War Surf Read Online Free PDF

the mattress. “I’m sick of getting well. Why don’t we just say, ‘Enough!’”
    “You first, sweetheart.” He blew me a kiss.
    Later that afternoon, Winston brought a sultry brunette and a hamper of champagne, though two of the four bottles were already empty and the brunette fell asleep across my feet. Good old Win, what an elegant man. His mane of auburn hair made him look like a statesman, or an actor, or perhaps a celebrity spokesman for life insurance. Noble chin, azure eyes, chiseled patrician nose. The features of his memory were a little less clear-cut.
    “Why are you in this stupido bed, Nass? We’re having maximal fun war surfs. Kat’s talking about Heaven again. You’re missing everything.”
    “Win, I had a little accident, remember?”
    “Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I think I remember that.”
    “Who’s talking about Heaven? That’s a suicide zone,” I said.
    “Well you know, Kat always wanted to do it. Why shouldn’t we? Just because it’s in outer space. How hard can that be?”
    “Polar orbit, Win. Not outer space. But it’s totally off limits.”
    “Right. Yeah. But that’s, like…But I bought this sleek new space suit”
    Katherine the Grand presented herself a few days later. How had I endured living with Kat for so many years? Maybe because we were both short? Even with her empress heels and tall hairstyles, she never overtopped me. Yet despite her lofty hair weaves and numerous face-lifts, to me Kat still looked like an angry fox with large teeth. Strangers often remarked on her blushing beauty, but friends knew the cause of her blooming complexion: intractable high blood pressure. She’d already gone through four self-cloned hearts. Still, Kat had her charms.
    “Katherine, do you remember how we used to wake up early and watch the dawn?”
    “What are the servants feeding you, Nass? You look abysmal.” She yanked the fork from my hand and started chopping the blueberry waffles on my tray table. “Don’t tell me you eat this dreck. I’d rather starve.”
    “You have to quit picking on Sheeba,” I said.
    “That girl is laughing at you. She despises all of us.” Kat dropped the fork in my ice cream. “She thinks we’re dirty-minded old stiffs.”
    Jealousy. Poor Kat’s irrational jealousy blinded her to Sheeba’s goodness. I didn’t respond to her ravings. “What’s this nonsense about surfing Heaven? You know it’s impossible.”
    “Don’t be a total Fred. All we need is the right gear and—”
    “Over my martyred body, Kat. The idea’s loco. No sane person would even think of surfing Heaven.”
    Kat fanned her red cheeks. “You’re such a weenie.”
    “And you’re such a birdbrain.”
    “Candy pants.”
    “Nudnik.”
    She threw a waffle at me, and I spritzed her with syrup. Food fights were our favorite style of communication.
    Sheeba visited most often. She played healing music disks, aligned my chakras, piqued my pressure points and fed me wonderful chocolate bars smuggled in from the southern pole. I didn’t bring up war surfing, and neither did she—not until the last night before my so-called “surprise” party.
    That evening, I’d bought her a new set of aromatic massage oils, and she stayed longer than usual trying each one to see how they affected our moods. I’d forgotten a war surf was scheduled. Chad had set my screen on auto. The Agonists planned to buzz a zone in the Manhattan Protectorate where a few thousand ship builders were striking, and the employer, Trandent.Com, had brought in heavy energy guns. That night represented a rare treat, a war zone on Earth’s surface.
    Not many worksites remained on Earth’s surface anymore. I don’t have to tell you how our planet’s fierce heat and pollution have driven most of humanity underground. But Trandent.Com’s shipyard operated under a sealed dome on the Atlantic seawall, which made for unique conditions. If those big e-guns blew out the dome, then everyone inside would be exposed