Pop Kult Warlord

by Nick Cole

  “Not yet, PerfectQuestion. You’re not ready to understand. But if you survive, then I can tell you what became of you.”

  The first bird of morning tries its song.

  Poo-tweet.

  It will be a long hot day down there. It feels like that kind of day. A day of slaughter and bloodshed. But a day with an end on the other side of it, one way or another.

  “Trust me,” says Morgax. “You saved my life once. And I’m here to save yours, PerfectQuestion.”

  But all I can think of is…

  What became of me?

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  I hear Rashid’s horn honking as I push off from the mattress. I’ve heard him honk that horn at vehicles that were too slow, or in his way, or not his. Now I hear it again.

  Chloe lies next to me, her eyes wide. She sits up clutching the one thin sheet.

  “Him?”

  I nod.

  I pull on some pants and go out. Topside. My arms and legs feel weak because all I can think is that I’m about to double-cross the guy. Which seems easier to plan and harder to do.

  He’s standing on the dock. Hair tousled by the light breeze that wanders across the idyllic harbor. And it’s somehow all perfect. Him and his polo shirt and shorts and what look to be very expensive shoes, watch, and designer sunglasses. Like he should’ve been a model in one of the magazine shoots Sancerré used to work on.

  Maybe she still does.

  “Hey, buddy… got a breezy in there?”

  The look on my face must not match the “don’t blow it” mantra I’ve been repeating to myself over and over.

  “It’s cool,” he says with a smile. “No need to look guilty. She bangin’?”

  I nod.

  “Still sleeping?”

  I nod again as I repeat the mantra over and over again in my head. Along with an added Be Cool.

  He laughs and says something about me wearing her out.

  Then, “Listen, my father wants to meet you before we start.”

  That was an order. Not a request.

  “Now?” I ask sheepishly, because that isn’t part of the plan to double-cross him and get out of Calistan.

  He nods soberly.

  “I’ll get dressed.” Which is all I can really say.

  “Hurry,” he says.

  I go below to grab a shirt and shoes.

  Chloe is sitting on the bed, the sheet covering her gorgeous body. But it’s the gun in her hand that draws my attention.

  And the thousand-yard stare.

  I take the gun from her hand and lean in close to her ear.

  “We don’t need to do this,” I whisper. “We can ruin him worse than killing him. Living in the shadow of his brother as sultan will ruin him in ways we can never imagine. Trust me. And then we’ll be gone.”

  She doesn’t move.

  I love the smell of her. I kiss her lips but they don’t move for a long second. And then finally she kisses me back. Desperately. Like she’s fighting for her life.

  “Gather up my stuff and meet me across the street from the Cyber Warfare Center. There’s a McBucks there. I’ll text you. Be ready to leave because we’re heading for the rendezvous from there. We’re leaving.”

  She says nothing. Just watches me with her frightened eyes. And then nods once.

  I stare back at her and know we’re in way over our heads. That the possibility for all of this to go horribly wrong is getting larger by the second.

  But if…

  … just if we make it. Then by tonight we’ll be free of Rashid and Calistan. And we can go anywhere after that. Anywhere.

  I like that. It’s something to look forward to even if at this second it seems impossible.

  “Will you meet me there when I text you?” I whisper silently. Rashid is just beyond the hull and up the dock.

  She nods again.

  She would have killed him if he’d come down here. I’m sure of that. That’s why she went vacant. Went to some killing place. She wanted to kill him. And then we’d never have gotten out of Calistan.

  But wanting to, and actually doing it, seem like the opposite sides of some gulf she can’t cross. Which is good. Because murder would make things much worse. Even if Rashid deserves it.

  A few minutes later Rashid and I are blasting up through the hills toward a palace so grand that I now understand why Rashid calls his place a shack.

  I have a very bad feeling.

  I won the Super Bowl a week ago.

  Now I’m double-crossing the leader of a country.

  And there’s every chance I’ll get killed, or disappeared, doing it.

