Sycamore (Near-Future Dystopia) (9 page)

“Speaking of the SycaStore, can I get my old music onto The Seed or will I have to buy it all again?”

“That’s a tough one. You see, onboard storage really isn’t necessary because everything will be accessible through Icarus at lightning speed. On top of that, local storage wasn’t really possible. Music files have to be of extremely high quality given the nature of the in-earphones, and general storage requirements increase so quickly that it would have been suicide; we can’t have consumers needing re-seeded every two years. Personally speaking, though, you don’t need to worry about having to pay for content. I’ve loaded you up with infinite credit.”

“Really?’

“Of course really. As for what’s about to happen at this press thing, other than anything about privacy and currency you can field whichever of the questions you want. Are you ready?”

“Always,” said Kurt, and he enjoyed the rest of the journey wordlessly. It was a sunny day and a horde of reporters were camped at the entrance to Sycamore’s HQ, where Amos had arranged for the informal press conference to take place.

The first order of business was Amos’s public seeding. A link between his Lenses and a TV screen on the street let the crowd see his operating system appear for the first time exactly as it would when they were seeded a week later. The doctor from the day before instructed Amos to squeeze his wrist and extend his fingers. The needle pierced his palm as he smiled at the crowd. “Totally painless!”

He continued commentating while the doctor implanted his in-earphones then asked for the crowd’s undivided attention before double five-tapping his palm to bring up the operating system. The reporters oohed and aahed at a live demonstration that lived up to its hype.

Amos clicked Video-call and scribbled “Kurt Jacobs” into his palm. There were more efficient ways to type — most would use the standard virtual keyboard which accurately dealt with rapid input based on the relative positions of the keys — but Amos wanted to show off the handwriting recognition. There was only one Kurt Jacobs registered with Sycamore and a ringtone suddenly filled his ears. Only he could hear it.

Kurt walked out of sight as instructed and Amos clicked a button that said Transvista. A window on the TV relayed everything that Kurt could see, showing the reporters that Amos was seeing through Kurt’s eyes in real-world quality. “He could be anywhere in the world,” Amos said, “and I would be seeing it.”

This was the most impressive feature of The Seed so far: one user’s live vista could be shared with another. Everything Kurt’s Lenses were taking in was streamed to the server and delivered back to Amos in realtime. The image on the TV — that of two windows, side-by-side — evoked webcam chats familiar to most of the crowd. The key difference was that rather than pointing at the users, the cameras in the UltraLenses were pointing out into the world. Participants in Transvista chats didn’t see each other; they saw what the other was looking at.

Amos ended the call and Kurt returned to the front of the crowd. They looked at each other for the first time since Amos’s seeding. Kurt’s information appeared on the screen as Amos could see it. Everything either had ever posted on their social network accounts had been imported and collated by Minion’s esoteric profile-scraping algorithm. There were a dozen rows of data floating beside each of their heads, representing everything from basic social data to their interpersonal compatibility. Their base score was 58% with the caveat that their complementary skill sets and temperaments might create a formidable professional partnership.

“The metrics never lie,” Amos smiled at that part. Kurt didn’t know exactly what Minion did with the raw data from other services, or even how he accessed it, but they had crossed paths during their university careers’ two-year intersection and Kurt knew how good Minion was at what he did. As detestable as Minion was, Kurt was glad to be on his side rather than in his sights.

Next, Amos asked Kurt to demonstrate the Glance function. Kurt looked Amos in the eye while writing something in his palm. With Glancing there was no need to select a recipient; the UltraLenses and Seed took all but the most fleeting eye-contact as an intention to communicate. Kurt’s message arrived realtime in Amos’s vista, letter-by-letter. “This is amazing,” it read. The crowd watching the giant screen agreed. Amos hoped that two consumers Glancing across a room would look like they were communicating telepathically. Everyone would want a piece of that.

Amos had explained to Kurt that this public event was an exercise in winning over the media, after which they would assume the job of selling The Seed for him. With the visual demonstrations seemingly complete, Amos invited questions. He was quickly heartened that the practical and ethical issues surrounding the launch seemed to have so utterly distracted everyone from the SycaPhone fiasco.

