He would soon set up his ‘proper’ auto, but before then he needed to get online and test the waters. He needed a trial run: to check the strength of the digital chains binding everyone else, and find out how deeply the rules were embedded. He needed a sheep, to drive across the online minefield. That’s all Lee Berners was. Expendable. He only needed to exist for as long as it took for Michael to set up an auto for Eanga Tepaki, after which he could be retired with nobody any the wiser.
The K8 program emulated a real auto perfectly. So perfectly that even Macroverse’s server hubs were fooled, allowing him to register for updates. After he had fed it some details, it looked like Lee Berners had a fairly busy timeline for the past 32 years of his life. Even though he had only ‘lived’ for a few hours.
He knew his security programs would protect him by rerouting his online connection off-shore, making it impossible to detect where he is. His portable tablet computer broadcasts its current location just like an auto does, but with this security in place, that means nothing. He could walk past the entrance to Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police still won’t have a clue he’s back in the country, the dumb bastards. To trace Lee Berners back to him, you’d have to be… well, you’d have to be as good as Michael Walker.
“So don’t worry, Mr Tepaki, your auto is as unique as your tattoos,” Meena adds.
He looks satisfied, and feels it too. Because he knows she’s wrong.
Meena asks him a few more questions. Customises some settings, tweaks some options. Soon there’s a profile glowing on the smartscreen, outlined in electric blue, with his unsmiling passport photo at the top.
2.26pm Saturday 1 January
2022
Eanga Tepaki
Gender: Male
Age range: 41-45
Orientation: Straight
Relationship status:
Single/Available
Current location: Autotal
Showroom - Ealing
Broadway Branch, High
Street, London
W5 5DB
Status update: Hello to you!
My name is Eanga!
“And there you are – that’s you!” Meena announces, as if expecting him to look impressed.
He looks impressed.
Michael wants to get this over with. He needs to get Eanga Tepaki’s identity confirmed so he can get out. But the program running on the portable tablet in his coat’s other pocket won’t have finished yet. Plus, he knows how suspicious that will look if he suddenly leaves. He has to play the part. The more genuine he seems now, the less likely he’ll be picked up by an investigation later.
“So what will my auto do for me?” he asks.
Meena launches into the script she has memorised for new customers. The smartscreen responds to her bejewelled fingers as they move through the air like an orchestral conductor, making Eanga Tepaki’s new auto perform.
She says “It’s your PA.”
She demonstrates how his auto will manage all his communication with other people. It will allow him to set priorities for all incoming media, to decide what and who is important. And it will manage his timeline, keeping a record of everything he does and remembering how he likes to do it.
‘Lifestreaming services’ is the correct term for this, although she doesn’t use it. She’s trying to keep it simple for him. But this is why those zombies out there in the high street are all shambling around staring at their smartphones: because everything in their life is being funnelled by their autos. God forbid they should ever bloody talk to each other, he thinks. If it doesn’t come at them through a digital device, they’re not interested.
She says “It’s your internet browser. And search engine, and cloud storage, all in one.”
Multiple windows open across the smartscreen as she shows him how to locate anything he wants online, from anywhere across the globe, and download it to his personal data store. The whole world at your fingertips! Unlimited information!
Bullshit, he thinks. Federated searches are always limited. People think they have access to everything, but they don’t. For a start, their auto filters out things it assumes they aren’t interested in. Then it hides anything contentious, anything illegal. They’re not searching the world, they’re searching their own backyard. The one with the electrified fence around it.
She says “It’s your personal shopper.”
She explains how his auto will remember every single purchase he makes, and therefore work out what he likes and what interests him. Tell it to buy something specific and it will find the best supplier, pay from his account and ship it to him. After a while it will start recommending new items he might like, and even automatically buying things it knows he needs. Easy!
Last night, Michael had discovered for himself just how easy this was. In order to make the false auto for Lee Berners seem more genuine, he had trawled through the internet and randomly clicked ‘Like’ dozens of times. Suddenly it was costing him money. He had Liked the Amazon Onlibrary, so the auto purchased the latest KindleBlaze tablet. He had Liked the pop band Public Property, so it downloaded their latest track bundle to his music player. He had Liked several TV series, so it bought an annual licence for the BBC0 subscription channel.
Far too easy, he thought. So easy you don’t have to make a choice.
She says “It’s your social secretary.”
The smartscreen displays a demo of what he calls social network aggregation, but what she calls Circles. Different groups for friends, family, workmates, acquaintances, people with shared interests. Circles within Circles. All it takes is a friend request to add someone, she explains. And even that can be done by your auto, if someone ranks high enough on your Compatibility Index. It knows which strangers should remain strangers, and which are friends you haven’t met yet. Oh and look, your auto is already making connections!
Michael acts delighted, applauding like an excited child as he sees his auto populating his Circle. There are his parents, sisters and uncle in the Cook Islands, not online but their details appear anyway. There’s his younger brother Avatea Tepaki, currently living in Auckland, whose auto is sending welcoming messages on his behalf.
Turou e to te ao internet, ko
tuakana!
