What's really going on? Who's really in charge? You have NO. F***KING. IDEA.
A frighteningly persuasive, high-tech fable, this novel follows the lives of four narrators living in an alternative futuristic Cape Town, South Africa. An art-school dropout, and AIDS baby, a tech-activist and an RPG-obsessed blogger live in a world where your online identity is at least as important as your physical one. Getting disconnected is a punishment worse than imprisonment, but someone's got to stand up to Government Inc. - whatever the cost. Taking hedonistic trends in society to their ultimate conclusions, this tale paints anything but a forecasted utopia, satirically undermining the reified idea of progress as society's white knight.
File Under: Science Fiction [ Digital Natives | Corporate Wars | Future | Teenage Riot ]
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|Title of eBook: Moxyland|
|Release Date: 08-31-2010|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Osprey Publishing|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
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CHAPTER ONE: Kendra
It’s nothing. An injectable. A prick. No hospital involved. Like a booster shot with added boost.
Just keep telling yourself.
The corporate line shushes through the tunnels on a skin of seawater, overflow from the tide drives put to practical use in the clanking watery bowels of Cape Town – like all the effluent in this city. Like me. Art school dropout reinvented as shiny brand ambassador. Sponsor baby. Ghost girl.
I could get used to this, seats unmarked by the pocked craters of cigarette burns, no blaring adboards, no gangsters checking you out. But elevated status is not part of the program. Only allocated for the day, to get me in and out again. Wouldn’t want civilians hanging around.
As the train slows, pulling into the Waterfront Exec station, it sends plumes of seawater arcing up the sides. In my defence, it’s automatic; I lift my camera, firing off three shots through the latticed residue of salt crusted over the windows. I don’t think about the legal restrictions on documenting corporate space, that this might be provocation enough to revoke the special access pass Andile loaded onto my phone for the occasion.
‘They don’t like that, you know,’ says the guy sitting across the way from me. He doesn’t look like he belongs here either, with his scruffy beard and hair plastered into wet tufts. Older than me, maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. He’s wearing a damp neoprene surf peel, a surfboard slung casually at his feet, half blocking the aisle.
‘Then I’ll delete it,’ I snap. It’s impossible, of course. I’m using my F2, pic...