Moxyland (3 page)

   Ten scowls, but what's he gonna say? Fuck off, we're planning the insurrection? That's the problem with pool halls: they're not exactly discreet. And who else is she going to play? The geezer alcoholics in the corner?

   Besides, Tendeka's already chalking his cue, just in case you thought anyone else was going to game-on. I'd point out that a real general would let one of the footsoldiers take care of this little nuisance – like me, for example, cos I could think of some ways. But his logic's going to be to get rid of her as quick as possible, and the truth is, kids, he's the most qualified.

   Ten could wax us all six-love, baby, with one arm amputated. He's that guy who carries his own cue around, the kind that snaps together like a sniper rifle in a war movie. He's also that guy who's not going to cut a rookie any slack.

   It's too entertaining to pass up. Surreptitiously I hit the record button on my cuff as I hand over the stick to the girl.

   'Your massacre, kid.' But as she takes it from me, her sleeve slips back and I catch a glimpse of a faint glow. I knew something was up. Long sleeves in the height of the heat don't cut it. I've seen enough light tatts on the little trendies in the clubs to know, even from a glance, that this here is the coke. The real thing. And when I twig that I saw her a week ago in the eastern seaboard executive zone, which is strictly corporati only, it all clicks into place.

   It's the first time I've seen it. First time anyone I know has seen it. It's a riff on the standard dark marketing shit. Hand out free stuff to the cool kids and hope everyone else is paying attention so they'll run out and buy it. Ordinarily, this would be out of my interest field. My streamcast is called Diary of Cunt, not Diary of Ad-wank. Your weekly round-up of Toby's astounding life: good drugs, good music, sexploits with exceptionally beautiful girls, regular skirmishes with the motherbitch, and, most recently, some para-criminal counter-culture activities compliments of Mr. Steve Bikowannabe over here with the pool cue.

   588,430 unique hits daily, as of this morning's counter. It's not shabby, but let's just say it's not BoingBoing. Or the baby animal cast. Or even that flavour of the viral week, that MIT girl who builds robots and casts pornos of them screwing her.

   But that could all be set to change.

   There's been lots of big talk about this on the rumour blogs, but no images. It's so new on the scene, how could there be? Which means an exclusive. Bigtime traffic. Hits galore. Maybe even syndication.

   It's a close one. Make no mistake, she's playing catch-up, but the girl has some skills. Forget whatever you picked up in the conspiracy forums on the fringe, it's not comic-book superpower shit. It helps you focus, like that zone thing athletes get into. Faster, slicker, more productive.

   It's beautiful to see it kick in. Someone who wasn't paying close attention, someone without my consummate experience, might not even have registered. But I am and I do. It's a textbook special. The breath catches in her throat as it hits, her shoulderblades tightening like she's been punched in the chest, and then it starts to fray away into her system and she goes all loose.

   I am overwhelmed with jealousy. Even occasional viewers will know I'm a waster – in more ways than solo, if you were to ask my motherbitch. But I'm functional skeef. It's not like I'm the kind of junkie freak sporting a tongue-piercing applijack. But I have notched up most of the pharmacologicals. Supersmack, kitty, halo, you name it. I can ID the flavour of the bliss by the rush. But in truth, it's all cheap shit. Black-market. Ill legit. Not like this girl's high.

   And maybe Ten catches a snatch of this, something in her face that reveals that all is not exactly halaal, cos he catches her by the arm.

   'Hey. Are you okay?'

   She snaps to attention, all hyped-up reflexes. 'Yeah. Good, thanks. Do you mind if I take this shot?'

   She folds over her cue, Bruce Lee in the intensity of her focus. She slides the cue back over her knuckles, once, twice, and then pops the white so hard it leapfrogs the eightball snookering her path and whacks her last remaining ball into the pocket. The white dives right in after it, so it's not quite the perfect shot. And who's to say the girl wasn't capable of doing it on her own, sans a sweet little neural turboboost?

   But even Ten's noticed that she's not playing straight. Her pupils are waxed full moon. He snags her sleeve as she moves to give him room to play his shot.

   'You tweaked?'

   'What? No. And even if I was, how would that be anything to do with you?' There's just enough of a catch of self-defence in her voice to spur him on, evangelical recovering that he is.

