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.