Pop Kult Warlord

by Nick Cole

  “Anything about LA?”

  “No.”

  “And you want out?” he asks soberly.

  “I do.”

  “What about the five million?” he asks like some devil making the hard sell for a little adultery.

  Long pause.

  “In gold?” he sweetens.

  Three Muslim guys walk past me barking at each other in their harsh language. They couldn’t care less that I’m on the phone. What is it with these guys? It’s like being a jerk to anyone not them is a kind of virtue they aspire to.

  “Yeah… I want out,” I say.

  “Okay, kid. Log onto a website called Department 19. Use your best friend’s tag… And the password is…” He pauses. It sounds like he’s ruffling through some papers.

  Who uses paper? I think.

  “Password is dormouse but with one ‘o’.”

  I spell it back to him.

  “Yeah, that’s it. We’ll talk over secure video once you’re in. Do it now and make sure no one overhears you when we start.”

  Then the line goes dead and I feel like I’ve just crossed another border into an even more dangerous country.

  The sunny morning and my half-thought-through plan to get out of Calistan don’t seem so bright now. As I walk along the streets of the small island village, I work myself up into getting back across the border into LA and getting on a plane by end of day.

  Maybe back to New York. Maybe even Italy.

  Where is home? It’s a question I keep ignoring but meaning to answer.

  It’s sad when you don’t know anymore.

  Once I’ve wandered off toward the ocean, crossing past once-beautiful-but-now-rundown homes, I log onto the website. I get a secure connection, encoded. I can tell the connection is being scrambled using quantum technology. Thus making our conversation impossible to eavesdrop on.

  Q-tech is a little extreme for a conversation with one’s agent. That’s not lost on me. And again, I have that border-crossing feeling.

  A blinking icon asks me to join the call. It flashes on and off and I just stare at it. Border crossing. Then I touch it and the call connects.

  Irv sounds like he’s right in my ear. The call is crystal clear. Almost like there’s no background sound at all.

  I start off with, “So… I’m guessing there’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

  “You got that right, kid.”

  I look around.

  Yeah, there’s someone… someone watching me. But just… ordinary watching, I think. Not stalker watching. That’s just how Muslims are here in what was once California. They view you as an outsider. My dad once told me that our family came to California a long time ago. During something called the Depression. But now I must never make the mistake of thinking this place was ever something other than theirs. The Muslims, that is. That’s how they seem to me. Always watching. Always at hand. They’re hostile and suspicious as a rule. And they’re everywhere, because this is Calistan. It’s theirs. So of course it feels like everyone’s staring at me.

  I smile as they pass in their large family herds. I roll my shoulders and stroll down the walkway along the water.

  “Listen, kid,” says Irv. “Rashid hasn’t said anything about LA to you. Not during any of the planning sessions, or whatever it is you guys are doing?”

  “He hasn’t,” I confirm.

  “Okay… Let’s say I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  Really. Really! I think incredulously. I’m trapped inside a third world country because of a gig you got me and now you’re telling me you haven’t been completely honest with me.

  Really!

  I’m about to swear openly when a beautiful Muslim family pushing a stroller walks past me and smiles. I smile back and try to make it seem as genuine as possible.

  I can’t swear, or let anyone know anything is wrong, because I’m strolling down a picturesque street in a seaside town passing Muslim families and the occasional mustached Arab who definitely looks like he works for some sort of intelligence service.

  I envision concrete cells, swinging light bulbs, and torture. I’d talk. For sure. Problem is I’d have nothing to talk about. And of course… they wouldn’t believe me. So they’d just continue to torture me until…

  So I just smile and act as though I’m listening to my mom tell me about what’s going on back home.

  I’d give anything to have that conversation. And it has nothing to do with me being way over my head in something I have a very bad feeling about.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you what I’m about to tell you, kid… Truth is, I was hoping for a little accidental intel. But they took a bug off you that I planted before I dropped you off. So I didn’t overhear anything. Also they swapped out your phone. I had that hacked too. I mean… we… we had that hacked.”

