**Review by Denver Grenell, author of Red Ruin**.
Australian writer ***Garth Jones*** rips the Oz-lit scene a new one with this first volume of what promises to be a blackly comic epic of sex, drugs, rock’n’roll, cults, dodgy politicians (aren’t they all?) and er, bunyips.
A plot summary would do a disservice to Garth’s book, as it isn’t so much plot driven as character driven, and what characters they are: Ed Von Satan, the bassist (and only surviving member) for has-been rockers Tōxxik Shōkk, is a “sinewy vision in ruined double-denim” and a booze and drug-addled wastrel of the highest order.
Equally debauched singer of Switchback, Johnny Platinum rocks along to a similarly hedonistic beat. Maureen ‘Mystic Mo’ O’Grady-Thrumster, is an ex-hippie rock chick with connections to Ed, now one half of the cultish ‘The Trust’ with her husband ex journo, The Right Reverend Sancrox Thrumster.
Throw in the take-no-shit all female punk band Babalōn and conservative politician Duke “Tank” Excalibur-Crusader, the aforementioned bunyip and the scene is set for some rollicking shenanigans and a promised collision between the respective parties as they bumble and stumble their way on their quite possibly pre-ordained journeys…
**Read the lot here.**

The Istvans decided Br’aydin needed a competitive advantage.

The kid was precisely 27 months old – three into daycare – when Xavier and Xanthe, co-founders of wellness app MeHub, clocked a targeted C2A.

Unbeknownst to them, it had a target demo of precisely two.

It was direct:

MAKE HIM THE FUTURE

Underneath was an animation of a child that passingly resembled Br’aydin. A halo of virtual blocks, depicting a complex chunk of quantum mechanics, floated in front of the avatar’s gawp.

Copy spoke of exclusivity, advantage, price points and reality-altering tech.

The angst of spawning a sub-optimal unit in an overcrowded market was too much for the Istvans.

Xavier stroked, summoning the wide face of Bezst Epstos, disgraced quadrilpreneur.

This was no hard sell – the Istvans were zealots.

“Ah, Xanthe! Xavier! Br’aydin! I’m grateful you could give us the time. We imagine you’re desperate, given recent… events.”

“Events?” Xavier ventured.

Epstos’ mods cycled, sensors pools of spawning nanites: “Well, you know, the little fellow’s… mishap.”

Xanthe sucked air through her custom veneers.
“How would you – ”

The ruthless hyper-capitalist tapped the mod embedded in their left temple.

“It’s our job to know! Horribly embarrassing. Now, if we may be so bold, we have an offer.”

The couple’s silence: acquiescence.

“When you are both old, and Br’aydin is middle-aged and wildly successful, you will speak of the choice you make today. We are our choices, and we are offering a spectacular narrative – the chance to author a life beyond even your expectations for young Br’aydin.”

“Anything,” Xavier murmured.

“We admire your enthusiasm, Mr Istvan. Nonetheless, the lawyers insist that we are utterly transparent in the tendering of this opportunity. Without further ado, we are pleased to offer you the exclusive honour of inducting Br’aydin into the founding cohort of The Mesh Congress. What’s that? We’re glad you asked – we’ve been practising this sermon for cycles. Simply put, the Congress is the advantage Br’aydin demands in the savage vocational wilds of the AI insurgency. Heard of BMIs? Brain Machine Interfaces. Our Mesh technology is eco-friendly and, in your case, installed at no-cost-to-you-at-all via a simple procedure. Young Br’aydin’s performance capacity will be enhanced by a factor of… a lot. We’ve pulled some strings. Clearances will be given, assuming you’re interested in activation.”

With zero deliberation, the Istvans cancelled Br’aydin’s daycare, upgraded the family genome and transferred travel exemptions.

Applications were approved and immediately coordinates for safe passage through the firewall, bypassing the refugee cannons, were priority patched.

The Istvans were en route to Epstos’ legendary Caminus Spa, deep beneath eGress’ Te Waipounamu™, within thirty minutes of first contact.

Br’aydin Istvan was about to become the future.

“Meet Bezst Epstos!” a drone intoned, and the Istvans did.

Epstos owned most of the southern hemisphere, having made trillions in slave-bots. They greeted the family:

“Grandma once said: ‘Bezst, you’re so smart. You had to have made some tricky –’”

The Istvans gawked.

“– we do apologise! Wrong thread! You’re here about young Br’aydin!”

Epstos gathered themselves:

“The Mesh Congress! Indeed. Did we tell you we saved Capitalism? You’re aware of transhumanism, of course? Indeed you are. You’re in the presence of us. We apologise. Now, with neural prosthetics and upgraded bodies, I see the future may be full of capitalistic enterprise, fuelled by technologies that allow us to more closely resemble the machines –”

Xanthe stared Epstos down.

“Let’s upgrade the fucken kid, eh?”

So Br’aydin got upgraded.

With a wet kiss, the toddler’s scalp was peeled. A nanobot bore down with its microscopic drill-bit, chewing fresh skull, and planted an electrode directly into soft brain meat.

Axons, dendrites and synapses were cleaved, embedding Epstos’ Mesh in the fertile folds of a nascent human processor. Read-and-write functions unfurled, overclocking Br’aydin. He was a hardy kid, handling neural violence well.

His brain healed quickly, reorganising itself around the Mesh, assimilating it.Br’aydin fucking owned daycare.

The Istvans were redeemed.

And then the implant shat itself.