   'Hey listen, you want to get off that shit. You think I don't know the signs? I've been there. I can help you.'

   'Would you give it a break? Jeez. I'm not on drugs.'

   And now, with all this fast-escalating tension, we are starting to draw attention. The bartender snipes, 'Keep it cool, peeps.' Not that he has any intention of coming round from behind the bar.

   Ashraf steps in. 'It's not important, Tendeka, just leave it.'

   'Yeah, back off, okay? I don't even know you.' But Tendeka is still holding her wrist as she twists away, and her sleeve slides up, exposing the green fluorescent.

   'What is
that
?' Tendeka snaps. Now that he's spotted it, he won't let go. 'What the
fuck
is that?' He yanks up her sleeve to expose her wrist, and one thing is clear – this is no rinkadink glowshow. None of the signature goosebumps of an LED implant blinking through the ink of a conventional light tattoo. Cos this isn't sub-dermal. This is her skin. The double swirl of the Ghost logo in mint and silver shines luminously from cells designer-spliced by the nanotech she's signed up for.

   'Get off!' She shoves him away, a little too hard, maybe inspired by the nano-enhanced hormone soup sloshing around in her head, but hard enough so that Ten staggers back and catches the edge of his beer on the corner of the table. He's a big boy, heavy enough to break a glass easy, and a snick of it jams into his palm. Spilt beer and fat glops of blood spatter the floorboards.

   'You fucking sell-out!'

   She steps to the side, putting the pool table between them. How could she have known he would take this so seriously?

   'Do you know what that shit even does? You're a fucking lab rat. A corporate bitchmonkey! You make me sick!' Tendeka vaults over the table towards her. She grabs the cue and swipes it at him, more warning than weapon. I'd intervene, but where's the fun in that?

   With all the shouting, no one notices the bartender reaching under the counter to activate the panic button, or barely more than a minute later, the tromp of big police boots and padded paws mounting the stairs at pace.

   The girl turns her head to the door, almost as if she's anticipating it, as the cop and the Aito come ploughing into the room. She drops the cue and raises her hands in a neat physical dissociation from the scene. The cue rolls scuddering across the floorboards and comes to a stop by the stairs, where the dog sniffs at it once, and dismisses it with a whuff.

   'Oh, and is this your private fucking sponsorbaby security force?' Tendeka says, whirling on the cop, who is already aiming his scanner at him. He couldn't be more off. The poor schmuck is obviously just a garden-variety citicop, unlucky enough to draw the Long Street patrol.

   'Come to protect the technology? Cos that's all you are, baby. A freakshow prototype.'

   The Aito barks in warning, echoed by a bleep from Ten's cellphone as the cop isolates his SIM from all the others in the room with the scanner.

   'Yeah, fuck off! Don't you fucking log a warning on me. I have the constitutional right to express my fucking opinion. Ever heard of fucking freedom of expres–'

   The cop doesn't bother to register a second warning. He goes straight for the defuser. Higher voltage than necessary, but when did the cops ever play nice? Tendeka drops straight away, jerking epileptic and setting off the damn

dog with excited yipping. I'm reckoning that's

170 to 180 volts right there. Anything over 200 requires extra paperwork to justify the use of potentially lethal force, but that doesn't mean the cops don't push the limits.

   Some wasters I know set off their own phone's defuser, on low settings for those dark and hectic beats. Even rhythm can be induced, kids. But it's not easy. You have to hack the hardware, and if you don't know what you're doing, it'll crisp you KFC. Or worse. It's a disconnect offence to tamper with a defuser. You can't play nice by society's rules? Then you don't get to play at all. No phone. No service. No life.

   Tendeka judders and spasms at the cop's feet, his phone seething and crackling, while the damn dog yelps an over-excited accompaniment, like it's really getting off on this. Not even Ash dares to intervene. Eventually, the citiprick takes mercy and hits endcall, and it's all done for the day, baby.

   'Anybody else?' he asks, snapping his fingers at the modified dog, so that it shuts up instantly. Ten manages to raise himself to his knees, pale and heaving for breath.

   'How about you? You want some more, boy?'