He and Kurt took their places in two director’s chairs by the front door of Sycamore’s grand HQ. The crowd’s number had swelled in the excitement of the hour and everyone jostled for a view of the men behind The Seed — the effortlessly authoritative Amos and his bushy-browed heir apparent, handsome in a square-jawed, old-Hollywood kind of way. Wearing the new suit Amos had provided for the occasion, Kurt looked and felt sharper than the doctor’s seeding needle.

The first non-technical question regarded The Seed’s lack of bundled software and led Amos to defend the clean-slate approach. He described the SycaStore as “democracy in action” and claimed that, with app development easier than ever, there would soon be an avalanche of content. Consumers were better off picking and mixing than paying for software they might not want, he reasoned.

“Okay,” said the questioner, a young man in a TVBytes vest. “But I have a question for Mr Jacobs.”

Kurt signalled for him to fire away.

“At the Talent Search you decried our dependence on too many devices. A human and a smartphone was too much, apparently. Yet now we have a human, a biochip, two ear implants and a pair of UltraLenses.”

“It’s not a chip,” said Kurt, “it’s a Seed. And these aren’t devices. They’re improvements.”

“A soundbite won’t swing me,” the man replied, “and it won’t impress anyone else either. We all know that this isn’t about improvement. It’s about turning human beings into cybernetic advertising-receptacles.”

“And
we’re
guilty of tossing around soundbites?” Amos laughed. “Listen, unavoidable public advertising is not a new thing. Look at all the bus stops, telephone boxes and highway billboards plastered with underwear models for evidence of that. Only the medium is changing, and with that comes great advantage. The ads will now be targeted; we sell women the underwear and we sell men the model.”

Most of the assembled journalists chuckled. Amos decided to changed the subject and deliver some information on his plans for Seed-based payments.

“Thanks to our ongoing partnership with Tasmart — the nation’s biggest retailer — Sycamore is able to offer consumers a range of benefits. All Tasmart stores will be fitted with new Seed-only aisles which will massively expedite the queuing process. Special weekly offers will also be available exclusively to customers paying via their Seed. And, saving the best for last, all in-store transactions paid for via The Seed will enjoy an unconditional 20% discount. That’s right: 20% off everything from groceries and clothes to electronics and home supplies. The average American family spends $5,000 a year on groceries. The Seed will save you $1,000 within twelve months, paying for itself twice over.” Amos smirked at the TVBytes reporter who had hassled Kurt. “Even you have to be impressed by that.”

The crowd were well and truly onside, applauding Amos’s announcement of the Tasmart tie-in. The man, however, remained unimpressed. “Clap, clap, clap,” he said, “like so many mindless sea lions. Anyone who takes this chip is setting themselves up to be controlled by a corporation who will have all of their data and is driven by nothing but profit. What if Sycamore turns off your chip and you can’t get into your house? What if Sycamore freezes your balance? Given the existence of such a risk, why would anyone embrace digital currency when it could be switched off?”

Amos looked at Kurt and wrote into his hand to chat directly. Glances appeared in the recipient’s vista as they were scribbled but not in the sender’s, so Amos’s message — “remind me not to invite this guy next time”
—
didn’t appear on the giant screen.

It read like a joke but Amos looked concerned. “I’ll take this one,” said Kurt. Defensive of his Seed and his new quasi-friend, he faced the irritating reporter. “What if you lost your house keys? What if someone hacked into your e-mail and stole your data? What if your bank’s ATM was broken and the branch was closed? What if the banks ran out of money again? All these risks! Now, given the existence of such risks, why use banks or computers?” Kurt paused to hear the crowd agree. “You need to keep your money, your keys and your data safe; we understand that. Nowhere could they be safer than inside your own hand.”

A message notification popped up in Kurt’s vista delivering a text from Amos: “Nailed it.” Kurt turned to him and winked, but his triumph was cut short by an egg landing on the ground inches from his left foot. Everyone looked up to one of the small Sycamore trees lining the path and saw a bearded man sitting between its branches.

“They’re climbing trees to see you,” Amos beamed. “You’re the new Jesus.”

