Qualityland

IN THE SCRAP-METAL PRESS

By the time evening comes, Peter is wondering whether perhaps TheShop—“The world’s most popular online retailer”—will be able to simply ignore the shitstorm after all. Perhaps it’s just a shitstorm in a teacup. His demand for a meeting with Henryk Engineer may have gathered 2,097,152 kisses, but what use is that? The only reaction he has received from TheShop came from the service center. It was a picture of custard-shaped aliens. Peter couldn’t help admiring the lengths some people will go to in order to make fun of others.

Although he kept promising himself he would stop, today he has checked his Everybody profile on average every 6.4 minutes. By now, 40.96 percent of the comments are from hype jackers, who aren’t at all interested in the topic, but rather the hype in itself. Even when he closes his eyes, Peter can still see new comments flashing up. He is sitting with Calliope in his small kitchen-cum-bathroom and complaining. “I feel as though everybody in the world has expressed their opinion on my problem. Everyone apart from Henryk, of course.”

“That’s not the case,” says Calliope. “Another 8,589,934,592 people haven’t yet commented on your problem.”

“Those arseholes at TheShop are just sitting it out.”

“Yes,” sighs Calliope. “And to be honest I would have done the same in their position. Today’s hype is tomorrow’s old news. Believe me, benefactor. I’ve had to learn that the hard way. My second novel, for example…”

“Maybe a response has arrived by now,” says Peter.

“That’s very improbable,” says Calliope, but Peter has never been interested in probabilities. He picks up his QualityPad and calls up his newsfeed. Concealed amongst sixty-four emails from the lunatics lured by his newfound fame, Peter finds a rather hot naked picture from a pleasantly exhibitionist admirer. Peter is so fascinated by the picture, which is exceptional even from an artistic perspective, that he almost overlooks the other unusual message in his mailbox. It’s a plain text message. It says:

Dear Mr. Jobless,

I have followed your case with interest. As a former business partner of Henryk Engineer—and the emphasis lies on “former”—it’s possible I might be able to assist you in setting up your desired meeting. Attached you will find the coordinates of Henryk’s private address. Why don’t you pay him a visit? And perhaps you might feel like taking a weapon with you?

Best wishes, a friend.

PS: By the way, Henryk’s property is protected by Knox from Super Secure. But you seem to be a resourceful little chap.

Peter has to read the email twice before he is able to believe it. In the attachments, there is also a template for a pistol from a 3-D printer. While Peter’s thoughts race, the automatic door suddenly speaks up: “Peter, a young woman hidden behind sunglasses and a headscarf is currently pressing my bell very energetically and at a really unnecessary frequency. Perhaps you could take a look.”

“Okay, door,” says Peter.

He leaves the kitchen, tramps through the scrap-metal press into the loading area, and opens the door. Kiki is standing there, completely out of breath.

“Somebody fucked me,” she says. “Just like that. Out of nowhere.”

“What?” asks Peter. “You were raped? That’s terrible.”

“Eh?” asks Kiki. “Oh. No. My system was penetrated. I was hacked! Let me in.”

Peter steps aside. Kiki slips through the door and immediately closes it behind her. She takes off her headscarf and sunglasses.

“Do you have a safe room where we can speak in private?”

“We, er… could go into the scrap-metal press,” says Peter.

“What?”

“All connections to the net are blocked inside the press so that…”

“So that dying AIs don’t post disturbing messages,” says Kiki. “Of course. Makes sense. Okay, let’s go.”

Kiki steps into the press. Peter slips in behind her and closes the door. The press is so small that their bodies are touching. Peter could make the press bigger. But he doesn’t.

“I mean, you saw the videos,” says Kiki. “Of the wankers.”

“Yes, and?”

“Someone broke into my system and stole them.”

“And you think it was me?”

Kiki laughs so loudly that Peter wonders whether he should feel insulted.

“No,” says Kiki, wiping a tear of mirth out of her left eye. She slaps her hand gently against Peter’s chest. “You’re funny. No, it must have been a genius. It was my firewall, after all. It can’t be cracked by any average idiot. I’ll have to go underground, at least for a few days. Until I can get an overview of the damage.”

Peter can’t think clearly, because her body is pressed up against his. He can smell her shampoo. “Hmm?” he asks.

“I don’t know how much the hackers stole. I don’t know whether my identity has been exposed. I only know that the videos could appear on the net at any time. He’s already released one of them. And I know that many of the wankers will be persistent sons of bitches.”

Using all of his effort, Peter tries to raise his part of the conversation to more than one syllable.

“So now what?” he asks.

“I have to go underground.”

“Why don’t you offer to pay the wankers back the money they gave you?”