  Long pause. I pass an old Chinese restaurant. I smell garlic and ginger frying. I hear the loud clang of pots and the discordant singsong of Chinese speaking one to another in full voice. At the corner I turn and head toward the waterfront keys a small block away. This puts a little distance between me and any tail.

  Is tail the right word?

  Seems it would be. I’ve only had to run for my life one other time. So it’s not like I’m an amateur, but I’m not dumb enough to believe I’m a pro.

  “This isn’t my phone,” I say. Like that’s the only detail that’s gotten through to me. That I have a new phone.

  “No.”

  “You hacked my old phone.”

  “Yes.”

  “So the Calistanis probably hacked this one.”

  “I’m sure they tried, but we took care of that. The minute you logged onto Department 19, the site pushed a scrambler onto your device. No bugs, no eavesdropping. You’re secure, kid. We’re secure.”

  We.

  I don’t want to ask. But I do.

  “Who do you work for, Irv?” I say bluntly.

  “CIA, kid,” he answers just as bluntly.

  That’s just great.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “We’re trying to help Rashid,” says Irv. “And we thought you would be perfect.”

  “Trying to help him?” I say very slowly.

  “Yeah. Because if you’ve noticed, kid… he’s okay at online… I mean he could never turn pro like yourself, but that’s not what this game is all about. This game is about leading an online nation in a make-believe digital world in order to create a… you know… civilization.”

  “And why, exactly, is that important to the CIA?” Which is a question I never thought I’d be asking.

  “Because, kid, we want Rashid to win.”

  “And why would Rashid winning be important to the CIA? And stop being cute about everything, Irv, or I’ll get myself out of Calistan right now.”

  I’ve crossed over a bridge onto a tiny island. Small palaces stand side by side, looming over tight streets filled with the highest end of the luxury car market. The air smells of salt.

  “The sultan is dying. The current ruler of Calistan, to be specific.”

  I have no idea who the sultan is.

  “Rashid’s father. He’s dying, and we want Rashid to take his place. There’s more to this round of Civ Craft than just playing an online game. Rashid and his brother are competing for their father’s approval. Winner gets to be sultan. And yes, don’t think the ludicrousness of that is lost on us here at the agency. Not in the least. But it’s the only way the old man has to figure out which kid is the best choice. It’s the only way for him to prove to the mullahs, the real power, and the generals, that his pick should be the next leader of the country. Our best intel tells us the old man is watching the game and trying to decide who gets to be the next sultan. It’s crazypants, huh?”

  “Yeah… seems a little wacky.”

  “Well, hang on to your scotch, it gets a lot worse. Calistan’s as close to a civil war as it gets, if you haven’t picked that up on the ground yet. We think R
ashid can win if it comes to that. He’s got the military on his side and basically, he’s our boy. Yeah… he’s a monster, but he’s our monster, as the saying goes. And we’re cool with that. LA, on the other hand, is trying to go with the brother. He’s a lib social justice warrior type. Which would be fine if that were actually all he was. But he’s free college free everything. All that crud from before the Meltdown when every city was a toilet and the country was as corrupt as it gets. True, some free education would probably do that place some good. They’re sitting on a ton of cash and oil. Problem is, he’s got the imams on his side. You ever hear of the Taliban?”

  I haven’t.

  “Well back in the day, they used to go around ruining Arab and Persian countries with a strict sort of fundamentalism that was really just a grab for power based on zealotry. Bad dudes. Anyway… these imams will go that way with the whole country. And then they’ll destabilize LA, which is still technically a part of the US. So we need to make sure Rashid wins.”

  I look out at the peaceful, almost mirror-like waters of the canals. Something like this should be all the world ever wanted to be. Except there are those who want to watch it burn.

  I do not want to play this game.

