President Ellis cleared his throat. On the other end of the line, the university football game he was watching on his 4D-Interact MAXDEF TV with stadium surround sound had been muted—his alma mater was playing. Ellis reclined in his mahogany leather-upholstered chair as far back as the seat would go. He swept his fingers backwards through his full head of chestnut blonde hair—regenerated hair, lab-crafted from a follicle of his teenage son’s and grafted onto his underpopulated scalp in a one-time surgery that guaranteed a lush landscape of locks for life.
His video feed for the call was switched off. Waterman saw only an image of the official seal of the President of the United States. An aggressive-looking bald eagle behind a silly-looking shield in the colours of the American flag.
“Terrible. Terrible what’s happening over there, Waterman. If there’s anything we can do,” President Ellis said.
“There certainly is,” Waterman answered, not bothering to mince words. “Send emergency supplies, water and non-perishables. Send reinforcements immediately. We’re going to stop these terrorists with brute force, take a page directly from the American handbook. We will not tolerate terrorism. Their university-dropout hacker technology will not stand in the face of our armed forces.”
“I’m sure it won’t. Just terrible what’s happening,” Ellis repeated, holding in a cheer as his team scored. Hologrammed players ran past him in line, slapping his outstretched palm with high-fives.
“How soon can you get here?” asked Waterman.
“Well, Harold, the thing is, as you know, we’re treading water post-economic collapse here. We’re barely staying afloat. The unemployment rate just passed eighteen percent—we ourselves are reliant on goddamn Mexico for almost all our food. Our military’s powerful, sure, everyone wants a piece of us, but we’ve got to think about defense first and foremost. Hell, the same thing that happened to you could happen to us, probably some basement-dwelling techhead has already bought or been handed the technology. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up being the real target. You guys were probably just a test run.”
Prime Minister Waterman gritted his teeth as the colour drained from his cheeks. “So, it’s look out for number one then, is it?”
“I wish it weren’t so, I really do. America simply can’t afford to come to anyone’s aid right now. I mean, I know the history, but you know as well as I do that our countries’ ‘special friendship’ has been in name only for a long time. Just don’t tell the kids.”
“They’re not children anymore, I’m afraid,” said Waterman. “They’ve grown up, and they’re very angry.”
“I’ve been prayin’ for ya. So has my wife. We’re all praying for England over here.”
“Then God help us all,” the Prime Minister said. He touched End on his console. His brow furrowed intensely but his hands did not shake. He would not waste any more time. There were other important calls to make.
Kit bit nervously at her thumbnail as she waited in the alley behind the club, checking her cleverband for texts.
“C’mon, Sailor. Where are you?” Her breath ghosted puffs in the deathly cold London night.
As if he’d heard, her cleverband vibrated and the text indicator lit up.
It’s a madhouse! I’m inside already, the message read.
Kit grinned crookedly, leaning back against the wall. She tapped the heel of her boot against the brick, feeling the thump-thump pulse of the music through its layers, the war cry bass and the thundering kick drum that was too loud even for her. She edged towards the door, running her fingers along the exposed brick.
She knew Saint Fox had been missing his little friend lately. She’d taken it upon herself to find Sailor and try to remedy the situation. It seemed like everything Sam did lately was forced, like he was Sim Sam, puppeteering himself from some remote location. He needed someone, that much was obvious, and if it couldn’t be her, it didn’t matter. It might as well be anyone, as long as it delayed him doing something stupid in a drug-induced haze. So when Sailor texted her tonight asking what she was up to, she’d put down her guitar and put on her dancing shoes.
The club was called Visionairee. She peeked inside, taking in the electric blue lighting, the soft, gauzy white fabric strewn across the ceiling, the black and white posters of famous revolutionaries and cult heroes—Che Guevara, MLK Jr., Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Gloria Steinem, Phoolan Devi.
A large-scale poster of Saint Fox, in a very James Dean-esque pose, was positioned near the front of the club.
