How Dark the World Becomes Read Online Free PDF Page A

stupid, and he knew I wasn’t stupid. So how stupid could the two of us pretend to be to keep the peace? 
    I really didn’t want a war with Kolya, not right now. Henry was ready, which was unusual for him. Normally, he was a pretty cautious guy, but I think he was just losing patience. “We gotta shit or get off the pot,” he’d said earlier this morning, before he went home. But Kolya had more guys than we did, and the hard truth was he was tougher than me, so there was a good chance we’d lose, and second prize in this war wasn’t going to be all that great. 
    To be honest, I wasn’t crazy about winning, either. I didn’t want Kolya’s job. That was probably the root of my real problem. Once I’d be in charge, the killing would just have started. I’d have to keep killing people, just to let the guys know I’m capable and willing. And lots of the guys were thick enough that I’d have to do it fairly frequently, lest they forget. Who but a homicidal sociopath would want that job?
    And that brought me to something that had been bothering me. I was beginning to wonder if I’d misplaced my soul. 
    What are we? Is our soul what we are deep down inside, or is it what we do? That’s the question.
    I never took any pride in what I was born—or any shame, either, and it seems to me that people who do are pretty much losers. Pride and shame have to do with your accomplishments, not somebody else’s, so knowing that my great-great-great-grandfather helped defend Moscow against the Nazis is interesting, but it’s not something I’m proud of, because I didn’t do it. 
    Sooner or later everyone ends up doing something they’re ashamed of but takes consolation in the fact that “deep down inside” they’re a good person. They just did this bad thing out of unfortunate necessity, but they didn’t really want to, so it wasn’t as bad. Their urge was to do good, and so the existence of that urge proves they are good, even while they were pushing people into boxcars—or selling drugs. 
    Right? 
    If so, I guess I’m supposed to be ashamed of the things I want to do, can’t help wanting to do, was born wanting to do, but don’t do, since I know they’re wrong. Because if good urges mean you’re good, even though you do bad things, then bad urges must mean you’re bad, even though you do good things.
    But I don’t know. If I feel the urge to bang a friend’s wife, but choose not to, am I supposed to be ashamed of the urge, or proud of the choice? You can’t have it both ways. In which of those two things—urge or choice—does my soul reside?
    I was still gathering that wool when Mrs. Laubach, my admin, knocked and stuck her head in. 
    “Sasha, I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed . . .”
    “It’s okay, Sophie, what’s up?”
    “There’s a lady here to see you, and she had this.” She waddled over—Sophie was only a meter and a half tall, and a good 100 kilos if she was a gram—and put a metallic business card on my desk. It was from Arrie’s art gallery, his front business. 
    “Lady? As in Human lady?”
    “Yeah, Human lady. She says it’s very important.”
    “Hmm. Is she good-looking? I’m kinda in the market.”
    “I suppose. Not really your type, though.”
    “That figures. Well, hell. I’m not getting anything else done. Let’s see what Arrie’s friend wants. I sure don’t need to piss him off right now. Oh, and Sophie, one more thing. I want you to take the rest of the day off. In fact, take the rest of the week off, with pay.”
    I opened the bottom drawer, opened the flat safe, and counted out a week’s salary from the emergency fund. It didn’t seem like a lot when I got done, so I counted out another week’s worth. When I handed the flexichips to her, she just looked at them for a moment. 
    “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” she asked.
    “Sophie, I’ve lived through a lot worse. But if there’s a . . . you know . . . disagreement, I don’t want