Softbone, Chapter 1

Estrogen Tyranny

The New Face of Communism

Jakov was digitally naked. His ocular implants fought to maintain operability. His aurals picked up interference from everywhere. The only external tech was his phone whose battery kept growing hotter, desperate for connection to the wireless outside New Kowloon. Heating itself up was its only tool to force its owner to reconnect. It was a junkie for its fix: like phone, like owner.

But New Kowloon was a massive neighborhood under a giant Faraday cage. The AI and maternal overlord, called Fem-Law, couldn’t monitor, control, or soothe here. Connecting wasn’t possible. Here, everything was enforced by tongue or knuckle or pussy or boot.

The man at the gate badgered Jakov.

“Can I help you?” He made eye contact and it was jarring. No one looked each other in the eye anywhere in the Wireless, Amazon’s newest corporate town. The effect was immediate, almost violent. Jake felt as if he had been hit in the head with that man’s lunch pail hands. Jakov looked him in the eye, as much as he could, and mustered an answer.

“Yeah. Excuse me, xir. I’m looking for someone. He said to meet him here.” Jakov felt lightheaded as soon as the words left his mouth. One brief, direct interaction was all it had taken to overwhelm his social programming. His phone was warm in his pocket, and getting warmer.

Jakov’s diaphragm was lagging and his larynx was tight. He had never been very good with talking to other guys. He was a good citizen. He obeyed his wife and he obeyed his phone; both were defacto agents of Fem-Law

But Jakov’s wife was miles away, and his Huawei didn’t vibrate here, ordinarily, it tracked and monitored him religiously, then reported back to base. Any errant heart beats would worry the bio-app which would alert him in its official Karen tone which had replaced a sultrier and more illegal voice from years before. It picked up any language that violated Fem-Law.

But he was now in New Kowloon. No one was listening. No one cared, certainly not the door man.

“You’re in the wrong place to find someone, softbone,” he said. “You best take your mommybox havin’ ass back onto Caitlin Jenner Avenue if you know what’s good for you.” He gestured with his hand that Jakov should run back home. Jakov pretended to ignore it. The only thing worse for him than the fear of getting decked was not knowing if Fatahl understood why he never went back to her.

Dammit, he told himself. Focus! He didn’t know if this man challenging him was a threat or not. But of course he was. Jakov was neurotic. Everyone was a threat. He couldn’t say why, but he felt it instinctively like Ghost whispering in his ear. The doctors convinced him that was over, but his was different. The threat was real and right in front of him.

Jakov watched the man pushing buttons on a flip phone. Real buttons, no touch activated OLED. Jakov hadn’t seen buttons since before he’d picked his gender. He would have been no older than six. Must have been thirty years ago. He mustered the courage to hold his ground,

“What did you just call me? Did you really just say that? Wow.” Jakov immediately regretted the challenge when he noticed that this man didn’t have a single implant. He had his own eyes. Real skin. Even his teeth were real. Who has real teeth?

Jakov was posturing, and he could tell that this man knew it. Pretending to have the kind of confidence his wife had when she berated him for any manufactured slight didn’t work in the Analogue. He stood as tall as he was able. The man took one look and saw through his synthetic bravery. The pause was only seconds but felt longer than an unskippable bathroom ad.

Finally, he smirked. “Oh damn, wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, Mr. Sensitive. Don’t mix up your hormones, softbone. I’m just fucking with ya. I know you’re a Stockholm.”

Jakov felt safer for a moment, then got insolent. “I don’t deserve that. I’m an ally of Disconnected Americans like you—I mean an American of Disconnection. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be offensive.” Jakov was playing by the rules in the Wireless, his home. He didn’t know any other way to flex than than to appeal to the existential threat of Fem-Law. It was all he knew. The man didn’t budge. A brick wall doesn’t feel manufactured shame.

“Fuck is you talking about now? Calm your gyno, brother.”

“Look, xir, uh, man. I’m not trying to mess with you or your turf, your home. I’m just looking to score a little Zyn and some time on the Gopher, maybe a coffee and—”

“And you just thought because I was a cowboy that I’d have them?” Jake got sheepish,

“No, no, that’s not—”

“Softbone, you’re looking for stims? That’s all you had to say. I’m freaking with you. Hope you brought cash like I asked. We don’t do that e-transfer shit here.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Jakov patted his pocket.

“Well then. Follow me, and make sure you got you mommybox airplaned. I don’t need that shit listening in.”

