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