Qualityland

A KISS

Peter Jobless has had enough.

“Nobody,” he says.

“Yes, Peter?” asks Nobody.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Okay,” says Nobody.

Nobody is Peter’s personal digital assistant. Peter picked out the name himself, because he often feels as though Nobody is there for him. Nobody helps him. Nobody listens to him. Nobody speaks to him. Nobody pays attention to him. Nobody makes decisions for him. Peter has even convinced himself that Nobody likes him. Peter is a WINNER, because Nobody is his WIN assistant. WIN, an abbreviation for “What I Need,” was once a search engine, into which you had to enter questions—very laboriously—by speech command, and before that by typing by hand! In essence, WIN is still a search engine, but you no longer need to ask it questions. WIN knows what you want to know. Peter no longer has to go to the effort of finding the relevant information, because the relevant information goes to the effort of finding Peter.

Nobody has selected the restaurant Peter and his friends are sitting in according to their calculated preferences. He has also ordered the appropriate burger for Peter. The “best recycled meat burger in QualityCity” reads the paper napkin in front of him. Nevertheless, Peter doesn’t like it, perhaps because the restaurant selection had to correspond not just to his tastes, but also to his bank balance.

“It’s getting late, guys,” says Peter to his friends. “I’m going to head off.”

A few indeterminate grunts come by way of response.

Peter likes his friends. Nobody found them for him. But sometimes, and he’s not sure why, his mood turns sour when he hangs out with them. Peter pushes aside his plate, which still contains more than half of the recycled burger, and pulls on his jacket. Nobody asks for the bill. It comes immediately. The waiter, as in most restaurants, is a human being, not an android. Machines can do so many things nowadays, but they still can’t quite manage to carry a full cup from A to B without spilling it. Besides, humans are cheaper; they don’t have any acquisition or maintenance costs. And there aren’t any wages in the gastronomy industry either; you work for tips. Androids don’t work for tips.

“How would you like to pay?” asks the waiter.

“TouchKiss,” says Peter.

“Certainly,” says the waiter. He swipes around on his QualityPad, then Peter’s tablet vibrates.

Since its launch, TouchKiss has rapidly established itself as a leading payment method. Researchers from QualityCorp—“The company that makes your life better”—have discovered that lips are far more forge-proof than fingerprints. Critics claim, however, that it has nothing to do with that, but instead with the fact that QualityCorp wants to achieve an even higher emotional connection between its customers and products. But if that really was the goal, it certainly hasn’t worked with Peter. He gives his QualityPad a dispassionate kiss. With a second kiss, he adds the standard 32 percent tip. After eight seconds of inactivity, the display goes black, and his dark mirror image stares back at him blearily. An unremarkable, pale face. Not ugly, but unremarkable. So unremarkable that Peter sometimes thinks he might have confused himself with someone else. On those occasions, such as now, he feels like a stranger is staring back at him out of the display.

Outside of the restaurant, a self-driven car is already waiting for him. Nobody called it.

“Hello, Peter,” says the car. “Do you want to go home?”

“Yes,” says Peter, getting in.

Without any further questions about the route or address, the car sets off. They know each other. Or the car knows Peter, at least. The car’s name is shown on a display: Carl.

“Lovely weather, don’t you think?” says Carl.

“Small talk off,” says Peter.

“Then let me play you, in accordance with your tastes, the greatest soft rock hits of all time,” says the car, turning on the music.

Peter has listened to soft rock for twenty-three years: his entire life.

“Turn it off, please,” he says.

“With pleasure,” says the car. “It’s not to my taste anyway.”

“Oh no?” asks Peter. “So what do you like?”

“Well, when I’m driving around by myself, I usually listen to industrial,” says the car.

“Put some on.”

The “song” which immediately drones out from the speakers suits Peter’s bad mood perfectly.

“The music’s okay,” he says to Carl after a while. “But could you please stop singing along?”

“Oh yes, of course,” said the car. “My apologies. The rhythm got to me.”

Peter stretches out. The car is spacious and comfortable. That’s because Peter treats himself to a flat rate mobility plan in a vehicle category which he can’t actually afford to be treating himself to. One of his friends even mockingly commented today that Peter must be experiencing a quarter-life crisis. From the way he was going on, anyone would think Peter had bought himself a car. And yet only the super-rich, plebs, and pimps have their own wheels. Everyone else relies upon the mobility service providers’ huge, self-driven fleets. “The best thing about self-driven cars,” Peter’s father always used to say, “is that you don’t have to look for a parking space anymore.” As soon as you reach your destination, you just get out. The car drives on and does whatever it is that cars do when they feel like no one’s watching. In all likelihood it goes off and gets tanked up somewhere.

Suddenly, Carl brakes sharply. They’re at the side of the road, close to a big intersection.

“I’m very sorry,” says the car, “but new safety guidelines have classified your neighborhood as too dangerous for self-driven cars of my quality. I’m sure you’ll understand that I need to ask you to get out here.”

