I’m hungry, thinks Martyn. When are they going to open the buffet?
“Just imagine what that means, ladies and gentlemen! A flawless administration. John is the embodiment of pure instrumental reason!”
Martyn has already stopped listening, but he claps when everyone else does.
At the buffet afterward, a large crowd has formed around Tony and John. Every time a waitress comes by with drinks, John refuses with a friendly shake of his head.
“John’s appearance was based upon images of that old actor,” explains Tony. “What was his name again?”
“Bill Pullman,” says John.
“Yes, that’s the one. He played a great president in that film… er… what was it called again?”
“Independence Day,” says John.
“That’s the one! Do the bit again, John. Do the bit!”
John rolls his eyes.
“Oh come on!”
“We will not go quietly into the night,” says John, full of pathos. “We will not vanish without a fight. We’re going to live on. We’re going to survive. Today we celebrate,” John pauses and sighs, “our Independence Day.”
Tony laughs. “Wonderful! Wonderful!”
“He looks so real,” says one of the older cabinet members, as though she’s never seen an android before. “Can I touch?” She addresses the question to Tony, even though it’s John she wants to touch. Tony nods, and John takes it stoically as the woman runs her hand over his face and through his hair. It seems to Martyn that John’s smile is just a touch more artificial than before.
“Perhaps you’d like to pinch my cheeks too?” asks the android.
The woman grabs them. If the robot turns out to be evil, Martyn wouldn’t put a single quality on the old trout’s chances of survival. He walks over to the group.
“Aha! Just the man I’ve been looking for!” calls Tony Party-Leader, waving Martyn over. “It’s great to see you, Markus!”
“Martyn,” says John with a nod, stretching his hand out toward him.
Martyn shakes it.
“Oh yes, of course, Martyn,” says Tony. He shakes his hand too. “How are you, old boy?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turns to John. “Markus’s father is one of our biggest donors.”
“Martyn’s father,” says John. “I know.”
“He’s well, as far as I know,” says Martyn. “Still buying up companies and replacing the personnel with robots.”
“That’s wonderful,” says Tony, without really listening. “Wonderful. John, I’m sure you’ll meet Markus’s father at one of our fundraising dinners.”
John of Us fixes Martyn with an unpleasantly intense gaze, then tilts his head to the side and looks him up and down. Martyn would give anything to know what that power guzzler is calculating right now.
QUALITYCARE
The first indication that Peter now has a single-digit level is that his friends unfriend him. They are, quite justifiably, concerned that friendship with a Useless could have a negative impact on their own levels. One of Peter’s former friends even writes to say that he doesn’t mean anything bad by it and that he’s sure Peter will understand to some degree. And Peter does understand. To some degree. Nobody has offered him some new friends, but Peter politely declined.
After his final dinner with Sandra, he went straight home. At precisely the moment when he arrives grumpily at his used-goods store, a OneKiss drone from TheShop arrives, and not by chance.
“Peter Jobless,” says the drone cheerfully. “I am from TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer’—and I have a lovely surprise for you.”
The second indication that Peter is now useless is that all robots are addressing him informally, dropping the Mr.
In the package that he takes from the whirring drone, he finds a six-pack of beer. Only after he sees it does Peter realize that he genuinely does feel like getting drunk. He would prefer vodka, but even the beer, enjoyed in sufficient quantities, will enable him to kill off enough brain cells to get through the night. Peter notices that his mood is lifting. And that annoys him.
“I’m sensing that you’re annoyed,” says the drone. “Is there something wrong with the product?”
“No,” says Peter. “It’s just because of my girlfriend…”
“Oh yes,” says the drone. “I heard about that. I’m very sorry. From what I gathered, you were a lovely couple. Please rate me now.”
Her touchscreen lights up.
“Do you know what I’ve noticed?” asks Peter. “Whenever I have a particularly shitty day, it’s surprising how often a drone is waiting at home with some great product to cheer me up again.”
“I’m glad you’re satisfied with my service,” says the drone. “Please rate me now.”
“An acquaintance of mine says that these things don’t happen by chance,” says Peter. “She says that the people who write the code—or perhaps I should say: the people that have the code written—want us to be happy, because frustration is unproductive. Dangerous, even.”
“An acquaintance of mine,” says the drone, “says that people don’t write the code anymore. There’s only the code. The code that writes the code.”
Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“Please rate me now,” says the drone.
Peter pulls a red felt-tip pen out of his trouser pocket and draws a red dot on the drone, next to the eye of her camera.
“What are you doing?” asks the drone.
“It’s so I can recognize you again. Now you’re unique.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about it.”
“Please rate me now.”
Peter sighs and gives the drone ten stars. She whirrs off contentedly.
The next morning, Peter wakes up very late. He spent the night with the six-pack. As soon as he had emptied the bottles, a drone whirred up to his window with a new six-pack. Now, an announcement on his QualityPad alerts him to the fact that, due to his ill-advised behavior, his points account with his health insurance company has slipped into negative.
Nobody immediately suggests that he pays a visit to the gym. Once he arrives, Peter books a holo cabin and runs on the treadmill as though a horde of zombies were after him. And in the holo scenario, there really is a horde of zombies after him, a selection the treadmill has suggested as being fitting to his mood. He runs and runs until a friendly voice says, “Peter! Your heartbeat is elevated. Please be careful; I’m reducing the speed.”
The voices are always so friendly, thinks Peter. Sometimes it drives him mad. He wonders whether a schizophrenic would be taken seriously nowadays.
“Doctor, I hear voices!”
“Who doesn’t, Peter? Who doesn’t?”
Peter gives up and jumps off the treadmill.
“Thank you, Peter,” says the treadmill, and the zombies disappear. “You have earned 16 QualityCare points. You can exchange your QualityCare points at any time with your insurance company for extras such as reduced-cost doctors’ appointments or shorter waiting times for life-saving operations. Thank you for taking care of yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Peter. “Fuck you.”
“Peter, please watch your language,” says the treadmill. “I know your girlfriend left you, but there’s no reason to take it out on me.”
“I know, you’re right,” says Peter.
“I think an apology is in order.”
“I’m sorry, treadmill.”
“You currently have -32 QualityCare points. Would you like to exchange some now?”
“No, thank you, treadmill.”
Peter’s QualityPad vibrates. He reads the message. “A new notification from QualityPartner: ‘Hello, Peter. Don’t forget your QualityPartner voucher! If you like, we can immediately suggest a new partner in your level for no extra charge.’”
Peter selects: Ask again tomorrow.
A few moments later he receives a message from Sandra Admin: “Peter, I’ve seen that you still haven’t connected with a new partner. My new partner is amazing!!! Especially at listening to soft rock ;-) I’m sure your new partner will be an excellent fit for you too! I worried about you. LYL. Sandra.”