“What do I call you?”

“I’m Sifu Ukuputulwamm. Call me Uku.”

“I’m Jakov. Jakov Luonghaus”

“I know who you are, Jake Lawng. I wanted to make you sweat is all.”

“Wait, you’re the guy from my DMs? Oh, question, that’s twice you mentioned it. What’s a mommybox?” The man looked confused, the way one would look at a child who constantly asked why,

“Your mommybox. Your Hua-wei. Your phone. Softbone, you sure you don’t belong on Jenner Ave?” Jakov couldn’t tell if he was laughing at him, or at the absurdity of civilized society.

They went deeper into the alleyway. A primer colored door on a brick wall opened into a back office. The walls were old gypsum panels covered with white, patterned paper. The man opened a second door of flimsy plywood. No tap-point on the door, no ads, no Bluetooth connection. It just—opened. Jakov followed. The man pointed towards a door on the left. It had a red x painted onto the front. Jakov looked confused. The man waited a beat, got annoyed, then helped Jakov the way one helps a toddler put on clothes.

“You just have to push in here and walk. We don’t have Adsense in the Analogue.”

“So you just do things?”

“You ain’t never experienced lag-free living, have you?”

“Not really. Just stories. This isn’t what I thought it would look like. I was expecting—”

“What? Like we live in the sewer like GMO rats? We ain’t animals just cause we ain’t got mommyboxes tucking us in at night. Best learn it now. Tech works for us in the Analogue, we don’t work for the tech.” Jake made a mental note of everything in his life and saw depth in a statement from a man who would have been cleaning toilets in Jakov’s world, but was running a small fiefdom in his own.

“No, no. That’s not what I meant. I just mean, I wasn’t expecting everything to look so manual and snappy.” The man patted Jakov on the shoulder and laughed. Jakov stumbled, off balance from human touch.

“I’m fucking with you, softbone. I know what you’re saying. You ain’t never seen shit like drywall, or doorknobs n’shit. I’ll bet you’ve never even jerked to real porn, have you? Just jerkin it to six-fingered synth-babes clicking on prompts. Wait till you see the rest of it. The Analogue will blow your fucking mind. Go. There. That door. Just push and walk.”

Jake found Uku was charming once he got past his direct and intimidating exterior. And he was taller than a man was supposed to be. In the Analogue, his parents would have been fined for gene privilege. But they weren’t in the city. Uku himself was evidence of that. He was lean, solid with that dense skeleton like he was made of stone. His voice had some gravel to it. It was deep and calming once you got used to the eye contact. It was almost comical how he dressed in colorful, extravagant clothing. Metal in his teeth, tastefully blackened face, the kind of glasses an intellectual would wear. Hardly the style for a man who looked able to beat Jakov to death on a whim.

“So you were the one I was talking to on the Gopher?”

“Yeah. I’m the recruiter. One of the best and brightest in the import and export e-con-o-me.” He sang it like a jingle from a classic ad for a first-gen door-lock. Uku was working him, but Jakov fed off the energy regardless. Uku sold stims the way a preacher sold homosexuality, only less ominously.

Jakov smiled.“You’re not what I expected either. You’re just so—”

“My bones, right?”

“I didn’t want to say, but yeah.”

“Yeah, Stockholm’s freak about the bones.”

“Is it implants? Drugs?”

“No choice man. Out here you’re just born and that is it. We don’t pick goofy stuff like gender in the Analogue. No hormone therapy. We don’t get vaxxed. No chip to connect to a Huawei giving us cancer. That’s why our women here got no latency and ain’t gonna die in the streets one day because some programmer like you forgot to carry the one on a vax.”

Jakov thought, How did he know I was a programmer?“How did—“ Jakov began, but Uku was still talking. Jakov stopped and waited his turn.

“Not like that androgynous shit that passes for titties in your world. No, you ain’t lived ‘til you’ve been ridden by a New Kowloon woman. I know a few I can introduce you to, unless—” Uku let his statement hang there like a probe until Jakov took the hint.

“I’m married. Gonna be a father soon, actually.”

“Don’t you guys gotta get mommy to okay that?”

“Yeah. She gave me the first five years. After that, we’ll see.” Jakov made a mental note: they don’t pick their gender in the Analogue? Now he had questions.

“How can you say you’re free when you can’t pick the most important part of your identity?” Jakov asked.