Thwack! A dart landed on the poster of Sam, inches away from his crotch.
“Almost hit a bullseye there, ‘ey love?” Sailor, clad head to toe in white leather, sauntered towards her with oversized drink in hand, no doubt something disgustingly sweet, she noted, as she caught sight of at least six rainbow-coloured cherries drowning in the bright purple liquid.
“‘Ello, Sailor,” Kit greeted him, lifting her chin. “So what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?”
“Thought this’d be your scene,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Thought that photograph of Patty Hearst over there with her big gun was you for a second.”
“There is a resemblance,” Kit said, smiling.
They made their way over to a more sparsely populated area of the bar where people could actually hear what their mates were saying. Sailor hopped up on the barstool, his trousers squeaking against the leather cushion. A wubwoof remix of “Neon Angels on the Road to Ruin” bled in bells and whistles across the soundsystem.
“So. How is he?” Sailor picked a blue-coloured cherry stem from his drink, tying it into a knot with his tongue before chewing it into a stringy pulp.
“Not great. Think he misses you. He...I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she finished. It was the truth. Though having convinced the masses he was a rock star revolution hero, it seemed he was faltering in the wake of everything they’d worked for coming to fruition.
“He’s drinking more, ain’t he?” Sailor took a sip from the sugary violet monstrosity that was his drink and winced. “He should try this, would put him off alcohol for at least three days.”
The bartender set a gin and tonic down in front of Kit.
“Cheers,” she said, lifting her index finger, ready to swipe.
The bartender simply raised a tattooed eyebrow.
“Oh. Oh, how stupid of me. Hold on.” She lifted her cleverband. “GiveNGet,” she spoke into it.
“First drinks are on the house tonight. After that, we’re a GGcoin-only establishment.”
“Of course,” Kit said, feeling foolish. “Sorry.”
“No worries, love. Drink up.” He slapped his large palm down on the bar next to her drink, smiling a black-toothed grin before walking away.
“Easy mistake,” said Sailor, leaning forward against the bar. “Instinct. We’re all doing it.”
“Yeah, but I of all people should know better,” Kit said, running the thumb of her other hand over the Dot and wondering if surgical removal really was as painless as everyone said. “How’d this place get up and running again so fast?”
“Independent. Did you not see the posters?” he teased. “Markus owns this place, the big guy with the black teeth who just served your drink. Don’t got ties to no big corp or nothing. Keep what they make, except for taxes. Now, they keep what they make.”
“It almost seems too easy,” she said.
“Yeah, for now, until they come after us with bulletproof metal hounds and start ripping our faces off.”
Kit laughed, raising her glass for a toast. As the clink of glasses dissolved into the strains of whatever Post4-punk song was playing, she wondered how long it would actually be before the dogs arrived.
“You should talk to him,” she said. “Maybe he’d clean up his act a bit if you guys patched up whatever’s gone wrong between you.” She paused, taking a sip of her drink. “Actually, what has gone wrong between you? I don’t even know
.”
“Doubt you wanna hear it. But if you must know, he broke my heart a little.”
“Think that’s kind of his M.O.,” she said quietly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Why’d you wanna talk to me about it?”
“Don’t know,” Sailor said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Was drunk. You’re nice. You don’t bullshit. My cleverband thought your name sounded like ‘cab’.”
Kit let out an uninhibited laugh, which proved to be contagious. The laughter between them died down and was followed by a comfortable silence. A K-pop cover of Ani DiFranco’s “32 Flavors” played, barely audible Minnie Mouse vocals strung between tin can drum snaps.
“Well, I’d better be going,” she said. “Can I tell Sam you said hi?”
“Depends. When you gonna see him next?”
“Tomorrow. Band practice.”
“That still happening? Thought the band was just for the revolution.”
“I don’t know,” she said, smiling with her eyes, “if we stop playing, they might stop revolting.”
“Tell him whatever you want. Or you could tell him the truth, that I said he’s an arsefaced twat, and I’m stopping by the flat later to get the rest of my stuff.”
