Moxyland

by Lauren Beukes

  'Internal investigations? That this isn't a setup?'

  'I do have a history, Mr. Thuys.'

  'Don't we all, Ms. Mazwai. I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer to allay your fears. You'll just have to trust me.'

  'Give me a secret. One that I can verify.'

  'Why?'

  'Leverage.'

  'I'm not in the habit of trading secrets with beautiful women, especially not so they can blackmail me.'

  'Only beautiful boys?' I've managed to get under that buffed and exfoliated and moisturised skin. He unfolds and refolds his legs.

  'You know, if I was from your current employer's internal investigations, you would already have incriminated yourself.'

  'I really don't know what you mean. I was in the middle of asking you if this was another one of Genevieve's half-baked romantic set-ups. You interrupted, rudely, before I could finish my sentence. It's hardly my fault if you want to jump to wild conclusions.'

  He slaps his leg and laughs loudly enough to disturb the suits on the couch across from us, who glance over briefly. Unfortunately, audio interference only works on electronics.

  'You really are something. So, what would it take to – uh, get you into bed?'

  'I'm not a whore, Stefan. But if you're asking me about my ambitions, my dreams? The kind of things we might discuss on a date? I want to live up to my potential. You know I was raised in a skills institute? Eskom Energy Kids.'

  'I saw it on your CV.'

  'Compared to scrabbling for opportunities with three thousand other Aidsbabies, believe me – corporate life is a breeze.'

  'Good wine does depend on its terroir. So what are your dreams, Lerato?'

  'The things any girl wants. A pony. True love. A diamond ring. A generous car allowance. A sea view, a space to call my own, that's really my own, sans roommate. Work that is meaningful, you know, where I can make a real and valuable contribution to society, although I'd settle for challenging and remarkably well-paid with international firstworld opportunities. Maybe one day.'

  'Maybe soon.'

  'I'll toast to that.'

  Toby

  Unathi is still wearing the same leopard-print vest. I study it carefully to make sure, but even the stains look identical.

  'What is with you? Stop staring at my tits, man!' He hands me a gamechip. 'Congratulations, you made the big league. Realspace, and you don't even have to go elf. Or vampire. Personally, I don't think you're qualified for this, but some chick did a recommend on you. Julia Thambo? Know her?'

  I shrug, non-committal. Fucked if I know. Which is probably exactly what happened.

  'Said she saw you play in the barcade up St. John's Wood way? She's quite the cherry. You better not have slept with her, you twat.'

  Again I shrug, which winds him up more than a straight confession.

  'Asshole. Anyway. Their clan has a lastminute casualty. They need a replacement. Don't go thinking this means you get to play with the grown-ups regularly.'

  'So what's the game?'

  'Load up the chip, asshole, and see.'

  I slot the card into the gameport on my phone. The screen goes that particular cyan that quickens any realspace gamer's pulse, cos it's all happening now, kids, connecting to Playnet.

  FallenCity™ Scorpions Elite

  >>Welcome agent BUZZKILL

  'Great call sign, you've preselected for me, Unathi, thanks.'

  'Thought you'd appreciate it.'

  'How do I change it?'

  'You're stuck with it. The account is all paid up. That's your call sign.'

  'You are such a bitchmonkey.'

  'Just read the assignment, asshole.'

  >>You have a new mission briefing…

  BRIEF DATE: Wednesday 20 September

  OPERATION: Rosa Parks

  TYPE: Realworld

  LOCATION: Adderley Station Deck, Adderley Street, Cape Town City

  RISK LEVEL: 4+

  MISSION OBJECTIVES: Find and subdue terrorists on the underway and recover

  and disarm dirty 'suitcase' bomb. This is a multi-operative mission.

  EXECUTION: 20h05, Saturday 23 September

  DETAILED BRIEFING: Scorpion Elite's intelligence agents have uncovered a terrorist plot by militant mercenary group MaVimbi, to plant a 'suitcase' nuclear bomb on the M-line train with the intention of detonating it once the train reaches

  Robben Island Memorial Industrial Park. Fallout will affect the entire East City coastline. Projected casualties are 16,000

  on Robben Island alone.

  The carrier is believed to be the terrorist known as UNITY. No further information is available, but s/he will certainly be disguised as a corporate and will likely have fake identification. S/he may have additional terrorists travelling with him/her as protection and cover.

  Your mission is to infiltrate and take over the corporate coaches on the M-line underway at Adderley Street station, subdue all passengers, prevent the train from departing the station, identify and subdue the terrorist/s, and find and disarm the suitcase bomb. (Scorpions Elite Bomb Squad operatives only.) Because of the scale of the operation, mass action is required. You will be required to co-ordinate your action with one or more teams. Mission control can assign you to a team should you not already have one.

  ADVISORY: This mission will take you into civilian territory. Discretion is advised.* All operatives must tag their SIMs with PlayNet FallenCity™ chips to identify them as players.

