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.
Those of you who have been paying close attention may have noticed that I haven't mentioned my streamcast. This is not an accidental omission, kids.
Down the other side of the bar, one of the oldtimers orders a Ghost. Just to see. Cos maybe, just maybe, it's in the secret ingredients, right?
'I feel like everyone's watching me,' she confesses.
'Course they are. You're splinter-new, novelty deluxe. And the burning question on everyone's lips is, what does it feel like?'
'Like taking drugs?'
'That's probably the most generic description I've ever heard. I'm not buying that.'
'Okay, okay.' She laughs, openly, warmly, very hot. 'I'm just… improved. It's like, everything's running better, like I've had a tune-up, you know? The world seems sharper. Or fiercer. As if someone's pulled the focus. Like in photography, hyper-realism?' She catches my blank look. 'Where everything is intensely real. It's super-defined.'
'Sounds hectic.'
'Yeah. Although, you know, I'm not entirely convinced I'm not imagining it.'
'What?'
'Everything. All of it. That it's some dumb psychology trip they've got us on, to get us to drink the stuff. And all the rest of you.'
'Hey, don't knock the product. It's not bad, although they could tone down the lime. You should speak to them about adding some flavour variants, if you're gonna be drinking it forever.'
'Yeah.'
'And you seemed to handle Tendeka pretty well.' I wave away her concerns, cut her off before she can launch into an apology, as if she was the one in the wrong. 'No, don't worry about it, he had it coming. He can be a right sanctimonious dick. And besides, that game was fucking tight.'
And besides, it's apparent to sundry all that she's rushing off her face. It's definitely physical.
'But that's the thing. I'm pretty sharp at pool. Maybe not that sharp, and it's been a while, but I reckon I could have taken him on a good day. And maybe this just happened to be… Oh, don't look so sceptical. I used to play league in Durban.'
'Chill, sweet K. I believe you.' And to prove it, I lean forward and pull into her.
Initially, she kisses me back. But then she flinches away from me, total panic stations. 'I'm sorry…'
'Don't be sorry.'
'No, I have a boyfriend. I, uh, I can't. Okay? I'm f
lattered and…'
'It's okay. I was trying my luck. Look, I've backed off. We'll just reset the timer to zero. Sorry if I freaked you out.'
'It's fine. Thanks for the chat. It's nice getting to talk, to connect, you know?' She's talking too fast, already up, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
'Yeah, yeah. Okay. I know.' I'm grinning at her fluster, which only makes her more so.
'And tell your friend, I'm sorry. I didn't mean… He was an asshole, but he didn't deserve that. The cops and–'
'I'll do that. But don't stress it. Like I said, he had it coming.'
'And forget what I said about it being psychological. I talk too much sometimes. It's not… I mean, of course it's genuine makoya.'
'Sure. No worries. And come to Replica next Saturday. That's a free entrance on your phone.'
'Thanks. And Toby?' She pauses in the doorway, but the camera catches me unawares. It's an oldschool design, clunky and cumbersome, but I'm too preoccupied, caught in the flash, to catch the make.
'If you wanted me to model, you only had to ask,' I snip, but she's completely composed now, as if it's the camera rather than the nanotech inside that smoothes out her edges.
'Thanks. I'll see you around.' She winks, which is so cute, it physically hurts. And then she vanishes down the staircase.
**** INCIDENT REPORT ****
South African Police Services FILE SAPS-CITI 430/77
LOG – CTC Public Disruption
Occurrence No: 94-1678
ACCUSED_____________________
(surname, first name) Mataboge, Tendeka
(alias) N/A
(sex) M
(DOB) 05.06.86
(Age) 32
(Place of Birth) HARARE
(ID number) 8606050112291
(cell SIM ID) 062-699-1359
(prior record?) Y
(criminal registration) #2291-1359-470
(residential address)
Last known: 43 subC, Berlin, Khayelitsha, Cape Town, 7948
(height) 1.94m
(weight) 94kg
(hair) dreadlocks
(eyes) brown
(complexion) dark
(ID status) Civilian.
LSM (Living Standards Measure): 6
(marital status) Married
– Emmie Chinyaka. Malawi national. 3/8/2018
(identifying marks)
Tattoo on left shoulder, thick black rings or ‘bull’s-eye’pattern. Black band tattooed on right bicep and wrist
(occupation) NGOs, charitable fund-raising/events
(employer) self-employed
(biological verification) N
(date) N/A (time) N/A
(priors)
> 23/2/2018 - CC 279 (a) Public disruption.
-- Participating in unlawful, unlicensed protest march.
