Soon, both authorised their autos to unlock some privacy settings. They shared more details about their tastes and preferences, leading to some heavily flirtatious banter. Before long they both agreed to swap their sexnet settings. For the past day, the two autos have been simulating sex, using private data logged from years of past encounters, both actual and virtual. The results came in table form.
When Joanna saw the number of orgasms Greg had given her, she knew it was time to meet for a drink.
Sitting in the back of the taxi as it edges through traffic, Joanna checks Greg’s timeline again. She wonders if he’s revealed any more about himself following their autos’ simming, and is mildly surprised to find that he hasn’t. Well, that tells her that he’s the sensible type and knows how to keep firm control of his own data. She approves – nothing worse than someone who blabs their whole life story at you. A little mystery about a new man is exciting.
Joanna taps her chin. She could, of course, go digging.
Properly digging, not just curating what’s already out there. She could pry. Get past security settings and firewalls. Download records about his online behaviour. Find out every tiny little secret.
It’s her job. She’s very good at it.
But... no. That’s taking it too far. Joanna knows when to leave work behind.
For a second, some odd icons flash on and off in the corner of her auto display, too fast and faint for her to take in. She wonders what they mean, but then the taxi accelerates through some traffic lights and it brings the bloodrush back. She’s got to admit that Greg’s one of the most appealing men she’s ever... well, not met yet, but soon. Boyfriend material, definitely, but possibly more. Possible partners. What was it he said in one of his PMs?
Something tells me we have a
lot in common. Not sure how
I’ve got this far without you!
Joanna had flagged that message as a milestone, for easy access. Maybe one day she’d look back at it as the beginning of something? She smiles wryly to herself. Her friends are right, she’s still a hopeless romantic at heart.
7.02pm Thursday 7 April 2022
Joanna O’Donnell is on
Hampstead Road, London NW1
7JE.
“Here’s fine,” says Joanna as the taxi passes Mornington Crescent Tube station. They’re the first words she’s spoken to her driver, who grunts and pulls over, unlocking the door so she can step out onto the pavement. Nothing else is said as she slams the door behind her, walking ahead while the taxi drives off. Paid in full.
Her auto displays a map overlaid on the busy street, arrows telling her to cross over to the other side, walk 81 metres in a straight line along Camden High Street, turn right and walk another 32 metres down Plender Street to reach The New Parrs Head pub. Although she could have avoided this additional walk, she didn’t want Greg to see her get out of a cab – he might not approve, and besides, she’ll make a better impression if he sees her walking up. She knows she looks good when she’s walking. She’s a few minutes late, but stops herself from increasing her pace. It’s not good to be too punctual.
Halfway there, Joanna spots a girl waiting at a bus stop and gives her a second glance. She’s wearing one of the new Duckback nanoweave hood-coats that being talked about right now. (Literally, right now: ‘Duckback’ is trending this hour.) Not only is it stylishly cut and classy, it’s totally waterproof. Something to do with silicon fibres that stop water molecules from clinging onto the surface. Rain just streams off, and the coat doesn’t even get damp. Made in Britain, made for Britain!
She triple-blinks at it, so all the data that the Duckback coat is constantly transmitting about itself gets displayed on her Vades™. Size. Colour. Price. A video of the TV advert. Her auto remarks that five people in her Circle already own this coat and seven have it on their future purchases list. It also identifies all local retailers currently selling it, and highlights a shop right here in Camden High Street, a mere 48 metres away. In fact she has to walk past it on her way to the pub.
Tempted. But then a private message pops up. Her auto is screening out all PMs unless they’re important, and as this is from Greg himself, it’s decided that counts. Joanna dismisses the coat and blinks open the message.
I’m here, managed to be on
time for once in my life! Glass
of Pinot Blanc for you?
Looks like she isn’t the only one who’s done her research. Pinot Blanc is Joanna’s favourite wine. Usually there’s a glass waiting at the bar by the time she walks in, her auto having ordered and paid for it in advance. It feels gentlemanly to have someone order a drink for her. Nice touch. Greg’s sweet.
“Yes please! I’m on my way, almost there!” she says, and then changes her mind. That will sound like she’s dying to meet him. “Wait. Redact. New message: How thoughtful. Thank you.”
Joanna nods as she blink-sends her reply. She’s surprised that she originally said something so bubbly and eager, so... so bloody Irish. Hasn’t eight years in London taught her anything? That’s not how it works here. She can be as cool as anyone. She’s a native now.
Another PM comes in:
I’m such an idiot, just spilled
Guinness on my trousers and it
looks like I’ve peed myself,
please come and rescue me!
Joanna’s startled by her own laughter, at how much it sounds like Siobhan’s teenage giggles. What’s happened to her! Something about Greg makes her forget her big-city demeanour. She can tell that her face is flushing red. She actually feels a little vulnerable, but in a nice way, a tingly way.
She’s excited. This is going to be a good night.