  DISCLAIMER: FallenCity™ is not real. FallenCity™ does not have any real-world affiliations with the Scorpions or the criminal underworld or terrorist organisations. InGame agents are actors employed by Inkubate Inc. to validate and enhance the player's experience in realworld play and advance the game.

  LEGAL: FallenCity™ and add-on packs, FallenCity™ Scorpions Elite, FallenCity™ Underworld, FallenCity™ Wire, and FallenCity™ Apocalypse are registered trademarks of Inkubate Inc. FallenCity™ players are not formally affiliated with Inkubate Inc. and the corporation cannot be held legally responsible for any actions by FallenCity™ players during the course of play, whether virtual or physical. By entering into game time, FallenCity™ players agree to the terms and conditions of play and acknowledge that they are fully aware that FallenCity™ is only a game. Players are solely responsible for their actions in realworld play and any repercussions thereof. By registering on the system, players acknowledge that they are of sound mind and not on stimulants, legal or criminal, which might impede their judgement, and that they are fully able to distinguish between gameplay and reality. Players who enter realworld play without chipping their SIMs with FallenCity™ identifiers, or who create a public disturbance or interfere with non-player civilians will be suspended from gameplay for the period of one month. Repeat offenders will be disbarred from the game. Players who break the law in the course of play or enact physical violence on any persons (players, InGame agents, or civilians) will be barred from FallenCity™ and all other Inkubate Inc.'s titles. If necessary, their files will be uploaded to the SAPS.

  *All passengers in the corporate coaches on M-line are InGame agents. Please do not interfere with other passengers on any other lines or in the station.

  >> Do you wish to accept the mission, BUZZKILL?

  --Yes

  >> You are registered temporary affiliate with Scorpions Elite CLAN STINGER. Would you like to maintain this affiliation?

  --Yes

  >> Operative status confirmed. T-minus three days to execution. Further details will be uploaded to your FallenCity™ chip. Proceed with caution, BUZZKILL.

  --Log out

  Tendeka

  Zuko rattles the can of spray-paint far longer than he needs to, but he's working the crowd, both the kids he's teaching and the passers-by, which makes for a considerable crowd on a Wednesday morning on the Parade. It strikes me that this must be one of the only occasions that the kids are drawing positive attention from the public. Zuko takes to the showman role brilliantl
y, demonstrating how to hold the nozzle so you get a smooth flow without collateral spillage on your clothes, and why you have to wear the fumemask.

  The kids who live on the street make their own agenda, and if you try to force them into yours, you're just going to lose them. We're not overly worried if they don't rock up first thing or if they leave before four p.m. They can come and go as they please, the only rule is they can't be fucked up or get fucked up while they're working with us. If we catch anyone huffing paint, it's an instant red card.

  I've got no illusions. I know exactly where they go when they peel off at two or three, after lunch, because that's the deal, four hours' work and you earn a decent meal; and I know they won't be coming back till tomorrow, once they've slept it off. The thing is to respect them and how they run their lives. We can't force them to be here, but we can offer an attractive alternate to rummaging in the garbage or begging for food. We're building a conversation, not handing down a lecture on high. Respect is reciprocal.

  It's remarkable how fast Ash pulled it together, once he got over his shock that I had changed my mind about the sponsor thing. Fast-tracked by his corporate buddy boy at Chase Standard Bank's CSI program, which makes me think he's got something going on for Ash. Of course, Ashraf thinks that's hilarious.

  Chase Standard insisted that we didn't use straight chipped flyers or posters, that they had to have an opt-in function, so that you have to physically stop and interact with the poster, but the kids are overloaded with all the slick clubvertising on Long Street, there's no way they would have paid them any attention. So we saved the cash on the posters and hit all the shelters instead, speaking to the kids personally, and getting the social workers onside.

  It's disgusting how much of a difference real sponsorship makes. Instead of badly printed tees, the kids have navy overalls, with the logo stitched tastefully over the heart. The stitching on the back boasts 'Investing In Our Youth'. Instead of cold potjie stewed at home with whatever ingredients Ash can find, we have nutritionally enhanced hamburgers delivered promptly at quarter past twelve from the kitchens of Chase Standard's head office, two blocks over.

  Unfortunately, we have to take the overalls from the kids at day's end. We tell them it's because we need to wash off the paint, but it's at Chase Standard's insistence, so they don't go off and get vrot and harass people, still wearing the logo. Likewise, no one's allowed to leave with paint, in case they tag with it or, worse, inhale.

  Practising is all designated within this specific zone, although all the kids get branded sketchbooks and a box of pencil crayons (because you can huff koki) to take back with them. It's an inspired gesture, which could have only come down from a corporate social investment dick who doesn't have a clue about streetside reality, where kids get mugged for anything vaguely precious or personal.

  We've pulled together some seventeen kids, itching to get their hands on the paint, but this is not just tagging shit. There are techniques to be mastered. The kids with no artistic ability get to do the manual fill jobs, but even that requires a measure of skill, using tight little circles, or precision strokes to make sure the paint doesn't run.

