Moxyland (26 page)

   Tracking that kid, Sephuma, who is the common denominator, leads to a streamcast on future*renovate, some anti-corporate community in Amsterdam, and the impenetrable moniker '10'. Christ, Tendeka.

   Lots of postings from 10, IP address links back to the Cheaptime, couple of phone access logins, and back to the soccer club. Rants on the board, video clips of some of the 'hits' posted as instructional guides. I didn't realise he was filming any of it. I feel ill. And I'm running out of time, before someone else comes into the bathroom or wonders where I am.

   It takes me less than a minute to crack his future*renovate email account. Penile enhancement ads. Newsletters from groups with dubious titles like WorldChanger or Guerrilla Corporatista, mostly unopened. Messages from fanboys and girls.

   Zuko cropping up once again, quite the disciple. But the account is suspiciously empty, like he's been systematically trashing everything, taking some limited precautions here at least. I could get into the cache on the servers, but that would take hours, which I don't have. And I have to know if there's anything incriminating. Sent items and trash are cleaned out, but the schmuck didn't clear his IM conversations.

   The bulk of the chats are with somebody called skyward*. What's with all the damn asterisks? Mostly bullshit, heavy talk about co-opting the revolution and other doggerel, but then I come across one which mentions me by name.

 

   The IP address is not in the Netherlands at all. And at first I think I've made a stupid mistake, an entry-level blunder. It can't possibly be. And then I catch on.

   I eject the secondary SIM from my phone. My first instinct is to flush the incriminating evidence, but if I can get out of here, I'll need it. What I really need is my passport and the suitcase I haven't packed yet. There is a noise outside. I push the SIM as deep as it will go into my vagina.

   I flush the toilet and emerge to find Jane leaning against the row of curved basins. The relief is mixed with irritation at her timing. I can't begin to imagine what she's come all the way up here for. Her office is in accounts, five floors down.

   'Hey Lerato. I've been looking for you everywhere. Got a minute?'

   'Jesus, Jane. Can't it wait till I get home? I'm a little tied up right now.'

   'There's someone who wants to see you.'

   'What? No. Rathebe will flip. I haven't even had a chance to process–'

   She flashes a card at me, a visual ID. And at first it doesn't register. How can you live with someone for eight months and not know them at all?

   I should have seen it coming. I should have guarded myself at home as carefully as I did at work.

   She guides me to the lift. As I pass the boardroom, I will Mpho to look up, to help me. But he's panic stations like everyone else, head down, and what could he do anyway? Rathebe glances up, sees I'm with Jane, and gives a little nod of acquiescence that lets me know I'm really, really fucked, even before the lift doors open to reveal a security guy with two (!) Aitos flanking him, putting paid to the half-baked plan I suddenly realise I was entertaining, to take her down in the lift, still get away somehow. I take a step back, but Jane grabs my arm.

   'It's okay, we can fit.' The guy whistles and the dogs press in tight against him, making space, but it's still a squeeze. I can feel the hot pressure of their breath on the back of my legs. Jane slides a card key into the control panel. I feel sick with stupidity.

   I fucked a boy for a couple of months whose motto was 'It could always be worse'. It was just stupid. Of course it could always be worse. If you were buried up to your head in the desert waiting for the vultures to pluck out your eyes, someone could piss on you, fire ants could make a nest in your mouth, burrowing rodents could start eating your feet.

   But this is bad. This is as bad as it could possibly be.

   Because the IP address for skyward* comes back to Communique's corporate pipeline. To this building.

   And the ID Jane flashed me in the bathroom had the logo for spyware controller. Internal Affairs.

 

Of course I've noticed that her face is healed. Think I'm a moron? When she stops to admire her reflection, I hustle her on. 'C'mon. Keep moving. You want to bring attention down on us?'