Translation: Welcome to the
online world, my brother!
And there are his two business partners, the co-owners of Katuke Exports Ltd, appearing in a subCircle for professional associates.
Jonathan Marsters is now
friends with Eanga Tepaki.
Ngaropi Mapumai is now
friends with Eanga Tepaki.
All of them as real as Eanga Tepaki himself.
She says “It’s your introductions agency.”
With an expression somewhere between sly and shy, Meena remarks that since his relationship status is Single/Available, he might want to get his auto to look for potential partners. Depending on his settings, his auto can make all the overtures that people find so awkward to do face to face. That way he’ll know a lot about someone before they even meet. No more blind dates!
Michael wonders about the 300 names in Lee Berners’s Circle. Real people, none of whom noticed they’d picked up an extra friend. All he had to do was send friend requests to some random people in the local area, and suddenly he was getting them back, from other autos convinced he was a neighbour, a local, a member of the community. Then he set Lee Berners’s status to Single/Available and alignment to Straight, and the private messages started arriving. Women looking for a date with a non-existent guy.
They’ve all forgotten, he thought in amazement, watching Lee Berners’s fake life grow before his eyes. They’ve forgotten that you can’t trust anyone on the internet. Now they do!
She says “It’s your check-in.”
She explains how geotagging works. His auto has already noted his current location, here in the Autotal Showroom, and this will automatically be updated wherever he goes. He can expect to receiv
e a lot of offers, discounts and loyalty points from any venue he goes to more than once, so it’s really useful. Plus, people in his Circle can easily meet up with him if they know where he is, which is ever so handy! It can be disabled, of course, but she advises him not to. Some people get twitchy if they can’t work out where you are.
Yes, thinks Michael, it’s all or nothing, isn’t it? Share your entire private life or be branded as suspicious.
Falsifying geotag detections had been child’s play. He sent Lee Berners all over London – working, commuting, seeing movies, eating dinner, having coffee, buying clothes – while Michael himself sat inside his locked hotel room, with a chair wedged up under the door handle. Nothing suspicious about Lee.
She says “And last but not least, your privacy settings.”
Meena recommends that he customise these himself, to decide what parts of his timeline are visible to others, which Circles he wants to share information with, and so on. Then she brings up a bewildering list of privacy options, each with a nested sub-menu. It looks complex as hell. There’s an ‘automatic’ button, of course, sitting neatly above the mess of dropdowns and toggles and checkboxes. So tantalisingly simple.
Michael’s facial tattoos once again shift like a disturbed snake, as he clenches his jaw. Privacy settings. Settings for your own personal private life, Jesus! Why can’t Meena see how offensive these are? Why can’t anybody!
She says “Oh, I almost forgot redacting!”
Meena deliberately pastes gobbledegook into Eanga Tepaki’s status update, deletes his photo, changes his gender to Female. She mimes shock, horror, oh no what have I done! Then a few quick taps on his auto interface panel and she undoes each one. Redaction, she explains, is internet-wide. You can redact anything you created, since any data you personally own can be deleted and erased from all records, as if it never happened.
He can’t shift the scowl from his face. This is the sugared pill. The honeytrap. This is what everyone loves. Who doesn’t want to undo all their mistakes?
Michael clenches his fist. Who doesn’t want to go back in time and prevent themselves making the biggest mistake of their life?
He glares at the auto on the screen. Redact, you son of a bitch. Redact, redact, redact!
“Mr Tepaki? You look worried about something?”
“Uh, no... no. This, um, redacting looks very useful.” He manages a smile. “I would not want to do anything wrong by accident. To break the law in this country.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Meena assures him. “Your auto knows what is and isn’t legal behaviour. It won’t let you get into any trouble.”
Michael can’t believe she isn’t even mentioning them. The laws that he won’t be allowed to break. The laws that came into force precisely four years ago today. Not even mentioned!
Happy anniversary, International Internet Regulations.
Last night, Michael tried using the Lee Berners auto to sign up to a discussion forum using a pseudonym. He tried to log on to the sexnets using a porn star’s pictures. He tried to leave a scathing one-star review about an Amazon eeBook that he hadn’t purchased. He tried to set up a bank account using a false name and address. He tried to search for instructions on how to build an explosive device using materials you can buy in the high street.
Unable to submit form.
Not authorised.
Access denied.
ID check incomplete.
No information available.
The IIR is always there, embedded in everyone’s systems, obscuring, blocking, redirecting. Walling in the internet.
And she hasn’t. Even. Mentioned. It.
“So! Do you have any questions?” she asks brightly.
Michael draws a huge breath, like he might be about to scream right in her face... then lets it out with a comical “Woooo!” sound, like that of a simple man bamboozled by all this modern jiggery-pokery, and Meena chuckles. She actually lays a hand on his arm, lightly touching the moko trail left by the turtle tattoo, and tells him he’ll be fine, he’ll soon get the hang of it, it’s a lot easier than it looks.
“You are very good at your job. You make it all look so simple.” Easy-going Cook Islands expression. The one he’s practised in the mirror for months.