  The LEDs, on the other hand, are plug and play. Tiny bulbs the size of the head of a drawing pin, imported specially from Amsterdam. We're using magnetic paint, so it's just a matter of positioning and slapping them on. It was what sold Chase Standard on the project – that we could embed lights in the shape of their logo, which would blink all night for all the incoming traffic to see. You can pre-program patterns to add dimension or words. 'Peace'. 'Love'. 'Ubuntu'. 'Revolution'.

  It's easy to embed other things in magnetic paint too. Totally stable, skyward* assures me. I wouldn't expose the kids to unnecessary risk.

  We're doing up all three of the panels on the side of the ex-library, up there with the logos and adboards and videomercials beaming down. All in the name of a Good Cause, the street kids channelling their frustration into something useful, something beautiful. Something the public can feel good about.

  Watching Zuko workshopping the rapt crowd, spraying up an outline of letters, 'LOVE', the style somewhere between the fat curves of Sixties' hippie typo and the jagged tangle of Eighties New York subway bombing-style, I don't know why we didn't do this earlier.

  I tell Ashraf as much when he comes back from giving the tour to the bunch of Chase Standard employees on their lunch break, and that I'm proud of him. He practically glows, which makes it harder to come clean about all the extra-mural we've got planned.

  Oh, he knows about the animal rights thing, that's his baby anyway. He's always been a rabid defender of our furry friends. He was hectic PETA before we got into working with kids. And the station protest has been a long time coming. But he's not in on the picture on the optional extras, the stuff that is gonna make the news.

  The point is that the kids are homeless already. As long as we don't get caught, they have nothing to lose. They can't be disconnected because they don't have phones. The disenfranchised will get their moment of glory.

  I've discussed it at length with Zuko and some of the other boys, Ibrahim and S'bu, not with all the details, but they're up for it. The only worry is the dogs, but there are ways, skyward* says, of dealing with gen-mod animals.

  And making headlines at the same time.

  Kendra

  There is already spillage out of the doors by the time I get to Propeller, which can only be a good sign when it's just gone six-thirty. I feel fractal with nerves, or maybe it's that I'm on my fourth Ghost in under an hour.

  'You're late.' Jonathan latches onto my arm at the door and swishes me inside through the crowd. I can't believe how many people there are, crowded into the gallery. There is a queue up the stairs to see Johannes Michael's atom mobile, but the major throng is in the main room, and not, I regret to say, for my retro print photos.

  They're here to see Khanyi Nkosi's sound installation, freshly returned from her São Paulo show and all the resulting controversy. She only installed it this afternoon, snuck in undercover with security, so it's the first time I've seen it in the flesh. It's gruesome, red and meaty, like something dead turned inside out and mangled, half-collapsed in on itself with spines and ridges and fleshy strings and some kind of built-in speakers, which makes the name even more disturbing: 'Woof & Tweet'.

  I don't understand how it works, but it's to do with reverb and built-in resonator-speakers. It's culling sounds from around us, remixing ambient audio, conversation, footsteps, glasses clinking, rustling clothing, through the systems of its body, disjointed parts of it inflating, like it's breathing, spines quivering.

  It's hard to hear it over the hubbub, but sometimes it's like words, almost recognisable. But mostly it's just noise, a fractured music undercut with jarring sounds that seem to come randomly. Sometimes it sounds like pain. It is an animal. Or alive at any rate. Some lab-manufactured plastech bio-breed with just enough brainstem hard-wired to respond to input in different ways, so it's unpredictable – but not enough to hurt, apparently, if you believe the info blurb on the work.

  'It's gratuitous. She could have done it any other way. It could have been beautiful.'

  'Like something you'd put in your lounge, Kendra? It's supposed to be revolting. It's that whole Tokyo tech-grotesque thing. Actually, it's so derivative, I can't stand it. Can we move along?'

  I run my hand along one of the ridges and

  the thing quivers, but I can't determine any noticeable difference in the sounds. 'Do you think it gets traumatised?'

  'It's just noise, okay? You're as bad as that nutjob who threw blood at Khanyi at the Jozi exhibition. It doesn't have nerve endings. Or no, wait, sorry, it does have nerve endings, but it doesn't have pain receptors.'

  'I meant, do you think it gets upset? By all the attention? I mean, isn't it supposed to be able to pick up moods, reflect the vibe?'

  'I think that's all bullshit, but you could ask the artist. She's over there schmoozing with the money, like
you should be.'

  Woof & Tweet suddenly kicks out a looped fragment of a woman's laugh that startles me and half the room, before it slides down the scale into a fuzzy electronica.

  'See, it likes you.'

  'Don't be a jerk, Jonathan.'

  'There's some streamcast journalist who wants to interview you, by the way. And he's pretty cute.'

  My stomach spasms. This is another thing Jonathan does to keep me in my place – as in, we're not together.

  'Great, thanks. I need a drink.'

  'I'll get it. Just go talk to Sanjay. What do you want?'