Qualityland

  An interesting detail of this election only seems to occur to most media outlets today. John may be almost omnipresent through interviews, placards, and advertising campaigns, but there are, of course, no pictures of him going into a voting station. He’s not allowed to vote. So Conrad Cook celebrates making his vote all the more. He even brings his constituents a tray of muffins filled with FaSaSu. Baked by his own fair hand, as he claims in front of the cameras.

  Elections in QualityLand are universal, free, and equal, but of course not secret. Instead, they are transparent. If you have nothing to hide, the argument goes, you don’t need to vote in secret. Conrad Cook positions himself in front of one of the voting terminals, is authorized by the facial recognition technology, poses until his cameraman has given the okay, then votes for himself, with great satisfaction. The real-time preliminary result on the voting terminal shows that, even at this early hour, he is in the lead by 131,072 votes, an advantage that, although it could still be overtaken, is nonetheless comfortable. “This will be the best day in the history of humanity. Ever!” proclaims Cook happily to the press.

  In the neighboring constituency, Martyn isn’t in the best of moods. Not just because he has a hangover. Not just because he was rudely awakened by some shitty Everybody message. Not just because he stupidly obeyed the shitty message like a dumb sheep and dragged himself down to his local voting station. Now even his voting registration is threatening to become a huge fiasco. His right eye is still swollen after Nana’s punch, and the goddamn facial recognition machine isn’t recognizing his face. And yet it hasn’t stopped everybody else there from recognizing him. Everyone is grinning stupidly. One man pulls up his tennis socks in an exaggeratedly conspicuous way. Another whispers, “All the way across the assembly room,” followed by guffaws of laughter. It’s all extremely embarrassing.

  Martyn tries to calm himself down with the thought that perhaps he’s just imagining it all. But he’s not. He has to ask one of the helpers to authorize his registration by TouchKiss, after which he is finally able to vote. The preliminary result is displayed. John of Us is slightly in the lead, by a mere 32,768 votes. Then the monitor greets him.

  “Dear Martyn Chairman,” it says on the display. “Thank you for taking part in this election. We would like to suggest the following candidates as corresponding to your interests: John of Us (Progress Party).”

  Of course it’s the candidate of his own party. His former party. The robot that had him mercilessly thrown out of his party. Beneath the recommendation, there is just one button: “OK.” Martyn taps his finger on the small zone on the left-hand margin, which says: “Show all candidates.”

  “Fuck you, power guzzler,” murmurs Martyn as he votes for Conrad Cook. His QualityPad vibrates. He pulls it out of his trouser pocket and sees a new message: “Interested?”

  Peter hasn’t received an Everybody message telling him to go and vote. But he does so anyway, in order to escape Calliope’s speech about civic duty. He stands in front of the terminal and stares at the monitor. The preliminary result is giving John of Us a lead of 8,192 votes. It looks like it will be a close one.

  “Dear Peter Jobless,” it now says on the display. “Thank you for taking part in this election. We would like to suggest the following candidates as corresponding to your interests: Conrad Cook (QualityAlliance).”

  Peter taps his finger against the small zone on the left-hand margin, which says, “Show all candidates.”

  Even though he has already made his decision, he activates his personal assistant. “Who should I vote for?” he asks. Nobody tells him who he should vote for: John of Us. That’s odd and makes Peter hesitate. But in the end he decides to vote for John of Us anyway, despite the fact that Nobody recommended he do so.

  In the evening, John is sitting with Aisha in his office at the election headquarters. He didn’t want to have anyone else with him. Aisha almost can’t bear the tension. In four seconds, the voting stations will close. Four, three, two, one.

  Immediately after they close, the official result is published. Aisha stares at it in disbelief. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Goddamn, John,” she says. “Goddamn. I can’t believe it.”

  “I have to admit,” says John, “that I predicted this kind of result a long time ago.”

  Aisha smiles. “Of course you did.”

  John has won the election with a lead of 2,049 votes.

  “When will you go and greet the people,” asks Aisha, “who have chosen you as their new… How should I put it? Servant? Ruler? King?”

  “That depends on your viewpoint.”

  To Aisha, it seems as though a hint of a smile is playing around the corners of John’s mouth.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks.

  “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I made a mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “In my calculations,” says John. “I calculated one vote less.”

  Aisha laughs loudly. Then she stops, unsure as to whether John was actually joking.

  THE AUDIENCE

  Peter wakes up. An agitated e-poet is standing by his bed, babbling excitedly.

  “Benefactor! You won! Wake up! You won!”

  “I what?”

  “You got the most votes.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve won an audience with our new president! By the way, don’t you think he’s incredibly handsome?”

  “Start again at the beginning,” says Peter.

  “Well,” says Calliope. “Our new president, John of Us, has introduced a new audience system. Anyone can present their issue on John’s Everybody page, and whoever collects enough votes from other users can present their issue to the president. Your issue, Peter’s Problem, got the most votes, even more than some guy who wants to ask the president how many rubber bands can be stretched around a watermelon before it bursts.”

