Moxyland

Toby

I’m stoked with my stash, kids: new illicit phone that’s immune to defusings and capable of reading illegal downloads (let’s try not to spread that around too much), and a spiffing VIMbot to restore my swivel to the state of superclean it hasn’t seen since my old lady first picked it out of the catalogue. Not that I’ve ever been especially bothered about fighting the good fight against creeping entropy, but it’ll make for a change.

I spill the VIMbot out of my pack onto the bed and it goes zooting between my Pumas, breaking for the corridor and nearly gets away. Luckily the door has already started to rotate away. A lot of people don’t like this whole cog system of floors, the entire building like a gyroscope in perpetual motion, but, hey, it saves space on doors and it just saved my VIMbot from bolting.

The little fucker just misses the gap and thwacks off the wall, tipping itself over and lying with its legs twitching frantically, a fantastic dirty sound emanating from its inner devicings. If a robot could grind its teeth, assuming they had teeth, that’s what it would sound like. It’s the kind of sound that’s eminently sampleable.

I like to mix it up eclectic, got over 150,000 songs on my phone, ready to download to the decks and about nine and a half thou records in the mix. Everything from spectro to new bliss jazz, and some oldtime stuff too. And my brand spanking handset will double that capacity, now I’m free to loot and plunder without the digital rights malware blowing up in my face.

I set the VIMbot down on the kitchen counter, holding it down with one hand, and sample that deliciously awful sound directly to my phone. I can already hear the track unfolding in my head, with that metallic teethedge in the backbeat.

I play around with that for a while, thinking about how I really like sweet-K, and what a bad sign that is. The last person I was this interested in was Tamarin, and she was psycho deluxe, especially when she bust me and Nokulelo together. But what was she expecting when I was still with Jenna when we hooked up? Forget the rational; they always think they can change you. Rearrange the furniture. What is it with that?

If I’m going to do this Kendra thing properly, I’m going to have to upgrade my gear. The way I’m figuring it, fuck Boing Boing, I’m gonna syndicate this straight to CNN or Sky News, then hit up some funding to do a proper documentary or a feature, and land a sweet deal on a major cast channel. MicrosoftTimeWarner or Al Jazeera.

I’m going to need a decent mic, a broadcastquality lens, and to stock up on extra memory – and the fridge while I’m at it. It’s glaringly empty, like my bank balance, which is already looking unhealthy deluxe, even with Lerato’s loan. My mother doesn’t realise how much maintenance my accustomed lifestyle chows up. She would have to cut me off mid-month. Cunt.

So it’s off to hook up with Unathi and make some quick cash-in-phone. When I finally make it through the traffic, it takes me another halfhour to find his dockside squat among the derelict buildings. It’s borderline illegal, mainly because of the health hazard he and his slumfriends pose, but at least they’re not drug dealers or human traffickers or anti-corporate terrorists, which are all the cops really care about. Occasionally, they’ll get harassed, mainly for tapping into the grid and using juice they’re not paying for, and they’ve had to move twice already in the last six months, but it’s all par for the lifestyle, kids. Take note before you consider a career in the lucrative but feckless world of underground game-dealing.

A shaven-headed someone, so nondescript I can’t distinguish if it’s guy or girl, opens the door without so much as a heita, then vanishes into the maze of backrooms which smell of burnt rice and that heavy sour smell of humanity that hasn’t had access to running water for a while.

Unathi doesn’t bother to surface from the sagging wallow of the couch, which is the only furniture in the room, apart from a deflated beanbag and the scramble of consoles and wiring and six different screens blaring a mash of content into the lounge, providing the only light. He’s wearing the same leopard-print vest I saw him in last time, which was at some LAN party, but when I rib him about not having any other clothes, he claims it’s just cos he’s got three of them. He’s also shaved his head, so between him and the androgynous thing at the door, it’s beginning to look like a real cult around here.

‘I don’t know, man. When was the last time you played?’ he hedges, fiddling with the frayed tassle of the shweshwe throw that has solidified from unidentified spillage like a topographical map.

‘Cut the sceptical, man. You know I can handle it.’ The truth, kids, is that I can’t remember. ‘I’ve been busy, man. Diary of Cunt takes up most of my day. Have you checked it?’

