For the Win by Cory Doctorow (short books to read .TXT) 📕

using the phone's damned tracking function.
It wasn't the police. With trepidation, he slid his finger over the talk button on the screen.
"Wei?" he said, cautiously.
"Lu? Is that you?" The call had the weird, echoey sound of a cheap net-calling service, the digital fuzz of packets that travelled third class on the global network. The accent was difficult, too, thick-tongued and off-kilter. He knew the sound and he knew the voice.
"Wei-Dong?"
"Yes!"
"Wei-Dong in America?" He hadn't heard from the strange gweilo since they'd gone to Boss Wing and Ping had had to kick him out of the guild. Boss Wing didn't allow them to raid with outside people, or even talk to them in game. He had spyware on all his PCs that told him when you broke those rules, and you lost a day's wages for the first offense, a week's wages for the second.
"Lu, it's me! Look, did I just see you and Ping getting beaten up by the cops?"
"I don't know, did you?" The disorientation from his head wound was fierce, and he wondered if he was really having this conversation. It was very strange.
"I -- I just saw you getting beaten up on a video from Shenzhen. I think I did. Was it you?"
"We just got beaten up," he said. "I'm hurt."
"Are you badly hurt? I couldn't reach Ping, so I tried you." He was excited, his voice tight. "What happened?"
Lu was still grappling with the idea that the gweilo had just called him from thousands of kilometers away. "You saw me on the Internet in America?"
"Every gamer in the world saw you, Lu! You couldn't have timed it better! After dinner is the busiest time on the servers, and the word went around like nothing I've ever seen before. Everyone in every game was chatting about it, passing around links to the video streams and the photos. It was even on the real news! My neighbor banged on my wall and asked me if I knew anything about it. It was incredible!"
"You saw me getting beaten up on the Internet?"
"Dude, everyone saw you getting beaten up on the Internet."
Lu didn't know what to say. "Did I look good?"
Wei-Dong laughed like a hyena. "You looked great!"
A dam broke, Lu laughed and laughed and laughed, as all the tension flooded out of him. He finally stopped, knowing that if he didn't he'd throw up again. He was by the train station now, in the heavy foot-traffic, all kinds of people moving purposefully around him as he stood still, a woozy island in the rushing stream. He backed up to a stairwell in front of a beauty parlor and sank to his haunches, squatting and holding the phone to his head.
"Wei-Dong?"
"Yes."
"Why are you calling me?"
There was an uncomfortable silence on the line, broken by soft digital flanging. "I wanted to help you," he said at last. "Help the Webblies."
"You know about the Webblies?" Lu had half-believed that Matthew had made them up, a fantasy army of thousands of imaginary friends who would fight for them.
"Know about them? Lu, they're the ass-kickingest guild in the world! No one can beat them! Coca-Cola Games is sending us three memos a day about them!"
"Why does Coca-Cola send you memos?"
"Oh." More silence. "Didn't I tell you? I'm working for them now. I'm a Turk."
"Oh," said Lu. He knew about the Turks, but he never really thought about what kind of people would work in ten second increments making up dialog for non-player characters or figuring out what happened when you shot an office chair with a blunderbuss. "That must be interesting."
Wei-Dong made a wet noise. "It's miserable," he said. "I run four different sessions at once, and I'm barely earning enough to pay the rent. And they make so much money off of us! Last month, they announced quarterly profits and games with Turks are earning 30 percent more than the ones without. They're hiring more Turks as fast as they can -- it's all over the board here. But our wages aren't going up. So I've been thinking of the Webblies, you know..." He trailed off. "Like maybe you guys can help us if we help you? We all play for our money, right? So why shouldn't we be on the same side."
"Sounds right to me," Lu said. He was still trying to comprehend the fact that the Webblies were apparently famous with American teenagers. "Wait," he said, playing back Wei-Dong's accented, ungrammatical speech. "You're paying rent?"
"Yeah," Wei-Dong said. "Yeah! Living on my own now. It's great! I have a crappy room in a, not sure what you call it, a hotel, kind of. But for people who don't have any money. But I can get wireless here and I've got four machines and there's plenty of stuff I can walk to, at least compared to home --" He began to babble about his favorite restaurants and the clubs that had all-ages nights and a million tiny irrelevant details about Los Angeles, which might as well have been the Mushroom Kingdom for all that it mattered to Lu. He let it wash over him and tried to think of places he could go to recuperate. He fleetingly wished for his mother, who always knew some kind of traditional Chinese remedy for his ailments. They often didn't work, but sometimes they did, and his mother's gentle application of them worked their own magic.