“Haha. Very funny. No. I have to go underground. And you know I want to stay unpredictable. No one would guess I’m with you.”

She stands on tiptoes and whispers in his ear: “And besides…”

Her lips touch his. Peter positively melts and would probably crash to the floor unconscious if there were space to do so. He feels dizzy. But perhaps that has something to do with the ever-lessening supply of oxygen inside the press. Kiki pulls her top over her head, banging her arms against the metal walls in the process.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t sleep with me because it was much too predictable?” asks Peter.

“It would be much too predictable if I always kept my word,” says Kiki.

Peter tries to pull off his socks. Socks first always, he remembers. But there isn’t enough room. Kiki unfastens his belt. His trousers slip down. They kiss. The doorbell rings. Peter ignores it. He tries to unhook Kiki’s bra. Maybe he should have made the press a little bigger after all. The doorbell rings. Kiki pauses.

“Perhaps they’ve found me…”

“Nonsense,” says Peter. “It’s probably just some idiot with a broken bread-buttering machine.”

He kisses her. The doorbell rings. Peter hears the muffled voice of the smart door.

“Peter! You have visitors. Please come out of the scrap-metal press. I’ve told you before that most customers find this behavior disturbing.”

Peter sighs and opens the door of the press. The oxygen that streams in clears his head a little. He looks at the security monitor. In front of the door is a wiry figure in a delivery uniform. Peter can’t make out the face; it’s turned away from the camera.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Maybe you’re right. The guy at the door is from a delivery service.”

“So what?” asks Kiki.

“I haven’t ordered anything.”

“Maybe he’s from TheShop, bringing you a banana vibrator.”

“TheShop doesn’t employ human delivery staff,” says Peter. “No one employs human delivery staff anymore!”

The man keeps ringing the bell. Then he hammers his fist against the door.

“Don’t open it, whatever you do,” says Peter. “I’m going to get Mickey!”

He runs downstairs. In the cellar, his machines are chilling in front of the monitor again, watching a film.

“Come with me!” he orders. “All of you. Mickey first!”

He pauses and glances at the television.

“Is that Jennifer Aniston?”

“It was Pink’s turn to choose!” grumbles Romeo.

“I just wanted to find out what all the hype was about,” says the QualityPad, trying to defend herself. “I…”

With a brief hand gesture, Peter silences Pink and runs back up the stairs. As he arrives there with his cohort, Kiki is already opening the door.

“What are you doing?” cries Peter.

“He says the old man sent him,” she says.

“What?”

The messenger has come into Peter’s shop. Not seeming the slightest bit unsettled by the combat robot behind Peter, he calmly unpacks a technical device and lays it out on the floor.

“The connection is encrypted,” he says, before leaving the shop again.

“What connection?” asks Peter.

Then a hologram begins to flicker above the device, and suddenly the old man appears in front of Peter and Kiki.

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says. “You’re my only hope!” Then he begins to chuckle.

“It’s astonishing that you still make so many Star Wars references, considering you thought the last sixteen films were shit,” says Kiki.

The old man glances at Peter’s undone belt, then at Kiki, who is in the process of smoothing her tousled hair.

“I hope I’m not keeping you teenagers from anything important,” he says. “I just wanted to see how you were. Well, in particular how Kiki is.”

“How did you find me?” asks Kiki.

“Oh, kiddo…” is the old man’s only response.

“I’m fine,” says Kiki. “And I know what you want from me.”

“Oh really?” asks the old man. “What’s that then?”

“Let’s get it over with, then you can turn yourself off again.”

“Get what over with?” asks Peter.

“My firewall had a weak spot,” says Kiki. “Come on. Say it.”

“It’s no fun that way,” says the old man.

Kiki waits.

“You’re robbing an old man of his only joy,” says the old man.

Kiki sighs. “Out with it already.”

“Okay, fine,” says the old man finally. “I told you so, kiddo.”

“Yes, you told me so.”

Kiki unfolds her notebook and begins to swipe around on it.

“I’m happy for you, by the way, that your crusade went so successfully,” says the old man to Peter.

“How do you mean, successfully?” asks Peter.

“Well,” says the man. “You got hold of Henryk Engineer’s secret address, at least.”

“Do you read my messages?”

“Only the relevant ones.”

“Excuse me?”

“You also got a rather hot naked picture,” says Kiki. “You stared at it for a whole 128 seconds. But it really was very tasteful, admittedly.”

“You read my emails too?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

“Is there anybody in this room who doesn’t read my private messages?”

Peter’s machines stare bashfully at the floor. Those who are capable of doing so, at least.

“Mickey?” asks Peter.

Mickey shrugs apologetically.

“Unbelievable!”

“So what now?” asks Kiki.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you want to pay Henryk a little visit?”