the intercept.