Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition by Nas Hedron Page B

Unlocking my door, I head straight for the food processor. This is one of the futuristic visions that did come true. I order up blackened red snapper and shrimp on rice with a Brazilian lime sauce and sit down to eat, saying a little prayer of thanks for the nanotechnology that assembles for me—atom by atom, according to a pre-programmed design—whatever food I want, with whatever flavor and nutritional qualities I want, at the exact temperature I like, any time of day or night. 
That
 is certainly an improvement over Before.
    I purposely put the events of the day out of my mind, living purely in my skin, enjoying the taste of the food, the feel of it in my mouth, the delicate flavor of the cold milk in my glass. I passively take in the reassuring presence of my home, not concentrating on anything in particular, but absorbing its details and nuances nonetheless.
    I live fairly frugally because Burroughs Oversight is young and growing and like all young, growing things it is always screaming for food, which means money. I feed it, hoping that it will grow up big and strong so that one day it can starting sending money back in the other direction. As a result, my home is nothing special, but it comforts me anyway. There is some nondescript furniture whose very hotel-like lack of character is soothing to me. The walls are a cool grey. Hidden lighting units make areas of brightness and shadow, giving the simple shapes of the walls a slightly more interesting, complex appearance.
    There are a few pieces of art, all carefully chosen not to call up the memories of my military service. Since I never served in the middle east, that’s the theme I decided on. Hanging on one wall is a large piece of tile-work, a reproduction of a mosaic in a Moroccan mosque. On another wall is a series of framed Arabic texts, each one written in black calligraphy and surrounded with an intricate border in colored ink and, in one case, gold leaf. They are passages from Palestinian and Saudi poets, and though I can’t read them I bought them with an Egyptian friend of mine from the Forces who translated for me so that I could pick out poems I liked. In a corner I’ve hung some trays made of inlaid wood, again with the meticulous, busy patterns so common to Arabic art. Other than that, my home is mostly functional: there is the holo for entertainment and communications, the food processor, and exercise equipment. In the bedroom there is really nothing but the bed, a holo outlet, a sim bank, and my meditation mat. I don’t sleep well with distractions around me. There's a small balcony where I keep a few plants.
    I approach one of the poems and admire the details of the calligraphy and the surrounding design. The writing is incomprehensible to me, but since this is my favorite I remember exactly what it says:
    On the other side of this desert

is my love

is my father’s house

is water.

On the other side of this desert

is my honor.

All I have to do is cross.
    I’m not sure why I like it so much. Maybe it’s because it captures the idea of just how difficult it can be to get the simple things in life that make you happy. Everything you need is waiting for you—all you have to do is cross that damned desert to get it. Every time I read it I picture a young man, earnest, brave but afraid, taking a breath to brace himself and then taking that first step into the desert. The first step of thousands, with the hot sun above him. The poem holds me for a moment, then gently lets me go and my thoughts return to the here and now.
    After a meal and some mental rest I feel ready to do some research. Reclining on my bed with the remote, I flash through item after item on the holo, reviewing what I know of the 
Suerte
, perusing my old field notes, Certified Security’s Compendium, even the web. The text, images, and vidclips scroll, appear, and disappear—a small sea of information.
    The 
Suerte
 originated in the vast slums and shanty towns in and