Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [85]
'We could have eaten that,' says Kendrasweet, as I pull her away from the kid and down the street.
'Least of our problems.'
'Toby. I'm hungry. If I don't get something to eat–'
'Then what, buttercup? You might get hunger pangs in your tummy?'
'I'm hypoglycaemic, you asshole.'
'Oooh, so you're gonna faint on me?' She punches me in the chest. It's not a playful punch.
'Don't be an asshole.'
'Cos if you did, I don't know if I'd have the strength to pick you up and carry you. I mean, maybe you want to go back for that banana. You could scrape the leftovers off the pavement.'
She is near tears. I check off all the signs: her complexion gone blotchy, the liquid shine in her eyes. I hock another thick loogey of phlegm onto the pavement.
'Tell you what, baby girl, I got it all worked out. But I'm going to need you to take one for the team.'
'Toby, stop it. This is serious.'
'And I'm deadly serious.'
'You shouldn't spit. You don't know that it's not contagious.'
'You think I give a shit about these people?' I tuck her under my arm, crushing her up against me, aggressive, so I can feel the expansion of her ribcage as she grunts in surprise. I hope it leaves a big fucking bruise, but what would be the use, her nano would just clean it up, the same way it's sopped up the virus, like that bacteria that eats oil spills.
'I hope all these fuckers get it. They deserve it. And you know, I don't know why the fuck you give a shit either.' She squirms away, furious.
'It's not my fault.'
'Hey. Hey, I'm not holding it against you, sweetness.' I kiss her nose. 'Chin up, okay? We'll get you something to eat just as soon as. But first we need to get connected. We need help. You agree.'
'Yes,' she says, her face stormy-petulant.
'So we're gonna walk into that internet caff over there, and I'm gonna have a little chat with the guy behind the counter, and then you're going to offer to suck him off in exchange for some time online.'
'Jesus, Toby.'
'Or maybe he'll settle for a handjob.'
Her cheeks are flushed with outrage or humiliation. It's a good look for her.
'Although, you know, your technique could use some work. Speaking from personal experience.'
But I've gone too far. Something changes the channel on her expression. I wish my BabyStrange was still functional, cos it would have been great to capture the transition, kids: the twitch of muscles, that morphing of her expression from shock-wounded to contempt.
'Fuck you, Toby.'
'Ooh ouch. Like no one's ever said that to me before.' I stagger back a step, clutching at my chest, but she is already walking away, too fast, her shoulders as tight as if she'd been strapped to a coat hanger. Which makes me think of how those skinny blades jutted as she arched her back against me. 'And besides, you already did, sweetheart!' I shout after her, so that several of the pedestrians cock their heads in our direction. 'Remember?!' She doesn't turn around.
The shouting rasps in my throat and segues seamlessly into a racking cough as my body works overtime to eject what amounts to a thumbnail of sputum that blends into the street along with the pigeon shit and gunk. Hardly seems worth the effort.
Inside the caff, its windows dimmed to cut the glare on the screens, I dump the BabyStrange on the counter, which is still damp with the residue of cleaning wipes. Under normal circumstances, this would make me cringe in anticipation of the cost of dry-cleaning, which doesn't come cheap on wired fabrics. But I would hardly describe today as normal. 'Hey man, I'm going to cut to the chase. How many minutes can I get for this?'
The guy behind the counter is trying for too trendy for his age, with sideburns razored in sharp isosceles,