He was suddenly, nauseously, overwhelmingly homesick. "Wei-Dong," he said, interrupting the virtual tour of Los Angeles. "I need to think now. I don't know what to do. I'm hurt, I'm on the street, and I can't call anyone in case the police trace the call. What do I do?"
"Oh. Well. I don't know exactly. I was hoping that you'd know what I should do, to tell you the truth. I want to get involved!"
"I think I want to get uninvolved." Lu's homesickness was turning to anger. Who was this boy to call him from the other side of the world, demanding to "get involved?" Didn't he have enough problems of his own? "What can you do for me from there? What is any of this -- this garbage worth? How will everyone going to jail make my life better? How will having my head beaten in help make things better? How?"
"I don't know." Wei-Dong's voice was small and hurt. Lu struggled to control his anger. The gweilo wanted to help. It wasn't his fault he didn't know how to help. Lu didn't know how to help, either.
"I don't know either," Lu said. "Why don't you think about how to help and call me back. I need to find somewhere to rest, maybe a nurse or a doctor. OK?"
"Sure," the gweilo said. "Sure. Of course. I'll call you back soon, don't worry."
Every time a Hong Kong train came into the Shenzhen Railway Station, it disgorged a massive crowd of people: Hong Kong people in sharp business styles, rich kids, foreigners, and workers from Shenzhen returning from contracts abroad, clutching backpacks. The dense group got broken up by the taxi-rank and the shopping mall, and emerged as a diffuse cloud onto the street where Lu had been talking. Now he worked his way back through this crowd, listening to snatches of hundreds of conversations about business, manufacturing -- and gold farming.
It was on everyone's lips, talk about the strike, about the police action, about the farmers. Of course most people in China had heard of gold farming and all the stories about the money you could make by just playing video games, but you never heard this kind of business-person talking about it. Not smart, fancy people with obvious wealth and power, the kind of people who skipped back and forth between Hong Kong and Shenzhen, talking rapidly into their earwigs, telling other people what to do.
What had the gweilo said? Everyone saw you getting beaten up on the Internet! Were these people looking closely at him? Now it seemed they were. Of course, he was bloody, staring, red-eyed. Why wouldn't they stare at him? But maybe --
"You're one of them, aren't you?" She was 22 or 23, with perfect fingernails on the hand she rested on his arm, coming on him from behind. He gave an involuntary squeak and jump, and she giggled a little. "You must be," she said. She held up her phone. "I watched the video five times on the train. You should see the commentary. So ugly!"
He knew about this. Any time something that made the government look bad managed to find its way online, there was an army of commenters who'd tweet and post and comment about how the government was in the right, how the story was all wrong, how the people in it were guilty of all kinds of terrible things. Lu knew he shouldn't believe any of it, but it was impossible to read it all without feeling a little niggle of doubt, then a little more, and then, like an ice-cube on a bruise, the outrage he'd felt at first would go numb.
The thought that he, himself, was at the center of one of these smear-storms made him feel like he was going to throw up again. The girl must have seen this, for she gave his arm a little squeeze. "Oh, don't look so serious. You looked great on the video. I'm sure no one believes all that rubbish!" She pursed her lips. "Well, of course, that's not true. I'm sure lots of people believe it. But they're fools. And so many more were inspired, I'm sure. I'm Jie."
"Lu," Lu said, after trying and failing to come up with an alias. He was not cut out to be a fugitive. "It was nice to meet you," he said, and shrugged her hand off and set off deeper into the crowd.
She grabbed his arm again. "Oh, please stop. We need to talk. Please?"
He stopped. He didn't have much experience with girls, but something about her voice made him want to stay. "Why do we need to talk?"
"I want to get your story," she said. "For my show."
"Your show?"
She leaned in close -- so close he could smell her perfume -- and whispered, "I'm Jiandi," she said.
He looked at her blankly.
She shook her head. "Jiandi," she hissed. "Jiandi! From the Factory Girl Show!"
He shrugged. "What kind of show?"
"Every night!" she said. "At 9PM! Twelve million factory workers listen to me! They phone me with their problems. We go out over the net, audio, through the, uh," she dropped her voice, "the Falun Gong proxies."
"Oh," he said, and began to move away.
"It's not religious," she said. "I just help them with their problems. The --" she dropped her voice "proxies are just how we get the show into the factories. They try to block me because we tell the truth about the work conditions -- the girls who are sexually pressured by their bosses, the marketing rip-offs, the wage rip offs, lock-ins --"
"OK," he said. "I get the picture. Thank you but no."
"Come on," she said and looked deep into his eyes. Hers were dark and lined with thin, precise green eye-pencil, and her eyebrows were shaped into surprised, sophisticated arches. "You look like you need a place to clean up, and maybe a meal. I can get that for you."
"You can?"