A voice roared down from the tree. “No! Kurt Jacobs is the antichrist... a false idol! Ignore his promises and reject his mark!”

Two security guards approached the tree. Amos, amused, called them back.

“Revelation! Chapter 13! Verses 16 and 17!” The man climbed down as he spoke. “He causes all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hand or on their foreheads, and that no one may buy or sell except one who has the mark or the name of the beast.”

“The Seed goes in your
left
hand,” said Kurt. An egg crashed into the left side of his face.

Amos clicked his fingers for security. “You can take him now.” He turned back to the crowd as the madman was escorted away. “God squad…. what can you do?”

Someone in the crowd handed Kurt a towel to wipe his face and the rest stood in a stunned silence. A middle-aged woman broke it. “No one can condone that,” she began, “but maybe he had a point? This
is
foretold. And God’s word does implore us to offer our bodies as living sacrifices and tell us that they are temples of the Holy Spirit. How does that square with having computer chips implanted into our hands?”

“It’s not a chip,” Kurt snapped, frustrated at having to endlessly clarify the point and chagrined by the literal egg on his face. “It’s a Seed, okay? A Seed. And it’s for everyone, no matter what fairytales they believe in.”

Amos took over from Kurt to address the non-believer. “How do those sentiments square with your earrings, ma’am? Did Jesus put those holes in your ears?” The crowd tittered, but he wasn’t finished. “You’re not one of those ones who would reject a blood transfusion, are you?”

“No, but I hardly see what that has to do with anyth—

“It has everything to do with everything!” Amos insisted forcefully. “Medical implants and transfusions extend life; our Seed enhances it. And trust me, touching your palm to bring up the dashboard for the first time is a religious experience. There are going to be objections, we know that, both from protectionist industries and from the Christian right. We won’t let them win. The dinosaurs are desperate to hang on but our meteor’s path is final. For now I’m not prepared to put Mr Jacobs in any more danger from hardline fundamentalists so this event is over. The meteor arrives next Monday, 9am, Liberty Street. Be there.”

Amos stepped down from his director’s chair and entered Sycamore HQ, taking Kurt with him. The press conference was over as abruptly as that.

“That was a disaster,” said Kurt.

Amos slapped him on the shoulder as they waited for the elevator. “On the contrary, hotshot, it couldn’t have gone any better.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Hotshot,” said Amos. “Terrance says people used to call you that. You don’t like it?”

Kurt relaxed. “It’s not that, I just thought you’d been spying on me. Only my brother calls me hotshot.”

“We’ll never spy on our own, Kurt. Anyway, as I was saying, that was dynamite. Not only did they go wild for the Tasmart tie-in and not only did you handle yourself impeccably, you were physically attacked by a crazy person! We’re the victim and we’re going to milk that for all it’s worth.”

“Why are Tasmart even doing this? How much did you have to pay them to get that level of discount. I mean, 20%…?”

“Not a penny. Combining customer bases is in our mutual interest. A lot of the people who’ll queue up for The Seed are young and tech-savvy, you see, and that’s a lucrative demographic that Tasmart wants more of. It stands to reason that our consumers are going to shop somewhere where they can get 20% off. On the other side of the fence, Tasmart already does well with older, family types — the ones we would have most trouble selling The Seed to. But if those family types shop at Tasmart and The Seed will save them 20%, they’re going to take it. Everyone wins.”

Kurt couldn’t find a flaw in the logic so moved onto another query. “And what about the victim thing?”

“What about it?”

“I don’t think we achieved victim status out there. I think we just made a lot of religious enemies.”

“No, Kurt, we highlighted a division in their ranks. There are the reasonable ones who worry about sanctity and then there are the hardliners who hide in trees and protest at funerals. Wait a minute... that’s it. Yes! That’s it!”

“What’s what?”

“We need to use the crazies to give the others a bad name; link them all together to create a dichotomy between lunatics and Sycamore. You know guilty by association? Well, no one ever gives enough credit to its old friend: innocent by opposition. If we can get some of those queer-bashing bigots to picket our launch we’ll be set. That crazy church you always see on the news protesting at funerals and outside of schools... what are they called?”