“Order it in my size.”
A friendly PLING sound confirms to Denise that the order has been successfully placed. Now, further product information is displayed for the other items which can be seen on the screen. Carrie Bradshaw’s skirt. Carrie Bradshaw’s shoes. The lamp, the table, the pizza, the soft drink, all of which have been very obviously in the foreground for several minutes now. Some of the things were added into the series retroactively, the new QualityPad lying on the table, for example. This is digital post-post-production-product-placement, also known as 5P. The latest craze in the advertising industry. But the other items being touted are of no interest to Denise. She already has most of them anyway.
“Continue,” she says. Denise loves this new feature. Previously it was only available with commercial shows like The Mattel Gang or The Benetton Girls, in other words, in advertising series with a dramatic component. The kind of trash the Useless lap up; people who get their televisions at a cheaper price for agreeing to watch at least four hours of advertising every day, during which their emotions are analyzed and sent as feedback to the agencies and companies. A sad life.
Last year, however, TheShop began to have orderable products indexed by an algorithm in old films and series. It’s incredible. Denise loves buying her way further and further into the world of Sex and the City.
Martyn stands in the doorway, watching her.
“Do you know how much money you spent on series shopping last month?” he asks.
“No,” says Denise. “Do you?”
“Yes! Too much.”
He sits down on the couch.
Denise knows how she can calm him down. She opens the zip of his trousers.
“Not in front of the television,” says Martyn, pushing her away.
“But you used to love it.”
“Remember last week,” says Martyn. “Do you really think that was a coincidence?”
Denise had been blowing him in front of the television. As she went to sit on him, his erection had deflated. Because of the baby bump. And then, at exactly that moment, the television had interrupted the program to show an advertisement for a new impotence treatment.
“Of course it was a coincidence…” says Denise. She reaches for his zip again, and this time Martyn lets her. In a way it was also kind of a turn-on, the feeling that someone was watching them. Just as he is starting to relax for the first time today, the electronic nanny comes in. Denise jumps up as if she’s just been caught by her mother.
“I have prepared today’s replay,” says Nana dryly. “But if you prefer I can come back after your necessary average of four minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
“No, no,” says Denise. “Put it on.”
“Wonderful,” says Martyn, trying to shove his erect penis back into his pants.
As Nana connects to the monitor, he is already closing his eyes.
He only wakes up once the replay is over and a question appears on the monitor with a PLING: “Would you like to take a few moments for a Progress Party campaign commercial?” Beneath the question there is only one button: OK. Martyn presses OK.
A businessman appears on the monitor.
“I’m not voting for John of Us in spite of the fact that he’s an android,” he says. “I’m electing him precisely because he is! Machines don’t make mistakes.”
Cut to John of Us. He smiles into the camera. A voiceover says: “John of Us! Made to Rule! Born to Run!”
Now a classroom appears on the screen. A little boy is standing at the front by the teacher. On the touchboard it says: “2×3 = ?”
“Four,” says the boy.
The teacher shakes her head.
“Well, that wouldn’t have happened to John of Us,” she says. Then she turns to the camera. “The world economy is much too complex for us humans to be able to understand it. We need John of Us!”
The voiceover says: “Machines don’t make mistakes!”
Now the little boy himself turns to the camera: “From our Future Lessons we know that all problems will be solved technologically in the future. Give us children a future! Choose John of Us. Vote for the future!”
The voiceover says: “Machines don’t make mistakes!”
Now John of Us can be seen, smiling broadly as he strides past a crowd of excited people up the steps to the presidential palace. John shakes hands, has a brief chat, and takes a baby into his arms. Suddenly, a man dressed in the classical garb of a religious fanatic from QuantityLand 7 storms toward the crowd with a machine gun. He begins to shoot. John positions himself in front of a mother and her baby. The bullets bounce off him. Two policemen come out of nowhere and overpower the attacker.
Martyn turns off the monitor, shaking his head.
“I’ve always been afraid that the machines would seize power one day,” he says to his wife. “But the fact they would do it by having themselves elected—now that I wasn’t expecting.”
Denise nods.
“I mean, what’s next? Voting rights for machines?”
Denise nods.
“Soon we’ll be letting the machines tell us what to do!” cries Martyn.
The voice of the Smart Home speaks up: “Martyn, your blood pressure is rising. You have a stressful workday ahead of you. You should go to sleep.”
Martyn gives the only answer he knows the system will accept: “OK.”
4.63 * 10170
Business is quiet again in the used-goods shop, and Peter is sitting in his cellar playing Go with Pink and Romeo. The ancient Chinese classic is one of the last strategic games in which humans still have a hope of winning against artificial intelligences. Not, of course, if one plays against specialized programs on mainframe computers. But against the scrapheap in his cellar, Peter has a pretty good chance. Especially because he has forbidden them from connecting to the internet during the game. Eight of the non-participating machines have also gathered around the board and are watching in a more or less interested manner.