  Of course I have a bad feeling.

  Did I mention the CIA is involved?

  But what can you do?

  I light a cigarette without asking Rashid and take a long drag, the wind pulling the smoke and ash off behind us. Like I don’t have a care in the world. Like I’m not going to double-cross him. Like I don’t work for the CIA.

  Like I’m going to live to see the end of the day.

  Rashid shoots me a look.

  I lean back and pretend I didn’t see it.

  Buy the ticket, take the ride. That’s what I always say.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  We slither through the ornate gate leading into the hilltop palace of the sultan of Calistan. Rashid’s father. In many ways it looks more like an ancient medieval fortress than a palace. I’m sure the security and the troops are state-of-the-art. But it’s also beautiful. The grounds are immaculate. Gray crushed rock contrasts against vivid green swaths of lawn and sprays of deep red bougainvillea. Giant terracotta urns erupt in profusions of tropical flowers, and below us, beside the rising drive, an orchard of ancient olive trees looks almost too picturesque to be real.

  Beautiful girls in sheer silk and tiny veils stroll hand in hand, avoiding eye contact with all. Even Rashid.

  We get out of the car, and Rashid and I are searched by guards who seem to care less whether Rashid is the number one son or not.

  Once we’re cleared, we’re escorted inside. High marble walls covered in the most ornate tapestries I’ve ever seen give way to impossible ceilings and grand airy domes. We pass through halls and rooms that could fit Grand Central Station with room to spare. The farther we go the less we see other people, and in time the lush carpeted silence is overwhelming.

  Rashid leans in close and whispers, “My father is not well. Very soon… I’ll be the sultan.”

  He smiles like the cat who swallowed a family of canaries.

  The seneschal, or whoever the guy is who’s been leading us deeper and deeper into the maze, stops. We’re standing before a pair of doors easily two stories tall. The silent man knocks twice, and the doors creak slowly open.

  Beyond is the most fantastic room I’ve ever seen.

  It’s more a park than a room.

  There’s even a living lagoon at the center. Birds fly from massive palms rising from cyclopean urns. We cross a terrazzo, passing the silent emerald blue lagoon, and stop at another door. A smaller one. Two more knocks and we enter some kind of kinky motel of a bedroom.

  Except super weird.

  At first I think they’re people. People painted in gold. People doing one of those art things where they pretend to be a statue. But then I realize they’re actually statues. And not just statues, but golden statues. Golden statues of people having sex. Mainly one guy and a bunch of different women in just about every combination and position you can imagine. The statues ring a canopied bed of immense proportions. Flowing silks and the wafting scent of burning jasmine and sandalwood do little to mask the stench of decay and death.

  On the bed lies a tiny, gray, shrunken man. Around him are what look to be three doctors.

  Rashid strides forward and kneels at the side of the bed. The shrunken gray mummy casts pale watery eyes over him and seems to recognize him.

  I don’t really know what to do. So… I just stand there.

  Rashid whispers som
ething to the old man in Arabic. The man nods, listening, murmuring in the high yet scratchy voice of a small boy. Then he nods again and Rashid stand to move away and the doctors move in. A needle filled with something comes out, pills are administered, blood pressure is taken. They raise the little mummy into a sitting position, and when they seem completely satisfied with some sort of staged set of affairs, they back away.

  The shrunken ashy gray mummy stares at me with vibrant burning eyes and an imperious mouth. He wanly beckons me forward with one shriveled hand.

  “Leave,” he manages in a husky whisper. “All of you leave us.”

  For a long second no one obeys.

  “Now!” he growls like some lion that isn’t as wounded as was thought. I notice his palsied hands are shaking. Trembling uncontrollably. But the doctors and Rashid and even the seneschal back away. Not totally leaving the room. But far away enough for us to have a private conversation.

  I have no idea what we could possibly discuss.

  Me.

  And the mummy.

  He motions me to come closer.