   Ten shakes his head breathing heavy and a little too desperate. Ashraf kneels next to him and slowly, very obviously, hands him his pump. Ten takes a gulping greedy hit. Really, he should have his asthma registered on his SIM. Medical pre-conditions mean they have to go easier on you.

   'Yeah, thought so. Just remember, I've logged your SIM. You even think about causing any more shit, it's disconnect, china.' The citicop steps neatly out of the way as a horde of VIMbots scoot out from under the bar, scrambling to sop up the blood and glass and spilled liquor.

   'And here I was so hoping for a quiet day.' He tucks his scanner into his belt and rattles his chem mace cheerfully at the bartender. 'You let me know if this guy gives you any more trouble. I'll be happy to sic /379 here on him.' The bartender grunts and raises a hand. Playing it cool, as if he weren't the guy who 911-ed the citiprick in the first place. The cop whistles, two notes, and the Aito snaps to attention and pads out down the stairs after him.

   Ashraf hefts Tendeka to his feet, cursing soft and furious in between wheezing breaths as his asthma meds kicks in. Game over. Please upload more currency. The oldtimers in the corner turn away pointedly.

   The girl looks on, wan and shocked. It's the perfect opening.

   'I don't know about you,' I say, 'but I need a drink.'

   'Aren't you with that guy?' She turns to me, incredulous.

   'Nope. I mean, I know him, but you know, we're not tight or anything.'

   Ashraf gives me a poisonous look over his shoulder as he levers Ten towards the stairs. But c'mon, he's got Tendeka in hand, and I'm not going to get dragged into his ridiculous mess. Not when there are more interesting messes to be involved in.

   'Sorry. He's like this hardcore activist or something. Let me buy you a drink. Make up for it. I'm sure he'd offer himself, but, well…' But well, he's a little indisposed. A little crisped. A little out the door.

   I steer her towards the bar, easy in her condition. She's looking almost as strung out as Ten.

   'Cause any more
shit
like that, girl, and I'll call in a crisp on you too,' warns the bartender.

   'Hey, easy now. Everything's sony. Just want a drink. You do serve drinks? Ghost for her, and same for me, shot of vodka on the side. I'm Toby, by the way.'

   'Kendra.'

   The bartender sets two cans down in front of us. Kendra doesn't even wait for the glass, just cracks it open and practically downs it, with a neat little shudder, as if she's hitting the hard stuff.

   'You don't mind if I mix mine? I don't think I'm scoring the same benefits.'

   'Do what you like.'

   I tip the vodka into my glass and fill up with Ghost. It comes out of the can the same pale shade of green as her eyes. I wonder if they were always that colour or if that's another side-effect of the tech. I lean on the bar and just spit it out. Coming on candid tends to surprise people into surprising answers. 'Can I see?'

   She looks at me, scoping my motives, and then slides up her sleeve and turns her arm over to reveal the glow on her wrist.

   'Nice. Did it hurt?'

   'Funny you should ask.' The girl is flying now, or drowning, in all the opiate happinesses the body can generate: endorphins, serotonin, dopamine, the Ghost binding with the aminos. Tiny biomachines humming at work in her veins. Voluntary addiction with benefits. All free if you qualify for the sponsor program. Apply now, kids, while stocks last. You'll never afford this high on your own change.

   'Why do you do that?' she asks, nodding at my BabyStrange, which is back in display mode, with a new addition to the gallery of a close-up of a blood splat on green pool-table felt. 'It's really gross.'

   'Would you rather I displayed logos?' I tap the cufflink with my thumb, zoom in on the can of Ghost, snap it, and wallpaper it solid over the smartfabric.

   She laughs in a brittle, self-conscious way, but the conversation flows easier after that. She's a photographer, and she uploads a flyer for a group show at Propeller to my phone. I trade her an invite to the Replica Insurrection party. Provided I don't get too fucked, I might even DJ. But I hold back on the plus one. I'd prefer her to rock up solo mission. She tells me about a set of photographs she took in the loos there, photographing streaks of light under the doors, of all the things to document in club culture.

   She's annoyed at the suggestion. 'I specifically didn't want to photograph the usual club crap. It was about decontextualising the space.'

   'Maybe you could come down and decontextualise my space sometime,' I say, and she rolls her eyes, but it's the good kind of rolling.