   'But–'

   'Yeah, yeah, I know. Lucky for you. Wish I had some nano to stitch me up from the inside.' The headache is eating through the painkillers, chowing down on the edges, and I'm itchy as fuck and my nose won't stop running, so I have to wipe it with the back of my hand and smear the snot off on my jeans.

   'Charming,' she says, real helpful, and refuses to take my hand again. I hadn't even realised we were holding hands. I'm fucking starving, maybe even dying, and she's concerned about playing Ms. Manners. Which sparks me off on my motherbitch, and how the least she could do is download some cash so we can buy breakfast and a Ghost for K, who is jonesing bad, and maybe a pair of cheapnasty sunglasses so I can deal with the glare. I mean, what are parents for?

   But the catch is that we're still phoneless. It took fifteen minutes just to get out of my apartment block, waiting for someone else's SIM to trigger the door so we could slip out. Pretend making-out in the hall, so we had an excuse to be hanging about.

   I accost a pedestrian on the sidewalk, a man in a red leather jacket unlocking his car, one of the only people around.

   'Hey, excuse me, sir? My phone is down and I was wondering–'

   'No. I'm sorry,' he says, super-brusque in the brush-off, already getting into the car, adding, 'God bless you,' through the window as he zips it up, like I was some filthy riff. Like a riff could afford to be traipsing round town in a BabyStrange coat, even if it is fritzing, blurting random images from its memory. It did not take kindly to that power-up at the station. Shit. At this rate we're going to be walking to Lerato's.

   It's the same story at the underway. The automatic doors won't fucking open to let us get into the station, let alone onto the trains. I don't see how they're expecting us to report to our nearest handy vaccine centre if we can't fucking get there. And no one will let me cadge a call.

   K keeps touching her mouth, distracted, like she's making sure it really is all there.

   'Do you think you could stop playing with your face and give me a hand here?'

   'What do you want me to do?' she says, as if it's my fault that we're stranded, isolated. Disconnected.

   'You're a girl. You're cute. Get someone to let you use their phone.'

   'What do you want me to tell them?'

   'That you dropped it in the toilet. That you were mugged. I don't care. Anything. Wait, here's the number you wanna connect,' and as I'm writing it down for her, I realise I don't know the fucking number. It's on autodial, preprog nine, starts 083-253 something something something. I don't know Lerato's digits either, or even that skank Unathi's. Which doesn't leave us much in the way of options. My stomach is knotting audibly with hunger.

   Someone tugs on my sleeve. 'Buy me a bunny chow?' It's a street kid, wearing filthy men's shoes that swallow his feet, tufts of newspaper sticking out in ruffles, clutching a brown paper bag like his life depends on it, and faintly reeling already at this time of the a.m.

   'Aw, c'mon don't touch the fashion. Not now, okay? Just piss off.'

   The kid is nonplussed. He plucks at my coat again, skittering out of reach when I move to grab him, laughing. 'You should check, my larnie. Your fashion is fried.'

   'Do I know you? Fuck off!'

   'Toby.' Kendra puts her hand on my arm, and I'm so fucking sick of people touching me.

   'What?'

   'Maybe he has a phone.'

   But the best the mangy street kid has to offer is a browning banana, which he proffers like a serious act of benevolence. Kendra takes it in both hands, like you're supposed to do with Japanese business cards. 'Thanks,' she says, as genuinely grateful as if it was the same fucking species of usefulness as a phone. So much for the black-market, the underground economy.

   I grab it out of her hand and hold it up to my ear, feeling how it's already turned soft and squidgy inside its skin. 'Hello? Hello? Mom? Yeah, send the fucking cavalry already. What's that, you say? I'm sorry, you're breaking up.' This cracks the kid up, especially when I crush the banana in my fist so that the skin splits and the insides squelch out. 'You could do with an upgrade,' I say, examining the sludge in my hand. 'This one's fritzed.' I hand it back to him, but he declines, shaking with laughter. I shrug and chuck it into the alley, wiping my hand on my jeans, mixing the gunge with the dried snot. And it occurs to me, that's what my insides will be doing within the next forty-eight, liquefying inside this bag of skin. The novelty of being on the run is wearing off quick.