  “I talked with your buddy at Interpol. He says you’re a do-the-right-thing kind of guy. And this, kid… this is the right thing to do. Rashid means that Calistan plays nicely with its neighbors. Omar means LA gets destabilized, and LA has always been a problem.”

  “So you want me to help Rashid win?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know…” I begin.

  “Yeah… we know what kind of guy he is. But it’s like I said…”

  “He’s your monster.”

  “That’s right, kid. We can control him. We can basically keep the country right where it is. Which is what needs to happen. This Mars thing is blowing up and it’s way bigger than the news networks are saying. We don’t need a war here too.”

  War with Mars? But my mind doesn’t want to believe that. So I just move right back to self-righteous indignation.

  “Irv… you drove through the border with me. You saw the poverty here. The guns. The military. This is a totalitarian state. And you want to leave it the way it is just so we can come out on top? You saw that, Irv!”

  “I did,” he confesses without remorse.

  “Well it only gets worse from there on south, until you get to their zone. They call it the Gold Coast. Then life’s a real party.”

  “We know,” he says flatly.

  “You’re with the CIA!” I explode, regardless of whether anyone is around. Thankfully I’m alone, or so it seems.

  Irv sighs deeply.

  “Yeah, kid, forget the we. I know. I get it. I’ve been down there. I’ve seen what you’re seeing and it makes me sick too. We have teams inside the country to make sure we get our way. But we don’t want to do it that way. We’re trying to play fair and square. Relatively.

  “If Rashid wins, we probably won’t see a civil war. Which Rashid will win because of the military being on his side and his sociopathic ruthlessness. We don’t want him to have to fight a civil war because a lot of people will get killed if that happens. If the other fool wins, Omar, then we’re going to see a civil war and the resurgence of the Taliban or whatever they want to call themselves this time. Then we get women getting their heads chopped off. Kids being used as prostitutes. Stratoliners being blown out of the sky, or used to ram into the arches over LA and New York. They’re a fun bunch that way. But first, like I said, they’ll fight a civil war. And we don’t want that. That’s a nightmare compared to Rashid.

  “So yeah, kid… the CIA is trying to do the right thing here. And we need your help.”

  I tell Irv I’ll think about it, and I log off.

  I walk back across the bridge to the Chinese restaurant I passed earlier. An olive-skinned guy with coal-dark eyes reading-not-reading a paper gives me only a casual glance. And something smells great. Garlic and chilies.

  I walk in and sit down at a booth. The wide window that looks out on the picturesque Americana-yesteryear street is clear and polished. It makes everything look vibrant and clear.

  I am the only one in the restaurant.

  I scan the menu the Chinese lady left me. They have General Tso’s chicken, which is a near-legendary dish that’s hard to find. Foodies claim that most bastardized Chinese food is the fault of this not-so-ancient dish that was designed to please only the American palate.

  I’ve always wanted to try it.

  For a few minutes I listen to nothing but some Chinese instrumental music and the symphony of clanging woks in the back. Then the dish comes out. It’s sizzling. Like really sizzling. And there’s something about that sizzle that screams savory in my mind. It’s served on a cast-iron plate and it continues to sizzle long after it arrives. Aromatic spices, hot and sour, mix with a rich sugariness that tastes almost of burnt caramel. The chicken chunks swim in this fiery napalm and when I cut one open, the succulent juices ignite more sizzling. I eat a piece.

  It’s juicy, sweet, hot, spicy, and just on the edge of burnt. The skin snaps despite the sauce that has been drizzled over it.

  I forget about Irv and the CIA. Rashid and the generals. Omar and the mullahs. Games. ColaCorp. The life I know I need to get.

  There’s enough perfect in this perfect dish to make me consider never leaving Calistan. And I think that wouldn’t be bad because Chloe, whoever she really is, is out there somewhere right now. I imagine her in the place where she lives. Maybe out for lunch with the person she considers her boyfriend. Or lover. Or some guy she’s just dating.

  I want to be that guy.