7.10pm Thursday 7 April 2022
Joanna O’Donnell is on Plender
Street, London NW1 0JN.
Joanna has turned off the busy high street and can see The New Parrs Head on the corner. It’s a modern building designed to look like an old pub, so it will probably have working toilets, something of a rarity in Camden. People are passing in and out which means it’s busy, good. Time to make her entrance.
There’s a smile on her face as she straightens her back and walks towards the door, reaching out for the handle.
Homicide Index: 24%
She stops, frowning at the new line of text displayed inside her Vades™. What’s this?
She says “Clarify update.”
There is a 24% chance that
Greg Randall will be the killer
of Joanna O’Donnell.
Joanna turns away from the door and just stands there on the pavement, seemingly staring into space. But actually she’s staring at the words digitally outlined across her view of the ordinary London street.
She says “What’s going on?”
There’s no response. Her auto won’t understand such a generic question, not even if she puts it into interface mode. She knows that. Not thinking straight.
What on earth is this? Homicide Index?
There are a number of social indices that automatically calculate suitability between people, comparing a million different things and working out how close a match they might be based on what they have in common, but she hasn’t seen anything like this before, and never mind all that because her auto is telling her that the man waiting inside this pub, right at this very moment, is going to...
Going to kill her.
No, that’s stupid, ridiculous, that can’t actually mean he...
...will be the killer of Joanna O’Donnell.
She can hear her own pulse, thudding in her ears, and there’s a funny taste in her mouth. She feels weird. Confused. What’s her auto playing at? What’s changed?
She says “Greg Randall profile.”
Greg Randall
Gender: Male
Age range: 31-35
Orientation: Straight
Relationship status:
Single/Available.
Homicide Index: 24%
Comp
atibility Index: 65%.
For a second, Joanna could almost laugh. Her auto has adjusted their see-eye downwards as a result of the possibility that he might kill her, but it’s still 65%. She’s dated far worse.
But she doesn’t feel like laughing.
She says “Display data for... Jesus... Homicide Index result.”
Multiple windows spew across her vision, almost totally obscuring the real world. Joanna stands still and tries to take it all in. Right up front is a profile of someone she’s never seen before: a pretty young woman with long silky black hair, big brown eyes and a happy smile. Her picture is partially faded with a faint X over it. Joanna knows what that means. Her heart beats faster.
Roxanna Alden
Gender: Female
Age range: 26-30
Orientation: Straight
Relationship status:
Dead/Unavailable.
Date of death: Wednesday 17
February 2021
Joanna and Roxanna have one friend in common. Greg.
Feeling fractionally uneasy – the sort of feeling she used to get as a kid dragged along to family funerals, walking through Dublin Cemetery and reading the inscriptions on the mouldy gravestones – Joanna scrolls backwards through the profile history. She knows, better than anyone, that a person’s timeline doesn’t stop with death. They can continue making an impression on the world, their online profile serving as a focal point for those left behind. Just like gravestones, in a way. Digital gravestones that answer back.
Roxanna’s timeline is no different. Over the past year, it’s full of messages from the people she knows... knew, Joanna reminds herself. Family members, friends, colleagues, workmates, acquaintances, even a few complete strangers. All honouring Roxanna’s memory.
Telling her they miss her. Telling her they will never forget her. Telling her a girl as beautiful and full of life as her should never have been taken from us so soon.
And Roxanna’s auto has replied to them all.
Thank you, Ron Wagner, you
were such a true friend. Love
you always.
Cheers Janine Sorenson, our
Holiday in Crete 2019 was the
most fun I ever had in my life!
And yes I think you should ask
out the guy with the bike!
Stay gorgeous, chick!
Mum, you were the best, but
please carry on with your life.
Dad needs you now. Remember
me, but let me go. XXX
Just the usual stuff. Joanna’s auto is pre-set with similar response templates, which will kick in after she’s gone. In the last couple of years, people have got used to communicating with the autos of dead people. And of course, there’s plenty of nasty types who always think they’re being funny, saying they get on with them much better now they’re dead.
But there are no messages from Greg on her profile, not in the past year. What was their connection? Joanna scrolls further back through Roxanna’s timeline, crossing over Wednesday 17th February 2021 into the part when she was alive, and discovers that she used to be his... oh God...
Ex.
Now the timeline tells the story. Roxanna was in a relationship with Greg for about 18 months, captured online in a thousand ways, like extinct butterflies frozen in amber. Messages between each other, photos of them together, slushily romantic status updates. Both of their statuses were set to Couple/Monogamous the whole time. Must have been serious.
Joanna can’t help but notice that he took her to New Zealand. Twice.
And yet, she hadn’t come across any sign of this when she’d looked through Greg’s timeline. Which means he redacted it. Removed all trace of her from his own personal history. Like he didn’t want to be reminded of what they once had, perhaps… Joanna’s done the same with ex-boyfriends she’d rather pretend she never met. But Greg couldn’t erase the memories from Roxanna’s timeline. Here, the butterflies were as colourful and lively as ever.