   'We could have eaten that,' says Kendrasweet, as I pull her away from the kid and down the street.

   'Least of our problems.'

   'Toby. I'm hungry. If I don't get something to eat–'

   'Then what, buttercup? You might get hunger pangs in your tummy?'

   'I'm hypoglycaemic, you asshole.'

   'Oooh, so you're gonna faint on me?' She punches me in the chest. It's not a playful punch.

   'Don't be an asshole.'

   'Cos if you did, I don't know if I'd have the strength to pick you up and carry you. I mean, maybe you want to go back for that banana. You could scrape the leftovers off the pavement.'

   She is near tears. I check off all the signs: her complexion gone blotchy, the liquid shine in her eyes. I hock another thick loogey of phlegm onto the pavement.

   'Tell you what, baby girl, I got it all worked out. But I'm going to need you to take one for the team.'

'Toby, stop it. This is serious.'

'And I'm deadly serious.'

   'You shouldn't spit. You don't know that it's not contagious.'

   'You think I give a shit about these people?' I tuck her under my arm, crushing her up against me, aggressive, so I can feel the expansion of her ribcage as she grunts in surprise. I hope it leaves a big fucking bruise, but what would be the use, her nano would just clean it up, the same way it's sopped up the virus, like that bacteria that eats oil spills.

   'I hope all these fuckers get it. They deserve it. And you know, I don't know why the fuck you give a shit either.' She squirms away, furious.

   'It's not my fault.'

   'Hey. Hey, I'm not holding it against you, sweetness.' I kiss her nose. 'Chin up, okay? We'll get you something to eat just as soon as. But first we need to get connected. We need help. You agree.'

   'Yes,' she says, her face stormy-petulant.

   'So we're gonna walk into that internet caff over there, and I'm gonna have a little chat with the guy behind the counter, and then you're going to offer to suck him off in exchange for some time online.'

   'Jesus, Toby.'

'Or maybe he'll settle for a handjob.'

   Her cheeks are flushed with outrage or humiliation. It's a good look for her.

   'Although, you know, your technique could use some work. Speaking from personal experience.'

   But I've gone too far. Something changes the channel on her expression. I wish my BabyStrange was still functional, cos it would have been great to capture the transition, kids: the twitch of muscles, that morphing of her expression from shock-wounded to contempt.

   'Fuck you, Toby.'

   'Ooh ouch. Like no one's ever said that to me before.' I stagger back a step, clutching at my chest, but she is already walking away, too fast, her shoulders as tight as if she'd been strapped to a coat hanger. Which makes me think of how those skinny blades jutted as she arched her back against me. 'And besides, you already did, sweetheart!' I shout after her, so that several of the pedestrians cock their heads in our direction. 'Remember?!' She doesn't turn around.

   The shouting rasps in my throat and segues seamlessly into a racking cough as my body works overtime to eject what amounts to a thumbnail of sputum that blends into the street along with the pigeon shit and gunk. Hardly seems worth the effort.

   Inside the caff, its windows dimmed to cut the glare on the screens, I dump the BabyStrange on the counter, which is still damp with the residue of cleaning wipes. Under normal circumstances, this would make me cringe in anticipation of the cost of dry-cleaning, which doesn't come cheap on wired fabrics. But I would hardly describe today as normal. 'Hey man, I'm going to cut to the chase. How many minutes can I get for this?'

   The guy behind the counter is trying for too trendy for his age, with sideburns razored in sharp isosceles, a sideshow to distract from the thinning on top. Seems the blowout with K was pointless. Judging by the ripped pecs beneath the black vest, this one is more into boys than girls.

   'This isn't a pawn shop, china. And even if it was,' he rubs a pinch of the BabyStrange between his fingers, the picture distorting, 'this thing is not well.'