“Anyway, filtering the information flow was the only thing the silkies and the gummies agreed on, though for different reasons. The silkies wanted their own anarcho-capitalist paradise, everything guided by self-interest and Saint Adam’s invisible hand. The gummies wanted to make sure everyone acted the ‘right’ way—‘moral authority.’”
“What happened? What’s the difference?”
“Silkies got monopolies, dereg, and now they’re ruled by the Big Three, the last corps standing. Their ’Net sucks, and their lives aren’t much better. Shit in the skies, shit in the water, shit everywhere that’s not an arco, and you gotta be at least mid-level corp to live in one of those. Gummies got the Theocrophant and the Enclaves, lot more green than the silkies, but only if you follow their rules. Pushed the rest of us out here to rot or drown until we convert. Our ’Net’s quicker than the silkies’, but not by much. Only reason is because the gummies want everyone to know how great everything is under their ‘rules,’ so they don’t throttle access quite so much as the silkies do.”
“Sounds like we have it better.”
I interject.
“No, bro, you have it better, because you’ve got a dick. Gummies care more about that than they do about skin color, but not by much.”
“What does that have to do with what you said earlier?”
“The gummies force those of us they think are women to listen to what they have to say, to ‘save us,’ and a lot of it isn’t very pleasant. Blocking an ‘educational message’ as a woman is considered a crime. Lots of ways to call someone something awful and still have it meet the standards of an ‘educational message,’ especially quoting that book they love.”
“Sounds like you’re getting worked up over nothing. Lots of angry people on the ’Net. Why don’t you just ignore it? Stay away from it?”
I swivel and look at Kiro, not even trying to keep the anger from my voice.
“This may come as a surprise to you, bro, but there are things that I have to deal with, because I’m a woman, that you simply don’t. Things like people saying they want to kill me, and I don’t know if they’re serious or not.”
I flick a couple of my most recent hate messages over to his glasses, ones that appeared in my socials on the walk over. There are plenty to choose from. Some are poorly spelled walls of text, racist slurs in prominent capital letters. Others show more effort, videos with my face replaced on a woman being beaten, a woman being hung, a woman being raped. The scariest are short, measured phrases, a list of things to be done to me, along with former addresses I lived at. Kiro waves them off.
“They don’t mean that. It’s just talk online. Everyone’s free to talk.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kiro. It’s not freedom of speech, it’s the gummies forcing me to listen. Women can be jailed if we don’t read through messages in an ‘appropriately timely fashion,’ which is insane, but there you have it. You get to block people who say things you don’t like, because you’re a guy. Lucky you. I have to drown in their hate, and it’s horrible. It’s not like I can leave the ’Net, now, is it? No one can. It’s impossible to make a living without being online. Hell, it’s impossible to survive without being online. Not unless you know some magic way to make free water appear out of thin air. And don’t say rain, because the gummies charge credits for that too.”
A door in the back slams open and a torrent of angry Cantonese spills out, interrupting whatever Kiro was going to say. A young man with dreadlocks and light brown skin ambles through, screaming a parting insult behind him before the door closes. He walks over to the counter, surplus tacvest with its many pockets baggy on his slight frame, and I smile at him, my mood lightening fractionally. At the electric range, Johnny continues juggling his woks, stirring and tossing noodles like he has a pair of extra arms.
“Sup, Jase. Quite an entrance. Another satisfied costumer?”
“Hey, Ash. I tell you, these slantdick scriptkiddy cipherbrains don’t listen for shit. I told them, quite clearly, in small words, with an illustrated diagram, not to interface the board I gave them with an unsecured line. Naturally, they completely ignored everything I said, and got pissed when it exploded. Then they had the nerve to come and demand a refund, like I didn’t just save their asses from a spook drone squad knocking down their doors in the middle of the night.”
“Fucking scriptkiddies.”
“You said it. Nice job on that dragon, by the way. Won me close to a hundred.”
He pulls a microfiber cloth from one of his pockets, thin black mesh hapgloves looking like gothwear, and wipes the metal surface of the counter down in economical sweeps. Once I can see my reflection in it, he flips the rag over his shoulder and grabs a couple bowls from below, setting them in front of us.
“Hey, Kiro, big man, why so down? Your biceps shrink from that lava? Or was it from watching your big sis save your ass on a featured stream?”
Kiro scuffs his feet against the counter wall and ducks his head, cheeks flushing. I tilt my head at him, still seething over our earlier conversation, angry he can’t empathize with my situation.
“He’s sulking because he’s dumb. He thinks the lights don’t work here because you don’t know how to fix them.”
Jase laughs and places a pair of chopsticks next to each bowl, scratchy recyclable napkin shielding splintered bits of recycled plywood from the spotless counter.
“Big man, we need to have us a talk one of these days. Get you educated on the real, away from the Game, teach you how to deal with the physical.”
“That’s what I was telling him, but he obviously doesn’t want to listen to his big sister about anything. Not about women, not about grayhats, and especially not about history. No one wants to listen about history anymore.”
“…Doesn’t matter.” Kiro’s voice is low, angry.
“Doesn’t matter?” Jase feigns shock, and reaches back to grab one of the woks from the stove without looking, Johnny moving fluidly around him. Another wok instantly takes its place. “Big man, don’t get me wrong, the ’Nets are important, but the real is the only thing that matters. Can’t eat virtual food.” He dumps half the noodles on my plate, half on Kiro’s. Steam rises to the ceiling vent, garlic and broccoli and printed protein mixing together into olfactory bliss. I inhale deeply, then start shoveling noodles into my mouth.
“Mmmph. Thish ish great, Johnny.”
A brief thumbs-up flashes within the ballet of woks. Kiro stares at his noodles, poking at them listlessly with his chopsticks.
“But we are free. We have the Game. We have hap. We can do whatever we want.”
Jase’s eyes widen.
“C’mon, big guy, that’s seriously all you care about? Bread and circuses, just like the rest of the clowns? You don’t see how messed up this all is? How far we’ve fallen, out here in the real, dancing for the tentmasters? Sure, your subs pay for your hap, if you’re good enough, but meanwhile everything out here keeps falling apart, and no one’s fixing it. Freedom ain’t free when it comes with a whip and chains.”
“I just wanna play, man. The Game has everything. It’s better in there.”
“Sheeeeeit. And here I thought you were supposed to grow smarter when you got older. Ash, you sure you two are related?”
“Yeah,” I say around a mouthful of noodles. “No doubt about it. He’s an idiot, but he’s still my baby brother. Had to change his diapers myself.”