-- Loc: Parliament.
-- Defuse. R5000 fine. 24H disconnect.
> 29/12/2017 - CA 415 Defacement of corporate property.
-- Loc: V&A Mall Christmas display.
-- Defuse. 24H disconnect. 16 days corporate service.
> 18/7/2017 – CC 279 (a) Public disruption.
-- Loc: Vanguard Drive, Langa. Defuse.
> 22/11/2013 CTTD 80 unpaid underway fare fines.
-- Amount settled in full.
> 4/2/2008 CSP 121 (Juvenile) Possession of narcotics with intention to distribute.
-- 150 grams nitra- amaldrine (street name Bliss).
-- Sentenced to eight months in Boys Town juvenile fa- cility.
-- Six months probationary surveillance.
> 17/10/2006 CVC 3A (Juvenile) Breaking and entering.
-- Loc: 28 Roberta St, Bonteheuwel.
-- Suspended sentence.
OFFENCE______________________
CC 279(a) Public disruption
(offence time) 11h23
(offence date)
17/9/2018
(location)
Stones Pool Hall,
181 Long Street
(conjoined with)
CC 592 (b) Aggravating behaviour
OFFICER’S NOTES:
Disruption alert logged 11h20 from Stones Pool Hall (Premises ID
33CBD-Long181). Officer and Aito /379 responded. On arrival found subject shouting threats and acting in aggressive manner.
A scan of the subject’s SIM ID register revealed that the subject has recent priors including previous public disruptions and a juvenile record.
Subject failed to respond to officer’s verbal warning or warnings uploaded to his phone.
Activated a defuse to subject’s phone. Defuse
Subject adequately subdued.
Officer left premises without further incident. Subject’s SIM logged on SAPS watch-list for period of twenty-four hours.
Temporary disconnect.
'Sorry, Ten,' Ashraf says, flicking his screen back to show me. The log is already live on SAPS.co.za, and this is what's so truly fucked up, that government inc. thinks this level of transparency automatically rules out repression. If it's all out in the open, it has to be above board.
'But what did you expect?' Ash says, like this is the time to be griefing me.
'Fuck!' He flinches as I slam my foot into a cold-drink can, sending it clattering down the street. At least it's not a Ghost can – that would have been too much. skyward* is going to be seriously pissed.
The worst is confirmed when we get to the entrance to the D-line underway stop on Wale Street and my phone won't scan. Or, rather, it does scan and blocks me outright in response to the police tag on my SIM, to the tremendous amusement of the leisure-class kids overdressed in their ugly expensive clothes. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. I suck at my palm, which still stings, even if it's stopped bleeding. At least the fucker didn't mace me, else every biogen dog in the city would be trailing me like I was a bitch in heat.
We cruise down Adderley towards the station, past the Grand Parade, and the blaring logos and adboards squatting on the façade of the old library like parasites. And what really grinds me is that it was supposed to be ours for Streets Back. We'd rounded up a bunch of kids from the Castle Street shelter with this plan to do graffiti murals. It was a way of letting them make a mark on the city that usually filters them out like spam. It was all legit. We had the permits and everything, with a small development grant Ash set up, from an Italian org complete with our own Italian liaisons. It all got fucked up, though. The Italians came out to make a documentary of the whole spiel, and then got all pissy when it wasn't happening. Like it's my fault we ran out of money.
First up we had to pay for chatter flyers, because how else are you going to reach illiterate kids who can't read a poster? So the audio chips were crazy expensive, then the freebies we got from the paint company were all reject stock, broken nozzles, dried-out paint, two years past their expiry date. By the time we'd bought our own paint and masks and overalls and food for all the kids who showed up instead of just the ones who worked on the murals, our budget was gone. I tried to tell those Italian amigos that these kids had been let down so often, the one thing that would have a real positive impact on their lives would be an established routine and adults who stick by their promises. They were all, like, terribly sorry to hear about our troubles, very understanding, but we have to understand there are so many other projects just as worthy, all desperate for cash, and they have to support the ones that can show sustainability.
I sent the hombres a real nasty email afterwards, telling them exactly what neo-colonial cocks they were, coming in here, raping our resources and fucking off again. I thought Ash would appreciate it, but he got in a real mood about him being the money guy, the business manager, and I should stick to being the passionate poster boy, and besides, 'hombres' is Spanish. Whatever. And if he could have handled it, then he should have fucking done it. Pricks. I hate it when people fake being on the level, all global village-ing when they're the ones raking in
fat salaries, and we're the ones living hand-to-mouth with a soccer club and Emmie's baby on the way.