Meena laughs again, perhaps flushing slightly. “Well, thank you! I suppose technology is something that just comes easily to me... I know it doesn’t to some people.”
“They would love you in Rarotonga. I should bring you back with me.”
Now she definitely reddens, looking away then back at him with an even bigger smile. “Well. Maybe one day I’ll go there?”
Michael holds her eyes, grinning, surprised to feel like he’s almost enjoying himself a little. It’s over. He’s done it. He’s set up an auto, a real one. One that will allow him to operate in Britain. So what the hell, he can afford to leave Meena with a warm glow at having impressed a foreigner.
He starts to stand up, saying “You will always have my thanks,” and the words die in his throat as blue lights suddenly flash across the store, reflecting off every wall and gadget and screen.
Michael’s heart kicks hard inside his chest.
He spins, looking over the top of the cubicle. Outside. Through the glass walls. On the street. Two police cars – sleek silver with red stripes, their light-bars flaring electric blue – are pulling up onto the kerb. An enormous police van cruises past, siren whooping in quick bursts. A siren he hadn’t heard inside the cubicle because the smartscreen emits noise-cancelling frequencies.
Michael drops back down into his seat. They’ve found him.
Oh shit they’ve bloody found him!
Meena hasn’t even noticed. “If there’s anything else I can help with...” she’s saying as she starts to rise.
Michael reaches up, fastens a hand on her shoulder and heaves her roughly back into her chair, making her yelp with surprise.
“Sit down.”
She stares at him. “What’s the – ?”
“Keep still! Don’t speak.” He looks out through the transparent cubicle. Everyone else in the store has stopped still, all turning towards the entrance. Black-uniformed police officers are swarming out of the vehicles.
Michael tries to swallow and can’t. Mouth dry, air like sandpaper in his throat. Think, have to do something, pulse slamming inside his ears, think think think, can’t get to the exits without being spotted, can’t get out of the store they’ll have it surrounded, he’s screwed, can’t get out, can’t get out!
He draws a shaky breath. Maybe, if there’s enough time, he can still get in.
“You... you’re hurting me!”
Meena’s eyes are pleading. He realises his hand is still on her slim shoulder, clenched hard. He lets go. Stares at her and places a finger on his lips. Warning her to be silent.
He pulls a tube of thick transparent plastic from one of his coat’s pockets. Unrolls the handheld tablet computer to full size. There’s a program running on it – it’s been running since he walked into the store’s wi-fi zone. Firewall demolisher. Surely by now it’s... no, only 68% complete. His stomach turns over queasily. They’ve got here too soon!
Only a few more minutes, before his tablet would have got past the security protecting Autotal Showroom’s network and given him unlimited access. Then he could have done what he needs to do. He could have gone for a coffee on the high street and done it at his leisure, taken his own sweet time. But the firewall demolisher isn’t finished, so he’s still locked out of the network.
He needs another way in. And fast.
Meena is trembling in the chair beside his. She recoils as he swivels round.
“Listen to me. I need you to log into the system. As an administrator.” He nods at the smartscreen.
“M... Mr Tepaki, if you’re in suh-some kind of trouble, maybe – ”
“Shut up!” Can’t she hear that his Maori accent has vanished? Can’t she see the foreigner isn’t here any more? “Just give me
access to the admin interface.”
Meena’s braided hair whips from side to side as she looks around in panic, trying to catch someone’s eye, find a way out, look for help –
“Meena.” He barks her name low and hard, like a rabbit-punch.
She freezes as she finally notices the Browning Hi-Power 9mm semi-automatic pistol.
It’s poking out from beneath the black coat on his lap. Aimed right at her.
Michael can feel his hand trembling. The handgun was heavy when he was walking around with it inside his coat, but now it weighs fifty tons. Like it’s the only solid object in a world that feels watery and unreal.
He leans closer and whispers “If you don’t log in right now, I’m going to gun down every single man, woman and child in here, starting with you.”
Her gigantic eyes snap from the pistol to his face. Then she turns to the smartscreen and taps the air to select icons. The bangles on her wrist jangle noisily, she’s shaking so much.
Michael glances behind him. Staff members in suits – management – emerge from the internal doors, looking alarmed. Every wide-eyed face in the store is awash with strobing blue lights. There are nine or ten police officers at the Autotal Showroom entrance, herding people back inside and talking to the security guards. On the street, more are setting up cordons on the pavement and blocking the traffic. They’re not an armed response unit, he notes, but their utility belts bristle with extendible batons, laser dazzlers, Taser stun-guns and God knows what else the British bobby struts around with these days. All are wearing bulletproof vests, with the protective faceplates inside their helmets pulled down, distorting their faces like badly-tuned television sets. They all look ready for a war.
They’re here for him.
He’d been so confident. Felt so safe. And then last night…
It had been just after midnight, with the fireworks and partying of New Year still going on outside his hotel window, that Michael had the shock of his life. Lee Berners was being probed!
They hadn’t locked down his online access. That would have been too obvious. But there were other signs Michael spotted – slow log-ins, odd delays – which to his expert eye gave away that he was being monitored closely.
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