“Can’t choose how you’re born. You choose what you do with the life you’re given, and, sometimes, how you die. You’re paying for your first taste of freedom, brother. You have no idea, but you’re gonna be hooked.” Your first hit of freedom was free. Jakov was sucked in by Uku’s confidence, but he just wanted the anxiety to end without having to be doped up on the food, laced with downers, or sugar free Xanax.

The street got worse the further they went. The streets started off pristine, plasticized asphalt, always observant fiber-optic street lamps and mirror balls to assist augmented reality sensors giving way to crumbling brick, oxidized metal, and patinaed wood. Fem-Law may have been a cruel bitch, but she kept a clean house.

Jake asked Uku,

“So what happens if you have a problem?”

“You deal.” Uku’s answer made it worse. Just the thought was like ratcheting a cargo strap across Jakov’s chest. All he felt was squeeze as Uku kept going.

“So, ‘bout the Kowgirls. I’ll hook you up. We keep it discrete too. I know your baby momma ain’t givin’ it up if she’s pregnant. You’ve been without for what, a year abouts? You just keep what I said in mind. We’ll get you comfortable here then we will hook you up after your baby mamma turns into momzilla and threatens Fem-Law on you.” Uku stopped underneath a large glowing sign that read Buckstars Cafe.

He grabbed Jakov by the shoulders and patted him before easing him through the doorway.

Jakov’s felt a sharp prick on his shoulder, like a knife blade. He was worried that Uku was crushing him. Jake couldn’t understand how Uku got those callused hands adorned with metal trinkets. Had he gone so long without human touch that it was painful? Jake didn’t have all day to navel gaze as he stumbled through the doors. They swiveled open and closed before they stilled.

Buckstars was minimal, sparse, yet excessive to his senses. In the Analogue all the SSRI bars were evenly lit. Buckstars was dark. Harsh neon lights in pink and cyan covered the edges of the furniture. It was a hard light that Jakov could not penetrate with his Amazon Ocular set which wasn’t designed for suboptimal light. As he scanned the room his iris closed and turned the room into a black void with sticks of light, or open to a blinding mess. His ears jumped from one conversation to another, unable to focus on what it considered relevant. The invisible mass of people were a confusing ambient static. It was deafening. All Jakov could do was stand there and hope his tech could parse the chaos and give him an idea what to do next.

Jakov took a few steps forward and hoped for the best. He bumped into the table occupied by four Kowboys enjoying a coffee. They were dressed in a mishmash of styles that were not Fem-Law compliant: denim jackets, triangular rice farmer hats, and canvas capris pants. Their faces were adorned in bright red overdone lipstick and shoe police-blackened faces, with only the style of application to tell them apart. One man sported a comically large set of metallic teeth. Metalmouth had his hands in the air, angry that Jakov spilled some of his coffee on the floor. He yelled, his teeth giving his voice a telltale lisp,

“What you doin, softbone? You spilled my damned Americano. I’m gonna jack you till your Ghost starts begging.” His blackfaced friend joined with equal aggression like they were performing for an audience.

“Who is this bitch? Look at them weak ass bones. Softbone, you best apologize. Them shoes should be sufficient.” In the blinding aether, a woman called out in a song-like voice,

“Ay. Leave that man alone. He a payin’ customer. Baby, don’t mind them. Come here. What you lookin’ for?” In the blackened space Jakov could barely make her out. She motioned to the bar. His eyes buzzed in the blinding bar color. She looked like a blurred angel in the halo. “Why are you standing around like that?” Jakov faced the direction where his aurals assumed she was standing and said,

“Modern eyes aren’t built for this harsh lighting. Everytime I move, my eyes adjust by shifting between too bright and too black. Gimme a second.” He abandoned their presets and switched into custom mode. His eyes paused, normally an advertisement would play but they timed out looking for the wireless. His iris was opened wide enough for a puppy dog innocence. He looked at the woman. She was a pale-skinned girl with a fire-red mullet. Her hands were small, dainty, not as feminine as he expected. She had a massive chest that tested the fabric of her shirt, which looked to be actual cotton. He was surprised anyone wore cotton on account of the cost. Jakov tried to look away, but he couldn’t but gaze. It was like his factory default settings were ‘gawk.’ He managed to bring his gaze up to her very visible collarbone.

“Thanks. Those guys were more aggressive than I’m comfortable with. I’ve never even seen someone in blackface before. I thought it was illegal.”

