power network of the ISU.
We had an alliance with the Soldiers of Gaia, an eco-survivalist movement who also opposed Corporate. We had a…falling out after they found some of our cadres cooking an endangered species of hare, but it was the bush, what were we supposed to do? They executed them mafia-style. It turned into a war. We only found out later it was a set-up. The ISU killed our guys and made it look like the Soldiers. We took the bait.
Like Drew will. How could he resist. I shut down the streamcast. It will be enough to link him to his brother, to bring everything tumbling down.
Drew
'Homemade bio-fuel, larnie,' the cabbie says, smiling apologetically through missing front teeth. The old car splutters and jerks as he edges it into the stream of traffic, hooting as a cavalcade of black vehicles flashing blue lights roar past us
We pass the decaying Greenpoint soccer stadium. It looks like the skeleton of a giant spider squatting on the tar, the WELCOME 2010 decals faded but the plastic veneer of the grinning official mascot is still surprisingly bright. I wonder how anybody could have ever thought it was cute. It's a demon, a tokoloshe that grinned maniacally over the lean and brutal years that followed the World Cup.
We make our way slowly through the traffic toward the towers of Waterfront City. The contrast between it and the surrounding area is stark. Lush vegetation rises up from the gleaming glass towers.
I'm ushered in to see the doctor, a large man with soft, jowly face. 'That's a Stone,' I say gesturing at the large oil painting behind his desk of a mushroom cloud over Cape Town. I know from the art magazines my parents collected that it was called 'The Spill', even though the real thing it hadn't been like that at all. There had been fires, sure, but not like that, more like a progressive poisoning of the land with radiation.
I thought it was garish, typical of Stone, the egocentric young African artist that had wowed the world, reaching superstar status before chaining herself to the body of an Aids victim in an unknown location and starving herself to death. She had documented it by webcam as her last work and her final minutes were still one of the most watched clips ever. You could buy t-shirts with her emaciated face on them at Greenmakt Square.
He motions for me to lie down on his examining table as he consults my record on the medical database. I lie still as a hovering machine scans my brain from different angles. The doctor keeps up a subdued banter through the flashes, but I hardly hear what he says.
We wait in silence for the results to appear on his desk console. 'Mr. Ibrahim, there's no easy way to say this,' he says finally. 'You have a severe form of epilepsy that has been improperly treated.' He pauses to gauge my reaction. 'Your episodes, as you call them, have caused lesions to form on the brain.'
I nod and he continues.
'No patented medicine exists to treat this,' he says. The world contracts to a tiny point in front of my eyes. I think of Kara and the children we'll never have. I know in that moment that if I can't be helped then I'm going to leave her. To give her a chance at the life she wants. And before she leaves me.
'Wait,' the doctor says. 'There is an option. Lodafril. It's not patented. I don't have to tell you what that means.' He watches me carefully for a reaction. I don't blame him. Offer black makt meds to the wrong person and you'd end up in a labour camp, even if you're a Citizen.
'Does it have a chance of working?' I ask. He pauses for a moment then nods. 'Then I want it.'
He taps his console and my phone buzzes. I look at the screen of my phone. It displays an access card with the name KADEN on it. 'It's a username for a game' he says.
He gives me directions to the Kraal, a bar on the outskirts of Salt River, making me repeat them to make sure I have them. 'Ask to use the White Room,' he says as he leads me to the door. I nod, but he catches my eye. 'It has to be the White Room. You can't reach Kaden any other way.'
I exit Waterfront City and walk until I hit a Congolese internet cafe called the Rat Tunnels. The atmosphere is humid and the sounds of French and Portuguese come from businessmen engaged in video chats.
I call Matt. And not only because he was a med student before he joined the cause. He looks tense, like he's looking for a reason to disconnect.
But the moment I say the word 'Lofadril' the connection cuts off. The proprietor strides across the room and looms over me.
His hands are tattooed with badly-rendered holographic ink that glitches as it shows violent sexual scenes; prison tattoos.
'What you doing, eh? he asks.
'I was just chatting,' I start, but he cuts me off.
'You used a banned phrase. If ISU picks it up, they're gonna disconnect me. How I'm gonna live then?'
'I just need to-'
'No, you need to leave,' he says.
It's not a request.
The Kraal turns out to be a grungy games arcade and strip club. One corner is dedicated to kids jacked into VR units; the slick grey pods that have become more commonplace than slot machines. Sickness and rising petrol and food prices have sent people from reality in their droves. 'Your mind can hardly tell the difference,' a faded sticker proclaims.
There's a screen in the corner showing a news report about the Left Hand of Allah, the Somalian jihadist group that had absorbed Yemenite and Pakistani terrorist cells after they had finally been pushed out of the Middle East.
The barman, a bearded, rough-looking Afrikaans guy, is watching it. 'There's going to be a major war in Africa soon, you mark my words,' he says as I walk up to the bar. 'I hear they're offering heroin money to recruits.'
'Heroin too,' I say.
'Let's hope it makes their little child soldiers slow on the trigger,' he says laughing. 'Are you drinking?'
'A single Harm's Way,' I say. It's the only drink I really know – a cheap local whisky, an offshoot of the biofuel industry.
I down the potent liquor which burns my throat. 'Games look busy,' I say.
'They are, some of these kidpsychos have started setting up drips so they don't have to leave their little cytopia,' he says. We watch as a kid takes off his VR mask and stands staring at the room trying to focus his eyes. 'Reality must be a real bad comedown.'
I can't think of a way to do it, so I just blurt it out. 'I need the White Room.'
The smile drops off his lips.
'Never heard of it,' he says.
I show him the card on my phone. He grunts and motions for me to follow him. He leads me to a completely white room with a wireless VR unit. '20 minutes,' he says.
I go through the motions of creating an avatar, choosing the Randomise button to select a set of looks and skills and then hit Incarnate. Immediately I'm in a bright square, bustling with avatars.
The place has the feel of a carnival, disjointed and confusing. Lacking a plan, I make my way toward a