  “My name,” he begins, his voice even huskier now as though it might fail at any second. He swallows hard and begins again. “My name is Abdul ben Hasan. Do you see…?”

  His watery eyes wander around the room.

  I turn to look. Weak light struggles through the heavy silk curtains that guard his demise from the outside world. The smell of death is somehow more pervasive.

  “That was me,” he says, indicating the obscene statues. Then he giggles like that small naughty boy his voice seems to have been taken from.

  I don’t know how to respond. I mean, how exactly does one respond when the leader of a third world nation proudly shows you the golden statues he commissioned to celebrate all the sex he had? Life just never trained me for such a conversation.

  I nod. A “neat” may have escaped.

  He nods again, like a sage confirming some wisdom of the ages I have discovered.

  He begins to cough and choke after attempting to laugh. He grabs my shirt and pulls me close. And even though he’s old and frail, his grip is like iron. He holds on to me like some undead demon that’s not yet ready to go into the outer dark.

  “You could be very happy here,” he manages through his coughing fit. Then after one particularly violent spasm during which something gray and bloody ends up on the silk duvet, he composes himself.

  “My sons are good boys.”

  I think of the men Rashid had executed. And the story of the girl he fed to the sharks.

  “One of them will take my place soon.” His eyes bore into me like drills. Like he’s begging me to believe every word he’s saying.

  “They need a real warlord. You…”

  He begins coughing again, and I truly want to be anywhere but in his clutches as his mouth sprays disease and death with each shuddering hack. I would tear his hands from their death grip on my shirt if it weren’t for the fact that he’s the leader of the totalitarian Islamo-fascist regime I’m currently knee deep in. Not to mention all the guys with guns at the front gate. So I let him hang on and hack what’s left of his lungs out.

  “You,” he begins again. “You are a conqueror, PerfectQuestion.”

  “No,” I whisper. “I’m really just a gamer, sir. I was just hired…”

  I probably should have called him “sultan” or “Your Highness.”

  “No,” he protests weakly. “I watch all the games. Watch how you play. You could be the one in charge here. You could have the real power if you play the game the right way, my son.”

  His eyes are wild. Insane with some kind of reason only he understands.

  “They are good boys, but my sons… they are spoiled. Not killers like you.”

  I could offer evidence, at least in Rashid’s case, to the contrary. But I don’t.

  “You play online… like some kind of warlord. But here, if you stay in Calistan… you could be a real warlord. We have enough to take…”

  More coughing. Ragged heaving. The doctors try to come forward, but the sultan glares at them and they back away like dogs just hit by a rock.

  “We have weapons… many, many weapons. And so many fanatics who want to die for heaven… so many,” continues the sultan. “We could take Baja away from Mexico with a real warlord like you,” he whispers. “The generals know nothing but how to murder one another.” His voice is seething and full of spite. He casts an eye filled with malice at the doctors and somehow manages to pull me closer.

  “I can make you Rashid’s right-hand man. You can have all this and more.” His eyes wander lecherously about the room and the statues. “Pleasures unknown to mere men for a lifetime. Stay… and be Calistan’s warlord, PerfectQuestion. You will live a life few have ever dared dream of.”

  I don’t know why… but somehow it seems like he knows I’m ready to run. Then thankfully his entire body is racked by a coughing spasm so powerful it seems like he’s going to die. The doctors swarm forward, and all the while he keeps staring at me with his burning mummy eyes. Willing me to accept his offer. Willing me to accept the destiny he foresees.

  When we’re out of earshot and headed quickly down a painting-lined passageway—I could swear we just passed a Picasso, an actual Picasso not some knockoff—Rashid murmurs, “Old fool.”

  I say nothing.

  “I know what he asked you.”

  Again, saying nothing seems prudent. What with me about to backstab him and all.

  Rashid stops. We stare out a tall window and a whole new garden of “delights.” And of course more obscene statuary.