“I’ll tell him the second half of that, though he won’t be there. He’s hiding out at Jeeves’.” Kit hopped off the barstool. “Now, don’t drink too many of those, or eat too many of these.” She picked up a bright orange maraschino cherry, popping it in her mouth.
“Oi! Markus says if I eat enough of those I’ll turn into a princess,” Sailor protested.
“You already are one, my dear. The prettiest princess I ever knew.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here, go on with your bad self and make love to your fiddle.”
“Best lover I ever had,” she said, blowing him a kiss. With a flurry of black skirts and blacker hair, she was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
GOOD LOVE IS HARD TO FIND
Sam walked down Brixton Road, past a graffitied wall that read, YOU BUY, YOU DIE, in rough, red lettering. Another one in green further down the street read TAKEBACK. He saw signs of the usual rebel chaos—overturned rubbish bins, petty vandalism, cherry bombs thrown through broken shop windows. The work of the kids. They were the first to use the cryptocurrency, started trading it amongst one another for decals and patches with GiveNGet printed on them, for blocks of code and gear, motherboards, circuits, amplifiers and synthesisers, for packs of ramen and bottles of Lucozade.
He’d heard through the grapevine that the new system was working on a larger scale, that many businesses had taken to it with surprisingly little provocation. Everyone seemed to be on board.
Around the next corner, a look from two kids smoking cigs against a dirty wall said recognition to Sam. He thought he saw them gesture to him, stand up from the wall, and make their way towards him.
He put on his sunglasses and broke into a run, however short-lived—his endurance was shot from drugs and lack of sleep. He’d taken to chopping up his pills and snorting them; it felt godawful but it got them into his bloodstream faster. A half-hour fully aware and waiting was too much.
He needed to get out. Away from bloody England. He halted his run, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath.
Were the authorities looking for him? Were airlines accepting GGcoin? What was happening on a global scale? Surely there had been widespread panic at the Exchange, on Wall Street, the entire bloody interconnected web of fuckery. What were they all doing right about now?
Probably covering their asses with their own imaginary currency, he thought. Type in a number and it’s real.
Where would I go if I could? he wondered. I’d go to an island, to Fiji. No one will look for me there. I’ll lay in the sun all day and eat lots of fish and bananas. I’ll get clean and I won’t even notice because there will be no reason to get high—no pressure, no wondering if I’m gonna get arrested around the next damn corner, no eager young faces staring at me like I have all the answers, waiting for me to give them a sign.
Saint Fuckin’ Fox, fine and dandy. Left his heart in a bowl of candy. Was a total blam blam, didn’t give a damn, he fucked off to an island, watched everyone drown in the sand.
Sam composed his final Saint Fox and The Independence song in his head. It would end with a whirling guitar solo by Kit, the notes spiraling down, down, down into a frenzied abyss, the lights cutting out on the final note, the audience left in darkness.
Kit. He wondered if she would go to Fiji with him.
Nah, she wouldn’t, he figured. She’s a true revolutionary, wants to see this thing through, I bet.
Left my heart in a rusty tin can, did it all just to prove I’m a man. When all’s said and done, I do what I can. Just like anyone. Just like any man.
Do what you want Foxy, don’t make a sound. Do what you want, get out of town.
International trade was shot. Nothing coming in, nothing going out. Automobile enthusiasts were positively suicidal, driving their Maseratis off the nearest cliff, no doubt.
They were cut off. For many it was business as usual, for others it was a total disaster.
Lucas Norcoford of Primary Illusion Industries had twenty-two billion pounds tucked away in foreign banks that he currently could not access. To acquire his favourite kosher foods he’d sent out various assistants to the shops—some took the risk of using the Dot, others used GGcoin, both currencies in circulation at different levels. Ma and pa shops began accepting GGcoin seemingly overnight, several medium-sized businesses were hybrids for the time being, larger stores like Tesco were still on the old system, or shut down in many areas as they tried to figure out a solution. Signs popped up in shop windows—“GGcoin Only,” “Still Open – Virus Free,” “Open: Buy at Your Own Risk. No Liability.”
