Qualityland

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.