“Totally. That’s why they wear it. It’s his way to ensure they commit to their synth career cause no one hires you once you photograph in blackface.”

“Wait. They make music? They look like criminals.”

“No one cares about racism down here, or-” Jakov was slowly drifted again. She cleared her throat and his oculars snapped back to make eye contact. It was hard, unnatural, but so was staring at her cleavage. “or misogyny.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said.

“No sweat. Doesn’t that buzzing annoy you or make your head lag?”

“You can hear my Oculars?”

“Yeah.”

“They normally don’t. Everything has smart-lighting outside. The light here is all harsh and it’s a multi-step algorithm for them to adjust unless I set them to custom and just wing it.”

“Ah. Guess it takes softbones some getting used to. The Analogue is built to fit us. We aren’t built to fit the Analogue. You wanna get stimmed?”

“Oh, god yeah. Gimme the full meal deal.”

“Nicotine and caffeine, huh? Sure you can handle both?”

She placed a brown pod into the espresso still. The foamy brown liquid ran into a white porcelain cup. The machine buzzed. She placed the cup on the bar along with a bag of Zyn and pushed them both towards him.

“That’s fifteen and a quarter,” she said. "No e-transfers.”

Jakov reached into his pocket and pulled out some old, browned bills and a quarter. Jacob recoiled as she snatched it from his hand. She laughed.

“You don’t got to worry about that, either. We don’t got any Fem-Law to enforce in the Analogue.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“They treat us like indolents. They say it’s because of past trauma we aren’t capable of being civilized, so we just go with it because they leave us alone. Besides, life goes much smoother if we agree not to be offended when we touch each other.” Jakov was embarrassed. It was the first time a woman had touched him in a long time, and his instinct was to recoil.

“Yeah. My bad. It’s been a bit of a week, uh—”

“Nancy.”

“Yeah. It’s been a rough week, Nancy. I didn’t want to be misogynist, but you have all those things on your body. I was worried you might have a retro virus or something.” Nancy looked confused at first, then it clicked.

“Oh, my god. You really are new. Kowgirls don’t catch retros. If you don’t get jabbed, you wouldn’t either. These are freckles.”

“Those are freckles? So you and Uku aren’t sick?” Nancy rolled her eyes and said,

“Yeah. Didn’t Uku tell you? Of course he didn’t. He won’t shut up, but can’t say anything you’d need to hear. He sure didn’t tell me you were this daft.”

“Uku didn’t tell me anything except how the door works. Wait, how do you know Uku sent me?”

“Uku sends everyone. I’ll save you the questions. We don’t gene splice our kids in the Analogue. We get what we were born with. Skin, eyes, bones, gender. We are what we are and that’s it. I’m Irish. We come with freckles, and—” Nancy leaned forward, her cleavage intruding on Jakov’s personal space, almost within arms reach. Jakov pretended not to look but firmware is firmware. She noticed.

“Yeah. Uku told me about that, too.”

She paused for a beat then pulled back.

“It’s OK. You’re not the first person to stare. You need Gopher time while we are corrupting your Fem-Law terms of service?”

“Just an hour, maybe two.”

“It’s five bucks an hour, up front.” she said, all business. “And you’re on your own. No one has time for tech support.”

Jakov looked over his cash. He was down to his last five along with a handful of change.

“I’m running out of cash. Maybe an hour then. How do you earn money here if you don’t accept e-transfers? Do you at least have crypto? I thought all you Kowpersons loved that.”

Nancy feigned offense,

“How old do you think I am? I tell you what. If you can get us some pre-chipped tech, you’ll be able to pay for just about anything in here. Uku is always on the lookout for anything jailbroke, especially stuff from the big three.”

“Big three?”

“Amazon, Samsung, and any vintage stuff from Google. You guys program some nice stuff once you programmers get rid of all the diversity locks. Basically, anything that’s not CCP. I don’t know how he gets the cash for it, but he’s good at finding buyers.”

“And if he doesn’t want it?”

“I ain’t the kind of girl to suck a dick for tech, but a lot of girls here would.” Jakov never talked about work with anyone in New Kowloon. Everyone knew so much, and he had no idea why.

“How did you know that I—”

“Just think about it,” she said. “Now, go put the Zyn under your lip and enjoy your coffee. Terminals are around the corner. And if you pull up any smut, clean up after yourself, if you leave a mess I swear to god I will laz you, right in the balls.”