Lavie Tidhar - The Apex Book of World SF 2

“Oh you fucking crazy little shit. What have you done?” Ten was grabbing at her now, tough-like, her swatting at him, pulling away as he tried to get a hold of her sleeve. Jazz was yelling again. “Ease off, Tendeka!” Shouldn’t have wasted her air time. Special-K could look after herself all well now. After those first frantic swats, something levelled. Only to be expected when she’s so fresh. Still adjustin’, like. But you could see it kick in. Sleek, it was. So’s instant she’s flailing about and the next she lunges, catches him under his chin with the heel of her palm. Boy’s head snaps back and at the same time she shoves him hard so’s he falls backwards, knocks over a table on his way. Glass smashing and the bartender’s pissed now. Everyone still, except Rob who laughed once, abrupt.

Girl gave Ten a look. Cocky as a street kid. But wary, it was, too. Not of him, although he was already getting up. Not that she could sustain, like. Battery was running low now. Was already when she first set down her cue. And boy was pissed indeed. But that look, boys and girls, that look was wary, not of him at all. But of herself, like.

Ten was on his feet now, screaming. The plot was lost, boys and girls. The plot was gone. Cut himself on the broken glass. Like paint splats on to the wooden floor. Lunged at Kendra, backing away, hands up, but still with that look. And boy was big. Intent on serious damage, yelling and not hearing his cell bleep first warning then second. Like I said, the plot was gone. Way past its expiry date.

Then predictable; defuser kicked in. Higher voltage than necessary, like, but bartender was pissed. Ten jerked epileptic. Some wasters I know set off their own phone’s defuser, on low settings, like, for those dark an’ hectic beats. Even rhythm can be induced, boys and girls. But it’s not maklik. Have to hack SAPcom to sms the trigger signal to your phone. Worse now since the cops privatised, upgraded the firewalls. That or tweak the hardware and then the shocks could come random. Crisp you KFC.

Me, I defused my defuser. ‘Lectric and lethe don’t mix. Girlfriend in Sea Point pulled the plug one time. Simunye. Cost ten kilos of sugar so’s it don’t come cheap an’ if the tec don’t know what they’re doing, ha, crisp you KFC. Or worse, Disconnect. Off the networks. Solitary confinement, like. Not worth the risk, boys and girls, unless you know the tec is razor.

So, Ten, jerking to imaginary beats. Bartender hit endcall finally and boy collapsed to floor, panting. Jasmine knelt next to him. Ten’s phone still crackling. VIMbots scuttling to clean up blood an’ glass and spilled liquor. Other patrons were turning away now. Game over. Please infra another coin. Kendra stood watching a second, then also turned away, walked up to the bar where I was sitting.

“Cause any more kak like that, girl, an I’ll crisp you, too.” The bartender said as she sat down on the bar stool next to me.

“Oh, please. Like how many dial-ins you got left for the night?” Kendra snapped, but girl was looking almost as strung out as Ten was now.

“Yeah, well don’t make me waste ‘em all on you.”

“Just get me a Sprite, okay?”

Behind her, Jazz and Rob were holdin’ Tendeka up. He made as if to move for the bar, but Jazz pulled him back, wouldn’t let him. Not least cos of the look the bartender shot them. Boy was too fried to stir anyway, but said, loud enough for all to hear, “Sell out.”

“Get the fuck out, kid.” Dismissive the bartender was. Knew there was no fight left.

“Fucking corporate whore!”

“C’mon, Ten. Let’s go.” Jazz was escortin’ him out.

Kendra ignored him. Girl had her Sprite now and downed it in one. Asked for another.

Already you could see it kickin’ in.

“Can I see?” I asked, mock sly-shy.

Kendra shot me a look which I couldn’t figure and then finally slid up her sleeve reluctant, like, revealing the glow tattooed on her wrist.

The bartender clicked his tongue as he set down the drink. “Sponsor baby, huh?”

Sprite logo was emblazoned there, not on her skin, but under it, shining through, with the slogan, “just be it”.

No rinkadink light show, was this. Nanotech she’d signed up for changed the bio-structure of her cells, made ‘em phosphorescent in all the right places. Nothing you couldn’t get done at the local light-tat salon, but corporate sponsorship came with all the extras. Even on lethe, I wasn’t ‘blivious to the ad campaigns on the underway. But Kendra was the first I knew to get Branded, like.

Girl was flying now. Ordered a third Sprite. Brain reacting like she was on some fine-ass bliss, drowning her in endorphins an serotonin, Sprite binding with aminos and the tiny bio-machines hummin’ at work in her veins. Voluntary addiction with benefits. Make her faster, stronger, more co-ordinated. Ninja-slick reflexes. Course, if she’d sold her soul to Coke instead, she’d be sharper, wittier. Coke nano lubes the transmitters. Neurons firing faster, smarter, more productive. All depends on the brand, on your lifestyle of choice and it’s all free if you qualify. Waster like me would never get with the programme, but sweet Kendra, straight up candidate of choice. Apply now, boys and girls, while stocks last. You’ll never afford this high on your own change.

Special K turned to me, on her fourth now, blissed out on the carbonated nutri-sweet and the tech seething in her hot little sponsor baby bod, nodded, “And one for my friend,” to the bartender, like. And who was I to say no?

Hello,” I say to John Lennon. It’s cold in Manhattan. Much colder than I’m used to. Madonna is circling around the streets like a maniac in her brand-new Porsche, the one I gave her just a few minutes earlier.

“Who are you?” John asks.

I introduce myself. “I’m here to save your life,” I tell him.

“What’s this about saving my life?” he replies. John speaks impeccable English. As if he had been born in England. And then I remember: he was born in England.

I explain to him about Mark David Chapman. He is the lunatic. He is the assassin. He is the walrus.

“That’s crazy,” John says. I can almost make out the words as they leave his mouth, like the hook of a great pop song. The one that was never written.

“He’s going to come here and kill you today. Tonight. While we’re talking here, he’s lurking out there. Waiting. Plotting. With a copy of The Catcher in the Rye under his arm.”

John looks at me as if I’m crazy, too. Or like he doesn’t understand English. Or maybe both.

“That’s a good book,” he mutters.

“What?” I say.

“ Catcher in the Rye . Good book. Salinger is a—”

“Listen,” I interrupt him, raising my voice. “This is no time for literary chit-chat. There’s barely time to explain. I’ll just take your place and try to stop Chapman. Kill him if I have to.”

“And you’re going to do all this because …?” he asks.

A set of lyrics flashes into my mind like lightning: Because the world is round it turns me on . But instead I say: “To change the future. To give you a new life, borrowed time. You could have a Beatles reunion in a couple years, new songs for the old fans. Won’t you please…help me? It’ll be just like starting over.”