Either way, any purchase these days was paid for in faith.
Lucas Norcoford himself had utilised the Dot just last week to purchase a pack of Stop Smoke nicotine pins. Running out of them was not an option. He needed at least four of the damn things poking into his skin for them to have even the slightest affect.
His assistant Tom had acquired the GiveNGet app and showed him how it worked. Norcoford was not impressed. What was he supposed to do with 10,000 units of imaginary currency? He had been on the phone for five days straight, demands growing hotter and hotter, words like outrageous, unacceptable, lawsuit, falling from his lips, while a maddeningly calm voice on the other end of the line told him Just taking necessary precautions, I’m sure this is only temporary. The money is safe—just on hold.
Foreign banks, foreign corporations, the United States—all seemed to be under the impression that the British pound was currently worthless. After all, it stood to reason that whether a London merchant attempted to transfer pennies or millions, he could not do so without risking infection.
Rage sat in Lucas’s gut like a stone, his blood pressure rising by the minute. Today he had inserted six nicotine pins at recommended acupuncture points with help from Cindy, his personal wellness therapist—two in his temples, two in his feet, two at the intersection between neck and shoulders. The ones positioned there left him unable to move his arms.
“Cindy!” He yelled for her over the com system.
She appeared as summoned, dressed head to toe in yellow-green linen—the colour chosen to promote the most soothing aura to Mr. Norcoford’s psyche, as was the colour of her hair, dyed a greenish blonde, just three shades darker than her uniform and cut in a loose, asymmetrical bob.
“Yes, Mr. Norcoford? What’s it you need, love?”
“A fucking twenty-two billion GGcoin, apparently,” he said. “Like I worked this hard for nothing. Who do these radical morons think they are?” He gritted his teeth, grinding down hard enough to do damage to his nano-diamond bridgework. “Other than that, take these goddamn pins out, I can barely move.”
“Of course. I’m sorry they aren’t working out fo
r you, would you like them in another location?” The scrub-style shirt on her was loose-fitting, and as she leaned over him, Norcoford was sorry to discover she’d worn a bra today, flesh-coloured and unexciting. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Stick ‘em in the back of my left hand,” he said. “Only use the right one anyway. Then find Michelle, tell her I need to see her.” Michelle was his personal assistant, and she knew how to dress, skirts in either black or red with a tight fit that showed off her ass. She had this one little red miniskirt in animal-friendly leather that practically made him weep when she bent over. He kept his filing cabinets low, filled with obsolete duplicate paper copies of everything.
“That’ll do ya,” Cindy said. “Your hands feel a little dry. Want me to rub some of that Vitamin X cream on them?”
“Later,” Norcoford said. “Go get Michelle.”
Cindy exited the spacious office, replaced only moments later by Michelle.
“You rang?” she asked, her hands on her hips and a knowing grin on her lips. Her ruby hair fell in loose waves across her face, only half of it her own, and her black dress clung to her figure like paint.
“Hey, baby,” he said, running a sweaty hand along his designer-clad thigh. “You’ve gotta do a better job organizing these contacts, I couldn’t find my own mother in them.” He gestured through the projected dashboard—17K-pixel SO-LED resolution and ninety inches wide, dancing on thin air above his cordovan cherry-stained desk.
“Oh, Norc, I’ve explained it a dozen times. It’s all very simple.” She walked over to stand between him and the display, leaning forward. “You touch here, wave to the left, then slide down here for alphabetical. You want categories? Wave twice to the left and slide your hand down.”
Norcoford smirked, his small eyes narrowing. “Touch here,” he repeated, placing his large palm against her waist, “and slide my hand where again, exactly?”
“You know where,” she said, leaning forward to give him a better view as he thoroughly groped her ass.
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 15