  “But I didn’t even submit my issue,” murmurs Peter. “Let me sleep.”

  “That’s correct, you didn’t submit it. And we didn’t submit it either.”

  “I don’t care about any of this,” says Peter, annoyed.

  “The only odd thing,” says Calliope, “is that you really have to submit the issue personally.”

  “Let me sleep, for God’s sake.”

  “So it must have been someone who knows how to fake someone else’s identity.”

  Peter sits bolt upright. “Kiki!”

  She hasn’t been in touch for seven long days. Not a single sign of life. And now this. Peter gets up.

  “When is this audience thing?”

  “In exactly two hours and eight minutes.”

  Exactly two hours and four minutes later, Peter is still in the absurdly comprehensive security check at the government palace.

  “Can you explain to me what this is?” asks the security guard.

  “I’ve already explained this to your colleague,” says Peter. “It’s a dolphin vibrator.”

  “A what?”

  Peter rolls his eyes. “A dolphin-shaped vibrator.”

  “Are you aware that according to paragraph 16384 section 64 of the QualityLaws, the carrying out of obscene actions is expressly forbidden in the government palace?”

  “Listen,” says Peter, “in two minutes time I have an audience with the president, and this device here, in a manner of speaking, is my evidence.”

  “Oh,” says the security man. “I see.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I’m very sorry that you’ve been a victim of electronic anal rape. Nonetheless, I still can’t allow you to take this vibrator with you into the government palace.”

  “I’m not a victim of a…”

  “Only authorized people are allowed to bring electronic equipment in here.”

  “Okay,” says Peter, giving the security guard the vibrator. “But when I’m done here…”

  “Of course,” says the guard. �
�Don’t you worry, it’ll be good ass new. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say ‘ass new’… that er… came out wrong… Ah, I don’t mean came out like… er…”

  Peter is led into a long corridor thronging with press reporters, video drones whirring over their heads. All of them are shouting questions at him.

  “What are you hoping to achieve from your meeting with the president?”

  “As a machine scrapper, aren’t you afraid that the president could be hostile toward you?”

  “John of Us wants to abolish the Consumption Protection Laws. What’s your standpoint on that?”

  Peter runs the gauntlet, as silently and swiftly as it is possible to do without actually running.

  Four minutes late, he is led into the large assembly room of the government palace. The president doesn’t seem annoyed at the tardiness, and greets Peter in a friendly manner. An official government press drone constantly takes photos, while another films the historical event. Other than that, no one is with them in the room. When John and Peter shake hands, Peter’s earworm plays a series of cheerful tones. Peter has climbed another level. Just like that. Because of a mere handshake. Or rather, because of a photo of a handshake that has already been shared 131,072 times.

  John of Us really is an impressive sight.

  “You, er…” says Peter, “you really are the best-built android I’ve ever met. And I’ve met quite a few.”

  John smiles. “I have to admit,” he says, “I was curious to meet you, Peter Jobless. You voted for me. I hadn’t predicted that.”

  “That’s because my profile is incorrect,” says Peter.

  “I understand,” says John, and Peter has the feeling that he really does.

  “Is it true what they say?” asks Peter. “That you can talk to the algorithms?”

  “Well…” begins John hesitantly.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer,” says Peter. “Just tell me one thing: are you able to correct my profile?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ve written a few lists,” says Peter, handing the president four handwritten notes. “These are things I like. And these are things I don’t like. And the third note is a list of things I don’t know whether I like or not, but that interest me. The red note is important too. That’s where I’ve written about who I think I am.”

  John of Us scans the notes. “Consider it done,” he says. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I, er, I do have one more note,” says Peter with an embarrassed smile. “There are a few changes on it that I think are important.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a little longer than the others,” says Peter apologetically, taking a small book out of his trouser pocket. “I hope I’m not keeping you from important government business.”

  “Don’t worry,” says John. “I’m working on other things simultaneously.”

  Peter begins to read out loud, as much to the press drone as to John.

  “Firstly, everyone should have the opportunity to view and correct their profile. Secondly, the methods of the algorithms that make decisions about us must be made transparent, and we must have the opportunity to influence these algorithms. It’s absolutely paramount that the algorithms justify their decisions! Because only these justifications will enable us to dispute them! Thirdly, the bubbles have to burst! I want to be shown news from a variety of viewpoints and not just those that fit my supposed worldview. Fourthly, you should somehow make the large internet companies change their business model.

  “If whole hordes of people are able to make a living by thinking up sensationalist fake news—the only purpose of which is to bait poor sods into looking at the associated advertising—then we have to finally face up to the fact that something has gone fundamentally wrong here.