‘No.’

‘And I’ve been working the decks, sampled a VIMbot earlier, which was mental.’ I half raise my phone to transfuse him a copy of the Replica invite, but he’s not keen. Never one for the social. ‘And girls,’ I add, cos I can’t resist the dig at him nesting in this shithole, pre-demolition, twentyfour/seven by seven, getting it on only in Pluslife. ‘Uh-huh. Maybe you could bring ’em round some time. Get me a piece of your pie. For once.’

‘Sure, man. I’ll do that.’ And this is a lie deluxe and we both know it. Although at least it resolves the gender question of the nondescript baldy.

‘Yeah, that’d be kif.’

‘Kif like a spliff.’

‘Want one?’

He tosses me a baggie of sugar, A-grade, and isn’t it always the way that someone who never even fucking leaves the house should score the premium? I start rolling while he plugs into my data.

‘You’re way outdated.’

‘So?’

‘My clients won’t dig that.’

‘If I can get the shit, who cares about my track?’

‘It’s real competitive, Tobias. Real lucrative.’

I don’t say anything. Lick the ends of the paper to fuse ’em together, which is a waste of effort when the paper’s self-adherent, but fuck it. I light up, take a toke, and pass it on. Unathi takes a deep hit and shows no sign of passing it back.

‘How about we start you off easy?’

‘Whatever.’

‘There’s a new weapon in Nemesis Redux that everyone’s after, but I doubt you’re up for that right now. Doesn’t look like you played it before either.’

‘Fuck you. I can handle.’

‘Uh-huh. How about Kiwi Pop?’

‘What, the kid’s game?’

‘You’d be surprised how many parentals want to indulge their kiddies’ every heart’s desire. It’s war out there, ‘specially in virtual mutacute land.’

‘Isn’t there an age protection plugged in? Precisely to stop people like me from amokking among the kiddies?’

‘Yeah, but I got a hack. Like candy, baby. How could you resist?’

‘Exactly. I just wouldn’t feel right.’

‘Coming over all moral? Spare me.’

‘Don’t you have anything else?’

‘How do you feel about meatspace? There are some interesting ARGs happening at the moment.’

‘Alt reality? I don’t know. Do I have to dress up?’

‘You’d look so cute with pointy ears. Or fangs.’ He wiggles his fingers in front of his mouth all nosferatu.

‘Not a chance.’

‘Okay, okay. There’s a new title, just hit the market a couple of months ago. Scorpions Elite?’

‘What’s the concept?’

‘Pseudo-cop shit. Mix of gamespace and meat. In game, it’s busting heads, fragging bad guys, typical shooter. Real world is mainly detective work online, collaborating with wikis to solve clues, but also field action, shaking down informants kinda thing. It’s quite kif, cos it’s not only game employees, it’s other players too. It ties into FallenCity Underworld, so you have other people playing bad guys. Oh yeah – and some gun battles in publisher-approved location. Although it might be too complex for you. Bit rof when you’ve been off the circuit so long.’

‘Piss off, Unathi.’

‘Yeah, I think we’ll kick you off gently. Till you get a feel for it again. Here’s your user ID.’ He flips me a game token marked with Kiwi Pop’s mascot, a pink and yellow dino-beastie thing with a toothsome grin and beady black eyes that goes by the name of Moxy. I only know this from too many afternoons spaced out with kiddies’ TV.

‘I got an order for a purple Blinka Stinka. It’s worth two-eight. That’s fourteen hundred to you. And yes, that means I’m taking 50%. It’s a sliding scale. The rates will get better if you do.’

‘I gotta tell you, Unathi, if I wanted to get fucked, I would have stayed in bed.’

‘Yeah, screw you, Tobe. Purple, okay? Any other colour is not gonna cut it. It’s somewhere on North Island, level six. Apparently. Shouldn’t take you longer than a couple of hours.’

‘Easy. But let’s ask Moxy, shall we?’ I flip the game token into the air and slap it down onto the back of my hand, heads or tails, Moxy or the game-co logo. I peel back my fingers, take a peek. The little dinosaur fucker grins up at me.

‘I’m going to take that as a good sign.’