The Trouble with Women

Lady Balls

A MAN IN an uncomfortably tight suit jacket and a collared shirt that's strangling his neck, steps toward the podium that has been set up on the lawn of an expansive, gray pharmaceutical building.

A sheen of discomfort is clear on his face despite the automatic face-tuning of simulcast video.

He repositions the fat, black microphone and looks down at his notes one last time.

"At Janus-Klein, our mission statement is 'A life worth living.' This remains our firm and true commitment to the public. It has come to our attention that the first release of our climate-critical birth-prevention application may contain a glitch which..."

He is drowned out by the hectic snapping of cameras and the demanding, overlapping questions of the many male journalists who have gathered for this short-notice press conference.

The viewer at home can make out only a jumble of words but the individual questions are hard to decipher. This is either due to the journalists shouting over each other or a sneaky auto-mix on the audio to keep things pleasant.

The man puts his hand up to stop the questions.

"Please, let me finish before we move into questions," he admonishes the crowd like a grade school teacher sick to death of being asked when recess is.

The journalists quiet down, but they maintain the restless energy of a basketful of puppies.

"It is with an abundance of caution that we have decided to impose a full recall of Revolut implants with serial numbers beginning with D-99. The medical community has been advised, and individual doctors will be following up with scheduled appointments for removal and replacement at no cost to the public."

At this, the questions flare up again. One particularly booming male voice manages to dominate the cacophony so that his rapid-fire questions can be heard quite clearly:

What caused the glitch? How do you know it won't affect other waves of implants? Have you considered a full recall of all Revolut implants?

The other journalists seem satisfied with this set of questions and quiet down to record the now actively sweating PR man's answer, which he does by rote:

"Janus-Klien is not able to offer any information as to the nature of the glitch or, indeed, to verify its existence. We can only say that we have been made aware of a potential issue by the government's watchdog organization and, while the findings are not conclusive, we have elected to act from an abundance of caution."

We understand that the group calling themselves 'the Resistance' has been pushing for this recall since the trouble with women first began. Why is your company only taking action now?

"We do not consider—" here he stops to make sarcastic air quotes with his pudgy fingers, "—'The Resistance' a reputable agency. We were awaiting official instruction by government agencies. We don't negotiate with terrorists."

How can you be sure the next implant will be safer? What if the next waves begin to show similar glitches?

"There's no reason to believe that the glitch will have any impact on implants outside of those beginning with serial number D-99..."

The video fuzzes briefly, a little lurch of light, then the conference is concluding.

HERE IT IS. If you pause the video at 10m3s, you can just make out a Becks-shaped blur at the back edge of the crowd. See? There. A slim arm shoots up out of the crowd in preparation for the delivery of a question that is, ultimately, cut from the public broadcast thanks to the 2-minute delay.

But I know what she asked because she calls me immediately afterward.

"Fuck yeah!" She hoots into my ear the moment I accept the incoming call. "Did you see the press conference? Did you see the total mic drop I laid on that squirming, piece of shit PR guy?"

"No," I say honestly to both. This is when she directs me to the replay, and we both realize they've cut her question.

"Un-fucking-believable," is her defeated conclusion before she rallies. "Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter if the public doesn't see it. The question was asked. The little shit panicked. You could see it in his eyes. Everyone could see it."

She takes my silence for curiosity.

"In front of all those swinging dick boys' club by-liners, I asked him if Janus-Klien is aware that their implant has been hacked. And assuming they are — because OF COURSE they are — do they know who did the hacking?"

I feel a frisson of energy that speeds from my middle ear where Becks' excited breath has taken up residence, down to my belly. An unzipping of realization.

"Someone hacked the Revolut?" I ask dumbly.

"Not all of them," she shouts triumphantly. "Just the ones with that serial number."

"But all of those?"

"I don't know, Doll. I suppose so, but... well, you're feeling fine, right? Plenty of women are still fine. I'm not sure if the hackers deployed the virus to all the implants in that batch or just some. Or maybe," she seems to have an idea, "Maybe they're activating the code in batches? Slow and steady release?"

"But why? Why would anyone do that? What is there to gain?" I ask her, my head tingling.

"That's the only bit I haven't figured out. Well, that and who, but I have an idea. I swear to god, Dolly, I'm close."

THE NEXT MORNING, Becks gets fired. They knew she had stolen the press pass from a male colleague in order to gain entry to the Revolut recall conference and had caused a criminal disturbance by asking a question. It wasn't the content of her question that the paper objected to — in fact, they seemed as interested in knowing the answer as she was. It was simply that she'd had the lady balls to ask it.