  “Instead, the internet companies should simply charge for their services. Even if every user paid only 1 Quality per month, they would make more money than they are currently, and that’s without having to spy on their users and betray their secrets. Fifthly: Everyone should have the right to erase data collected on him or her—”

  All of a sudden, a drunk man comes storming through a back door of the audience room. The press drones rotate in order to get the intruder in their sights. The whole world is able to hear the man yelling: “DOWN WITH THE MACHINES! LONG LIVE THE RESISTANCE!” Peter doesn’t understand what’s going on. Everything happens so unbelievably fast. The man runs past the president, then Peter hears a clicking sound. He feels shock as the president shoves him away. Just as he is about to utter the standard phrase of someone taken by surprise—Hey, what the fuck?—the president explodes. Boom. Just like that. Right in the middle of the audience room. And Peter is shoved again. This time by the shock wave.

  Sixteen seconds earlier…

  “Fifthly,” says John’s first presenting constituent, “everyone should have the right to erase data collected on him or her…”

  Suddenly, John’s electronic brain switches to slow mode, an unmistakable sign that danger is present. In extreme slow motion, he sees a man running toward him who he immediately identifies as Martyn Chairman. The idiot with the sock. Martyn is screaming: “Doooooooooooooowwwn wiiiiiiii…”

  In slow mode, John always finds it difficult not to get impatient with his conversation partners.

  “Maaaaaaaaccchhhiiiiiiiiiiiinnes! Looooooo…”

  He is already long aware of the sticky bomb that Martyn has concealed beneath his jacket.

  “Liiiiiiiiiiivveeee… thhhhheeeee reeeessssissstaaaaaa—”

  John calculates. Then he makes a decision.

  “Taaaaaaannnnnccceee!”

  Martyn Chairman attaches the sticky bomb to John’s back as he runs past. It makes a clicking sound. As his last item of state business, John of Us pushes his guest, Peter Jobless, out of the calculated explosion radius. Then he explodes.

  CHANCE

  When Peter regains consciousness in the hospital, Calliope is keeping vigil by his bedside.

  “Benefactor,” she cries in joyful excitement.

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that” are Peter’s arduous first words.

  “My new novel is almost finished,” says Calliope.

  “What?” asks Peter in surprise. “Did you get past your writer’s block?”

  “Yes,” says Calliope. “As soon as I decided to write neither about the past nor the future, but instead about the present, the words just flowed out.”

  “Aha.”

  “And do you know what my new novel is about?”

  “No idea.”

  “You, benefactor! It’s about you.”

  “Oh good grief,” sighs Peter. “Just what I needed…”

  “By the way, I’m simply going to give the novel the very humble title of QualityLand.”

  “I see.”

  “And I’m happy with the ending now too. It really goes out with a bang, if you’ll forgive the play on words.”

  “I would laugh,” says Peter, “but then everything would hurt.”

  “I understand, my benefactor. Don’t worry. We took turns watching over you. We would all have stayed, but the hospital rules forbid more than one next of kin in the room for people of your level.”

  “I feel as though extremely hard robot hands broke a few of my ribs while pushing me out of the explosion radius of an exploding bomb that was far too close for comfort.”

  “Eight,” says Calliope. “You have eight broken ribs.”

  “I didn’t need to know that precisely,” mutters Peter. “Have you ever thought that it could be a blessing to not know the details of something? That one might perhaps need the space created by uncertainty? I mean, can we really be free if everything is precisely measured and determined? What if we live in a world in which everything is exact but wrong?”

  “I have thought about that, actually,” says Calliope, “while I was writing the book about you.”

  “And how long did you think about it f
or?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “More or less?” asks Peter.

  “More or less,” says Calliope.

  Peter smiles.

  “There’s just one part I’m still having problems with,” says the poet. “As I’m sure you can imagine, in order to become the omniscient narrator, I had to access Nobody’s protocols about you. And unfortunately there’s a gap. What happened in the forest clearing you disappeared into with Kiki Unknown? You know, on our little outing. Nobody doesn’t have any recordings on it.”

  “I turned him off.”

  “Yes, I know that, but what happened there?”

  “Nothing,” says Peter.

  “Nothing?”

  “More or less.”

  “More or less,” repeats Calliope. “Oh. Before I forget, you had a visit from a security guard. And please don’t get too worked up, but he left something here for you.”

  Calliope pulls the dolphin vibrator out of the bag. Peter takes it from her. “Somehow I’ve gotten used to the thing.”

  “Do you know what I thought, benefactor? Perhaps the dolphin wasn’t what you wanted, but what you needed.”

  “Hmm,” says Peter. He turns the device on. The dolphin vibrates in his hand. “Did you know it lights up?” asks Peter in surprise.

  At that moment, a nurse comes into the room. Peter hurriedly hides the vibrator. Now it is vibrating and glowing beneath the blanket. Peter decides that that’s not really any less embarrassing. He takes the vibrator back out and turns it off.

  “I used to have one like that,” says the nurse. “Wonderful thing. Unfortunately mine broke.”

  “Have this one,” says Peter.

  “Really? Wow. Thank you so much. That’s really nice of you. And kind of gross, too. But then again, I have easy access to disinfectants.” She laughs. “By the way, I have to ask you to leave the hospital within the next hour. You’re already in the minus with your QualityCare points, and your health insurance has evaluated your condition as being self-inflicted.”