Sebeck gazed at the data whirling around him.
“What do we look like to a computer alogrithm, Sergeant? Because it will be computer algorithms that make life-changing decisions about these people based on this data. How about credit worthiness—as decided by some arbitrary algorithm no one has a right to question?”
Suddenly credit scores appeared above everyone’s heads, color-coded from green to red for severity.
“What about medical records?”
Lists of drug prescriptions and preexisting conditions appeared above people’s heads.
“Or how about something really powerfuclass="underline" human relationships. Let’s use phone records to compile the social network of these folks—to identify the people who matter most to them. . . .”
Suddenly everyone’s names appeared over their heads, along with a hyperlinked diagram of their most frequent contacts—along with names and phone numbers.
“What about purchasing habits . . . ?”
Lists of recent credit card purchases blinked into existence below people’s names.
“This data never goes away, Sergeant. Ever. And it might be sold years down the road to god knows who—or what.”
Price leaned close. “Imagine how easily you could change the course of someone’s life by changing this data? But that’s control, isn’t it? In fact, you don’t even need to be human to exert power over these people. That’s why the Daemon spread so fast.”
Sebeck clutched the balcony railing in silence, watching the march of data. The public walked on, shopping and talking, completely oblivious to the cloud of personal information they gave off. That governed their lives.
Price followed Sebeck’s gaze. “So you stand there and tell me that the Daemon is invasive and unprecedented. That it’s a threat to human freedom. And I tell you that Americans are fucking ignorant about their freedom. They’re about as free as the Chinese. Except the Chinese don’t lie to themselves.”
Sebeck said nothing for several moments. Then he slowly turned back to Price. “Laney, how is the Daemon any better?” He pointed up at his own call-out, hovering above him in D-Space. “We wear information over our heads, too.”
“Yes, but we can see ours, and we know instantly whenever anyone touches our data—and who touched it. That’s the best one can hope for in a technologically advanced society. Plus, we can readily spot nonhumans on the darknet, because Daemon bots don’t have a human body. So you know when an AI—like Sobol—is pushing your buttons, and you can choose whether or not to listen. Can these people say the same?” Price gestured to the mall shoppers.
Price then reached up to his call-out and slid the virtual layer over to Sebeck’s HUD display. A layer named Suckers appeared in Sebeck’s listing. “I want you to have this layer. In case you ever need to remember the world you left behind. The one you keep pining away for.”
Sebeck looked back up at the profusion of data above them. Beyond that loomed the Thread, still beckoning. For the first time he thought it might actually lead someplace he’d want to go.
A tanned couple walked up to Sebeck and Price. The man nodded in greeting. “Excuse me, guys.”
They turned to face him. The man was well-dressed with an oversized watch strapped to his wrist and a yin-yang tattoo on his forearm. He had his arm around a younger, attractive woman.
“Where did you guys get those sunglasses? I’ve been seeing them around, and I was wondering where I can pick up a pair.”
Sebeck just stared at him through the yellow-tinted HUD glasses. Floating above the guy’s head was a call-out indicating a net worth of -$103,039.
The man smiled. “They look kick-ass.”
Sebeck glanced at Price, who just shrugged. Sebeck turned back to the guy. “Trust me, you don’t want them.” With that he headed off in the direction of the Thread.
Price followed, but then glanced back at the man, gesturing at the guy’s invisible data. “Go easy with that Viagra prescription, Joe. It’s potent stuff.”
The man stopped cold as his girlfriend cast a puzzled look toward him. “Joe, do you know those guys?”
Chapter 6: // Waymeet
Darknet Top-rated Posts +95,383↑
At issue is not whether the global economy will pass away. It is passing away. Rising populations and debt combined with depletion of freshwater sources and fossil fuel make the status quo untenable. The only question is whether civil society will survive the transition. Can we use the darknet to preserve representative democracy, or will we seek protection from brutal strong-men as the old order begins to fail?
“That’ll be fourteen thirty-nine.” Pete Sebeck frowned. “That’s not right.”
He faced a lanky teenager in an ill-fitting franchise smock—one of the innumerable conscripts of the retail world. The kid glanced down at his computer screen and shrugged. “That’s what it is, sir. Fourteen thirty-nine.”
Sebeck leaned in against the counter. “Kid, I got a number two combo, and a number nine combo. What does that add up to?”
The cashier looked down at his computer screen. “Fourteen thirty-nine.”
“Stop looking at the screen and just think for a second.” He pointed at the wall-mounted menu. “How could a number two combo, at three ninety-nine, and a number nine combo, at five ninety-nine, add up to fourteen thirty-nine?”
“Sir, I’m just telling you what it is. If you don’t want them both—”
“Of course I want them both, but you’re not getting rid of me until you do the math.”
“I’m not trying to get rid of you, I’m just telling you that it’s fourteen thirty-nine.” He swiveled the screen so Sebeck could see it.
“It doesn’t matter what—Look, you’ve hit the wrong key or something.”
“You’re forgetting sales tax, sir.”
“No, I’m not forgetting sales tax. It shows sales tax there.” He pointed. “Listen, I want you to use your own mind for a second and think about this. Forget the machine.”
“But—”
“Three ninety-nine plus five ninety-nine is what?”
The kid started looking at the screen again.
“Listen to me! Don’t look at the screen. This is easy. Just round it up to four bucks plus six bucks—that’s ten bucks—then take away two pennies—that’s nine ninety-eight. Right?”
“You’re forgetting sales tax.”
“Kid, what’s five percent sales tax on ten bucks?”
“Sir—”
“Do it for me.”
“I don’t—”
“Do it! Just do it, goddamnit!” His shout echoed in the tiled restaurant.
People in the restaurant suddenly stopped talking and started watching what seemed to be an altercation.
“What is five percent sales tax on ten bucks?”
The kid started tapping at the machine. “I’ll need a manager to clear this.”
“Kid, do you really want machines doing all your thinking for you? Do you really want that?”
A balding assistant manager with a muscular frame emerged from the kitchen door. His name tag read “Howard.” “Is there a problem here?”