  And I want to eat this General Tso’s chicken because I’m sure there’s nothing like it in all the world. That I could make it a mission to try every version of this dish and nothing would ever quite match this noon lunch in a Chinese restaurant in a foreign land not my own.

  Maybe it’s almost being stabbed to death that makes this dish better. Or all the fatigue and the winning at the Super Bowl. Maybe.

  I eat another piece and close my eyes, just chewing. Tasting. And swallowing.

  Sometimes life must be that simple for just a minute. And I’m fine with that.

  Out front Rashid pulls up in his latest toy. He doesn’t even look wrecked. I see him finish up a phone call. He looks around as though only just now realizing where he is. He sees me and waves. Then he gets out of the car and comes in.

  He slides in across from me.

  I can see his security goons taking up discreet positions all over the street. The van they follow him around in is parked across the way. No doubt there’s a full tactical response package inside. Heavy weapons. Grenades. Anti-air missiles. All the bells. All the whistles.

  “Hey, buddy!”

  I smile and put down the green tea I’ve been sipping since the chicken was done. I’ve already ordered more.

  “What’re you doing here, PQ?”

  “I needed to eat. I was hung over and–”

  “I know. That chick is furious. She must’ve wore you out.”

  I smile.

  He laughs and slaps the table.

  Green tea is being set down in front of Rashid.

  The hostess bows and scrapes because the next sultan of Calistan is in her restaurant. She assures Rashid she is at his service.

  “I ordered the special,” I say. “General Tso’s chicken.”

  Rashid waves his head back and forth like he couldn’t care less. He’s still wearing his sunglasses. It’s hard to get a read on him. And maybe that’s the way he wants it. For a brief moment I wonder if he’s not smarter than guys like Irv and the CIA think he is. And then I realize I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

  Why?

  Can he read minds?

  I haven’t even agreed to help the CIA out.

  We sip our tea.

  “I’m smoked. Day off today,” mumbles Rashid from behind his glasse
s. A bare smile. A smile only for himself. The smile of a snake about to swallow a rat.

  That kind of smile.

  “I’ve been thinking about the game,” I tell him.

  He puts down the tea and nods for me to go on.

  “The way I see it, you need to build up Calistan’s civilization on Mars to…” I almost say win. Like I know this is all about what Irv told me. Winner gets his own country.

  But I don’t. Because what if I am working for the CIA?

  “To get advertising stream rev and rank up on the leaderboards. That’s the goal, right?”

  Rashid nods. He’s pulling at his fingers. Absently. Stretching them. I’ve seen gamers do that. Maybe he’s trying to tell me he’s a gamer. A pro. Like me. But just because you know how to act like one, doesn’t mean you are one.

  “But you guys can’t build anything because other clans keep harassing you.”

  “That’s right!” exclaims Rashid with sudden disgust.

  “Okay… so what if…”

  I’m just thinking out loud here. Trying to do what I do. Trying to win the game, never mind that lives are on the line.

  And like that’s actually possible. Seriously, Irv?

  But what the hell. I’ll play along. I can leave any time I want to.

  Maybe.

  “I think if I can spend some time studying the strategic map today I can find a way to get them off your back. Then we can work on a building program and get Calistan on the board. Start crafting and build up your resources. That’s really the way to win this game, Rashid.”

  I can tell he’s thinking about what I just said. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Instead he just sips at his tea and stares out the window at that same street I’ve been watching.

  A loud sizzling comes from the kitchen. In that moment before my second order of General Tso’s chicken arrives, along with Rashid’s first, I really feel that I can see the king, or the sultan, in Rashid. A man with decisions to make. Choices that weigh heavily on him. Heavy is the brow that wears the crown, someone once said.

  The second round of chicken comes out like a Fourth of July bonfire. As though it has been made even better by the fact that Rashid is here.

  It’s perfectly caramelized. Savory and sweet all at once. I can smell that. It sizzles and pops on an ornate dragon-cast blazing hot iron serving platter. Burnt brick-red chilies lie in the dark sauce at the bottom.