Neither of them gave anything away publically as to why their relationship ended, but their statuses went back to Single/Available on the same day. It looks like they came to an agreement without discussing it openly amongst their Circles. Unusual.
Then Roxanna died. A month later.
Amongst the slew of information across her Vades™ is a Metropolitan Police crime report, which Joanna skims through. The summary states that she was a murder victim, apparently resulting from an attempted mugging in her own street, since all valuables were missing from the body. There was no conviction. The case is closed, but remains unsolved.
So... does her auto think that Greg is the one who killed Roxanna? Is that why it now claims –
Homicide Index: 24%
There is a 24% chance that
Greg Randall will be the killer
of Joanna O’Donnell.
More details soon...
More details soon? “What does that mean?” She’s surprised to hear her own voice. “How come you know all this!”
Unless...
“...Shit.”
Suddenly she realises why this might be happening. What her auto could be doing.
Joanna takes off her Vades™ and rubs her eyes. She looks around at the unfiltered world as if she’s been underground for days. She backs away from the pub door, half-expecting Greg to emerge, and finds herself walking back up Plender Street towards the main road. Walking quickly. Striding. Breaking into a sprint over a zebra crossing.
She tries not to look back over her shoulder. Fails. There’s no sign of Greg. He’s probably sitting in the pub right now, looking expectantly towards the door, a large glass of Pinot Blanc next to his pint of Guinness. All ready for their date.
She runs away.
7.17pm Thursday 7 April 2022
Joanna O’Donnell is on
Camden High Street, London
NW1 7JH.
Feeling better for being surrounded by people, Joanna slows as she walks towards the Camden branch of Fit, a popular clothes store. She folds up her Vades™ and stuffs them into her handbag. She needs something bigger for what she’s got in mind.
As with most modern shops, there’s a lot of open space and clean white walls inside Fit. Only a handful of mannequins and actual clothes on display. But one wall is made up of ultra-high definition monitors displaying shoes, underwear, blouses, t-shirts, skirts, dresses and jeans. The UDTV screens are such crystal-sharp resolution, it feels like the customers could reach out and touch whatever’s on them. Which, since the monitors are interactive, is precisely what they do.
The shop is full of women doing a little after-work shopping, flicking through Fit’s catalogues for something to try on or buy. There are a few shop assistants offering help and advice, but no queues for the payment desk. No payment desk at all, since the shop knows precisely who each customer is, and debits their account the moment they walk out of the shop with whatever they want to buy. They’re playing Public Property’s new single in the background, the one with the post-dubporch beat. Fast music encourages customers to make fast choices.
Joanna needs privacy. She walks further into the shop towards a row of cubicles at the back, steps into one and shuts the door. Instantly a full-length mirror lights up. Overlaid onto her reflection are clothes from the Fit catalogue that are not only her size, but also similar to previous purchases. The store has read her timeline – it knows what she likes. She only has to select one and an assistant will bring it to her cubicle to physically try on. First in the list of suggestions is a Duckback hood-coat, identical to the one the girl at the bus stop was wearing, offered with a personal 10% discount if Joanna buys it today.
She’s startled at the sight of her own face in the mirrorscreen. Eyes wide, mouth tight, skin pale. She looks frightened.
Don’t be such a stupid little girl, she tells herself, shaking her head. Get to work.
Connected to the two-metre mirrorscreen is a narrower sidescreen, just like t
he ones on TVs. A modern shop like Fit knows its customers won’t want to be denied access to their online lives while trying on virtual clothes. Joanna’s auto appears on the sidescreen, displaying her profile. And...
There is a 45% chance that
Greg Randall will be the killer
of Joanna O’Donnell.
More details soon...
Her breath locks in her chest. It’s gone up! 45%!
The cubicle suddenly feels tiny, boxing her in. Her reflection looks frightened. Oh sweet Jesus, was I about to meet my own murderer...?
No, she thinks, stop it you silly bitch! You know what’s going on here, don’t you?
She needs space to work. Normally she would just drag her auto from sidescreen to mainscreen, but you can’t do that in a store. Unless you know the tricks that Joanna knows. She taps a few icons and disables the cameras inside the mirrorscreen, causing her ‘reflection’ to vanish. Then she goes into her auto’s settings and enables the direct interface. Some ancient piece of code insists that auto interfaces always default to the largest available monitor, so suddenly the top half of the mirrorscreen is filled with something simple, outlined in electric blue.
Joanna O’Donnell auto
interface ready.
The bottom half shows the information that had filled her Vades™. Police reports, blogs, newsfeeds. Every scrap of data about Roxanna Alden’s death.
Joanna opens her mouth to ask her auto a direct question, quickly realising that people in neighbouring cubicles might hear it. With a two-handed beckoning gesture, she activates the screen’s airboard. Her fingers tap silently onto empty space, causing digital text to type across the interface.
Do you think Greg will kill me
because he may have killed
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