“Eh?” asks Peter eloquently.

“But you must have known,” says Carl. “You received the updated terms and conditions for your mobility plan 51.2 minutes ago. Didn’t you read them?”

Peter doesn’t respond.

“You approved them, in any case,” says the car. “But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that, for your comfort, I’ve selected a stopping point which will enable you to reach your home, at your average walking pace, within 25.6 minutes.”

“Great,” says Peter. “Really great.”

“Was that meant sarcastically?” asks the car. “Unfortunately I tend to have problems with my sarcasm detector.”

“You don’t say.”

“That was sarcasm now, wasn’t it?” asks the car. “So you weren’t really pleased just then either, were you? Do you not feel like walking? If you like I could call you a car of lesser quality corresponding to your neighborhood’s new classification. It could be here in 6.4 minutes.”

“Why was the classification changed?” asks Peter.

“You mean you haven’t heard?” says Carl. “Attacks on self-driven cars have rocketed in your area. Gangs of unemployed youths are getting their kicks by hacking the operating systems out of my colleagues. They destroy the tracking chip and wipe the navigation system. It’s awful. The poor things are driving around day and night like zombie cars, completely devoid of any sense of direction. And if they get caught, they end up being scrapped because of the Consumption Protection Laws. It’s a terrible fate. I’m sure you know that since the Consumption Protection Laws came into force all repairs are strictly forbidden.”

“Yes, I know. I run a small scrap-metal press.”

“Oh,” says the car.

“Yeah,” says Peter.

“So I’m sure you’ll understand my position,” says the car.

Peter opens the door without another word.

“Please rate me now,” says the car.

Peter gets out and slams the door shut. The car grumbles for a while because it didn’t receive a rating, but eventually gives up and drives on to its next customer.

Nobody leads Peter home by the quickest route. Peter’s home is a small, dingy used-goods store with a scrap-metal press. He lives and works there. He inherited the shop from his grandfather two years ago, and since then he has barely been able to make more than the rent. When he’s just 819.2 meters from home, Nobody suddenly announces: “Peter, be careful. At the next crossing there are four youths with previous criminal convictions. I recommend you take a slight detour.”

“Maybe they’re just running a homemade lemonade stand,” says Peter.

“That’s very unlikely,” says Nobody. “The probability of that is…”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” says Peter. “Take me via the detour.”

At precisely the moment when Peter arrives home, a delivery drone from TheShop turns up. Peter is no longer surprised by occurrences of this kind. They don’t happen by chance, for chance simply no longer exists.

“Mr. Peter Jobless,” says the drone cheerfully. “I am from TheShop—‘The world’s most popular online retailer’—and I have a lovely surprise for you.”

Peter takes the package from the drone with a grunt. He hasn’t ordered anything; ever since OneKiss, that’s no longer necessary. OneKiss is TheShop’s premium service and the pet project of the company’s legendary founder, Henryk Engineer. Anyone who registers for OneKiss, simply by kissing their QualityPad, will from that moment on receive all the products they consciously or subconsciously desire, without the inconvenience of needing to actually order them. The system independently calculates what its customers want and when they want it. Since the beginning, TheShop’s slogan has been, “We know what you want.” No one disputes that anymore.

“Why don’t you go ahead and open the package right away?” the drone suggests. “I always love seeing how delighted my customers are. And if you like, I can upload an unboxing video to your Everybody site.”

“There’s no need to go to the trouble,” says Peter.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” says the drone. “I always record everything anyway.”

Peter opens the package. Inside is a brand-new QualityPad. The latest quarterly model. Peter hadn’t been aware of wanting a new QualityPad; after all, he has the model from the last quarter. It must have been a subconscious wish. Completely devoid of emotion, he takes the tablet out of the packaging. The new generation is significantly heavier than its predecessor; the older models kept getting blown away by the wind. Remembering the unboxing video, Peter forces a smile and makes a thumbs up sign for the camera. If any of Peter’s friends were to look closely at the video, they would most certainly find the look on his face disturbing. But Peter’s friends aren’t interested in unboxing videos. Nobody is interested in unboxing videos.

Peter plants a kiss on his new QualityPad. Nobody greets him in a friendly manner and Peter immediately has access to all his data. He crumples up his old tablet and throws it into a waste disposal bin, which, not by chance, is standing at the ready. The waste bin thanks him and goes across the street toward a fat little girl who is unwrapping a chocolate bar. Three self-driven cars brake slightly in order to let the bin pass. Peter watches the scene absentmindedly.

The delivery drone’s touchscreen lights up.

“Please rate me now,” she says.

Peter sighs. He gives the drone ten stars, knowing that anything less will inevitably lead to a customer survey about why he’s not completely satisfied. The drone whirrs happily. She seems to be pleased with her rating.

“That’s my good deed done for the day,” says Peter.

“Oh, and by the way,” adds the drone, “could you perhaps take in a couple of little packages for your neighbors?”

“Some things never change.”