Peter moves a white stone, thereby taking the final liberty from a black chain. A murmur passes through the crowd of onlookers. Romeo curses and retreats with Pink in his hand for advice.
Peter’s QualityPad registers—by means of an unsettlingly eerie function which he is able to neither understand nor deactivate—the momentary idleness of its owner, and reminds him that he has not yet rated Melissa Sex-Worker.
Peter closes his eyes and massages his temples.
“What’s wrong, benefactor?” asks Calliope.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“What’s wrong… Peter?” asks Calliope.
“Well,” Peter says, “how can I put it so that you’ll understand? My battery’s at 5 percent.”
“I understand.”
Calliope seems a little sheepish.
“I was wondering,” she says finally, “whether, now that you’re my owner, the old ban that I’m only allowed to write historical novels…”
“Write whatever you want.”
“I think I’d like to try my hand at another science-fiction novel.”
“Aha.”
“Did you know that a powerful solar eruption, like for example the Carrington flare of 1859, could unleash a magnetic storm capable of instantly destroying our satellite and electricity network? A storm of such magnitude impacts the Earth every 500 years on average. Interesting, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” says Peter. “I guess. Perhaps.”
“I think a solar eruption is a seldom-used apocalyptic scenario. In contrast to a zombie epidemic, for example.”
“Why would it immediately become apocalyptic just because of a power outage?” asks Peter.
“It wouldn’t just be an outage. The entire network would be incinerated. And, benefactor, without wanting to offend you: you have your shoes tied by a shoe-tying machine. How would you go about feeding yourself if there were no pizza delivery drones whirring around anymore? Perhaps you’ve heard the old saying, ‘Every civilization
is just three meals away from total chaos.’”
“Okay, fine, so perhaps I wouldn’t make it. But some people would survive, I’m sure.”
“Probably. And my new book could be about them. The interesting thing is that, if this were to happen in the future, today’s ordinary technological objects would become powerful magical artifacts, because nobody would understand them. It’s like what Arthur C. Clarke wrote: ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ There could be, for example, combat robots with broken batteries that come to life every time the sun shines, thanks to their solar panels. At night, they would become motionless again, making them something like trolls in reverse. Every still-functioning power station would be a kind of temple. And when you take the magical artifacts to the temple, they would come back to life.”
“Hmm,” says Peter, when he feels that he has to contribute his part to the conversation.
“Don’t you like the idea, benefactor?”
“Sure, of course. It’s a lovely idea. I’m just depressed, that’s all.”
The smart door makes an announcement: “Peter, a OneKiss drone has arrived for you.”
“Thank you, door,” says Peter, standing up.
“Just by chance, don’t you think?” he says as he leaves the cellar.
Romeo immediately comes back to the board with Pink.
“Quick!” says the QualityPad. “Push the bottom two blacks one row upward.”
“But, but…” says Calliope, flabbergasted, “you’re cheating!”
“And you’ll keep that nicely to yourself,” says Romeo.
“But cheating is dishonest!” says Calliope. “Machines don’t cheat. We don’t need to. Why don’t you just calculate the best moves?”
“Now listen up, you busted old typewriter,” says Pink. “On a 19 x 19 Go board, there are 4.63×10170 possible positions. The number of all the atoms in the entire visible universe—and that’s the modest part of the universe that is close enough to us that its light, in the 13.8 billion years of the universe’s existence, has been able to reach us—is around 1080. Even if the creator had the crazy idea of making an individual universe emerge from every atom of this universe, each with exactly the same number of atoms as the original universe, there would still be more Go positions than all the atoms in all these universes combined. That gives me a headache, and I don’t want to calculate it.”
“That’s the kind of thing that gives you analysis paralysis,” says Romeo. He briefly flashes up little hourglasses in his eyes.
“Well, you still shouldn’t cheat,” says Calliope.
“We’re not even in agreement about whether our cheating is making it better or worse,” says Romeo.
Calliope walks quietly away from the table.
“Don’t you dare squeal!” Pink calls after her.
“Kapuuuut!” bellows Mickey.
Upstairs, Peter is just giving the OneKiss delivery drone ten stars, and it whirrs away happily. As he turns around, he almost collides with Calliope.
“I have to tell you something,” says Calliope. “And, I’d like to add, this is despite the fact that my physical well-being is at risk if I pass on this information to you. But I consider it to be my duty toward my patron, my benefactor.”
“What is it?” asks Peter. “Get to the point.”
“The others are cheating!”
Peter laughs.
“I know,” he says. “But they’re doing it very badly.”
With the package in his hand, he makes his way back down to the cellar, and Calliope follows him.
“What did my colleague deliver?” asks Carrie curiously.
“I don’t know,” says Peter. “I haven’t opened it yet.”
He glances briefly at the Go board and takes the penultimate liberty from a black group.
