Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [43]
'You can step off the scale now. You'll be pleased to know everything's fine. The nano has taken hold.'
'You make it sound like I'm possessed.'
Andile laughs. 'Taken hold, babes. Like it's happy in there. Your immune system is convinced the tech is friendly. No more trying to shoot it down. No more sniffly noses or itches. No problems.'
'No meltdown?'
'Tsk.' Dr. Precious really doesn't like my jokes. She doesn't think I'm an appropriate choice for 'The Project'. I know this because I overheard her saying so to Andile as I stepped from the lift. He replied, 'What are you going to do? Flakiness comes with creativity.' Which I kind of resent.
Andile claps his hands together with decisive enthusiasm. 'Well, now that we've got the icky check-up stuff out of the way, we need five more minutes of your very precious time for the doccie. Making history, babes.' Andile ushers me out of his office, down the elevator to the second floor and through the configuration of desks in the agency proper.
It's open-plan, the desks partitioned by gauzy white curtains hung floor-to-ceiling, audio dampeners woven into the fabric for privacy. There are interested looks, a couple of heads popping up like meerkats.
'Just ignore them,' Andile says. 'It's not often they get to see real talent.' There is a snort of disgust from behind a console. 'Back to work, you graft-dodging slacker reprobates!' Andile shouts cheerfully.
The lounge is weighted against the view, suede couches incongruously lumped together with an assortment of beanbags shaped like liquorice candy, pieces I recognise from a design magazine. Slumped on a plump foam sandwich of pink and black candy is a boy, bored, goodlooking and intent on studying the floorboards.
He looks up when we come in, dark hair spiked and swept over his forehead in defiance of the thinning at his temples. Brown pinstripe jacket. White tie. I recognise him from somewhere, maybe from a glimpse of his file on Andile's desk.
Andile seems surprised. 'Damian, china! You haven't interviewed?'
'No. The camera-chick said, like, ten more minutes?' The boy slits his eyes at me, waryfriendly, like a cat.
'Cool, cool. Can I offer you guys some coffee? Tea? Tequila? No, just kidding! Nothing? Okay! Just hang tight, shouldn't be too much longer. Be cool. You're ambassadors now. First generation! I'll just go see how she's coming along.'
I take a seat opposite the boy, Damian. I've realised he's from a new spectro band, Kitten Kill or Killer Kittens, or some other configuration playing off violent acts towards baby animals. The point is that they're bigtime.
Maybe he picks up on it, because the first thing he says to me is, 'So, how'd you get with the program?' As in, you don't look the type.
I play it down. 'I'm a photographer. Fine arts.'
'Oh yeah?' he says, not really interested. 'The rest of the guys are pretty peeved,' he goes on, just assuming I'll know who he's talking about. Unfortunately, I do. 'That they only wanted me, y'know? It's swak, hey. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's awesome, but end of the day, I gotta get up on stage with the rest of the band and perform.'
I smile and nod. He is the obvious choice for the next evolutionary.
'So, you in for the creative exchange? Ah, man, I'm so stoked about getting to play Seoul. I had to look it up on the map. I mean, yeah, okay, New Korea, but where is that actually?'
A woman in chunky jewellery and stiletto boots over her jeans scissors into the lounge, holding a microcam. 'Damian? You're up. I hope you've been thinking up devastatingly smart and interesting things to say. Oh, don't look so nervous. Just be yourself. Recite some lyrics or something.' She winks at me. 'Don't think I'll be too long with this one.' She leads him away between the maze of curtained cubicles, already recording.
'So, what is it that moves you, Dame? What's the one thing about music that grabs you, that hits you right in your gut?'
I slip my Zion out of my bag, having already snuck it past