  “He’s a dying fool, but he carved all this out of the nothing that was America. Took it away from the weak who hated their country and thought tearing it down was some kind of virtue. But he’s right. I know what he asked you. I could use a tactician like you. We’ve almost won because of you. I’m not stupid. I wish I was as good as you. But I’m not. Instead, I know talent. And you’re a great gamer, my friend. Which means you would be pretty useful once I’m in charge. If we win today, the generals will unite around me. We won’t need the mullahs anymore. I’ll be sultan and you’ll be my right-hand man. And together we will do great things.”

  Out there, over Calistan, fires are burning down in what was once Orange and Santa Ana. Attack helicopters are swarming the skies. Rashid seems not to see any of this.

  “Did he tell you his crazy idea about conquering Baja?”

  I nod.

  “I bet you could do it,” says Rashid wistfully.

  Things are getting out of hand out there beyond the zone. Down there. Out there. Calistan is on fire and they barely know it at the palace. The sultan is dying. And I’m being offered the keys to the kingdom. And Rashid is probably planning his own series of obscene statues.

  I think of Chloe and the two of us getting out of here forever.

  I see us on the Amalfi Coast. Which seems like a million miles away. Another life only dreamed of.

  Then Rashid says, “Time to finish this, PerfectQuestion. C’mon.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I stand in front of the big tactical map at the Cyber Warfare Center. In real time I can see all the Calistani clans converging on our final objective. This will be our one last massive push against the most aggressive clan in the Geek League. Team Commando Joe.

  Clan Joe has an insanely well-protected base on top of a high Martian escarpment. There’s only one approach by ground. One road that’s no doubt covered with artillery fire plot points and dozens of fortified positions.

  Taking it will be ridiculously hard.

  But I don’t have to take it. I just have to lose trying to take it… and then pin the whole thing on Rashid.

  “Hey, buddy.” It’s Rashid at my side. He’s scrolling through something on his smartphone. “The networks are buying all kinds of bandwidth to cover this battle.”

  “Really?” I ask. This isn’t a premier e-sports game. Then again, the stakes a
re high. Word has probably gotten out that the next leader of Calistan is being made today. Or broken. And that somehow a game is deciding the fate of a country. Along with millions of people.

  When I think about it that way, it’s one of the saddest thoughts I’ve ever had. At first it’s funny. And then it makes you want to cry.

  That sad. Know what I mean?

  I turn and see that every general in the room is beaming. In their own mirrored sunglasses and busy mustachioed frown way. But they are beaming. You just have to look closely.

  “Can we do this?” Rashid asks.

  Gone is the overconfident spoiled rich kid playboy who seemed to never take anything seriously. Now, in this moment… he is very serious. Because if we win, he will be sultan. I’m sure there are ins and outs and eastern promises that go along the way, but somehow him proving he can lead will let his father green-light him to all his allies.

  I study the map once more.

  Doing this is even harder than he knows. But I can’t tell him about the backstabbing part. Then it wouldn’t be backstabbing, would it?

  “We’ll try,” I offer.

  Rashid puts his phone in his pocket and steps in front of my view of the map. His dark eyes stare into mine. He’s taller than me.

  “I have to meet with the mullahs before the battle.” He says it as though that’s supposed to mean everything to me. I don’t know exactly what it means… but it doesn’t sound like something he’s too anxious to do.

  “They want to know that… that I’ll defend Islam if it’s me over my brother.”

  He’s talking low as though he doesn’t want the generals to hear. But I’m sure they’re listening. You don’t get to be a general in a homicidal banana republic like this without knowing which way the wind is blowing at all times.

  The weather report in Calistan is life insurance.

  My five million in gold is gone. I realize it at that moment. I haven’t been thinking about it much anyway. Not like at first. But now… looking into his dead fish eyes, seeing that the weight of everything is collapsing on him… that he’ll have to make deals, offer power, and build a coalition of the willing to get the kingdom… I realize he’ll never let me go. He’d kill me instead. But one thing is for sure: I’ll never see that five million in gold.