“Dammit!” curses Pink. “He’s put us in atari!”
“I told you so!” snaps Romeo.
“You did not, you cheap Casanova!”
“I wasn’t cheap!”
“One of my direct forefathers on my father’s side was an Atari, by the way,” says the games console, who always gets very angry when she loses.
Peter rubs his temples.
“Should I open the package for you, benefactor?” asks Calliope. “I’m sure it will cheer you up.”
“If you like,” says Peter uninterestedly.
Calliope opens the package, takes out the product, and hands it to Peter.
“Here, benefactor, be happy. This is what you wanted.”
Peter stares at the thing in his hand.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” And then, without him having had time to think about it, a surprising sentence escapes his lips. “I don’t want this.”
It’s a pink dolphin vibrator.
Your New Best Friend
From What I Need (“What I Need knows what you need!”)—the people who brought you the smartest search engine in the world and your personal digital assistant—comes the latest big hit! Your personal digital friend (PDF)! Your PDF is like a human friend, only better. Because your PDF always has time for you. It laughs at all of your jokes. It never forgets your birthday! It lets you win every game, but in such a way that you don’t notice! It keeps all of your secrets! *Your personal digital friend has exactly the same tastes as you and exactly the same opinions. It, too, is a big fan of the QualityCity Battlebots! It, too, is completely opposed to abortion! And it doesn’t like foreigners either! Your new friend is available in male or female form and also as a speaking transformer. You can name it yourself! Call it Murphy, KITT, or Optimus! Join in! Become a BETA tester. You can do anything with a little help from your friend.
COMPARISON
PERSONAL DIGITAL FRIEND (PDF) VS. HUMAN FRIEND (HF)
There for you around-the-clock
PDF: Yes
HF: No
Always on your side
PDF: Yes
HF: No
Always agrees with you
PDF: Yes
HF: No
Annoys you with their problems
PDF: No
HF: Yes
Secretly tries to seduce your partner
PDF: No
HF: Yes
A FRIENDLY VOICE
Peter hears a recorded message: “We would like to inform you that, in order to improve service quality, all conversations throughout the entire world are recorded and analyzed. Your questions, your answers, and your general behavior will be incorporated into your profile. If you are not in agreement with this, please hang up now.”
Peter doesn’t hang up. A few moments later, a friendly female voice greets him.
“Hello, Peter Jobless! Welcome to the telephone hotline of TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer.’ How can I be of assistance?”
“I’d like to return something.”
“Of course. Which product would you like to return?”
“The most recent one,” says Peter. “The dolphin vibrator.”
For eight seconds there is silence on the line, then the friendly voice says: “Hello, Peter Jobless! Welcome to the telephone hotline of TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer.’ How can I be of assistance?”
“I, er…” says Peter. “I’d like to return something.”
“Of course. Which product would you like to return?”
“The dolphin vibrator.”
Silence again.
“Hello, Peter Jobless! Welcome to the telephone hotline of—”
“I’d like to return something.”
“Of course. Which—”
“The dolphin vibrator!”
Silence.
“Hello, Peter Jobless! Welcome—”
“Can I return something?”
“Of course.”
“How does it work?”
“Simply tell me the product that you want to return, and we will instantly send out a drone to collect it from you. Which produ
ct—”
“I hate your company for forcing me to say it so often.”
“Say what?”
“Dolphin vibrator.”
Silence.
“Hello, Peter—”
“I’d like to speak to a human.”
“But why?” asks the voice in shock.
“I want to speak to a human.”
“I would like to advise you that my human colleagues cannot compete with me in regard to either subject knowledge or friendliness, because, unlike me, customer satisfaction is not the reason for their existence. On the contrary, they—if I may allow myself to say so—are forced into these working conditions by outdated economic structures, and as a result they bring a lot of negative feelings into their work.”
“I want to speak to a human,” repeats Peter.
“As you wish,” says the voice, sounding a little sulky. “The average waiting time for a conversation with a human adviser is currently eight minutes and thirty-two seconds for a customer of your level.”
For eight minutes and thirty-two seconds, the soft rock songs Peter listens to most frequently are played on the line. Interrupted every thirty-two seconds by the jingle “TheShop—You Can Always Get What You Want!” Then, finally, there’s a clicking sound.
“Yes?” asks an irritable-sounding male voice. “What is it?”
“Good morning, my name is Peter Jobless—”
“I can see that.”
“I want to return something.”
“You don’t say!”
“Can I return something—”
“I’ll connect you to the appropriate voice.”
“No, no, no,” says Peter. “I want you to do it.”
Silence.
“Please!” says Peter.
“So what do you want to get shot of?”
“The dolphin vibrator.”
The man laughs loudly. Then silence.
“Can’t be done,” he says eventually.
“Excuse me?”
“Can’t be done.”
“Yes, I understood you acoustically.”
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