his thick fingers. “The university will not be liable if you incur any physical or psychological injuries while pursuing this collaboration with our private partners.”
“I understand,” said Theodore.
“You are aware that this project may entail risk?”
He shrugged. He had decided not to ask any questions. Not yet. Let them tell him what they want him to know.
Professor Kakkar relaxed. “After the signing of the Cantor Accords, many data caches were put into storage in this facility. The far side of the moon was chosen because without a relay satellite, it is cut off from electromagnetic communication from Earth.”
“Just in case there is a breach of security,” explained Patricia.
“This is a breach of security,” observed Theodore.
“We are applying pressure to the surface of the data cache,” said Patricia. “Not a breach, as such.”
He looked at Patricia for an indication as to why they were taking this risk. He looked for her secrets in the way she adjusted her bob, in the way she went over the paperwork. Her body language was trained and deliberate, alluringly so. Her white lipstick disavowed the sensuousness of her lips, denied the redness of the body, and in drawing attention to its absence, evoked it. Every utterance conceals. Every gesture hides. Every silence calls attention to itself.
“I spent the evening going through the notes on your various problems,” said the psychologist. “I’m pleased to discover that you are candid about them. You were raised by your grandmother and because of that you hold opinions and views that derive from her world, formed from before the Seizure. Combined with your study of the period, and your experience with emergences, we are hopeful that you are the right supplier to help us unlock more of the data.”
“You’re saying I’m old-fashioned,” he said.
“Yes,” said Patricia. “And for once you might be able to use that to your advantage.”
----
He slept in the house. He was so exhausted that he awoke within his dream, and finding his body locked, tried to scream to wake himself. He managed a strained yet barely audible mewling before eventually gaining consciousness. He padded to the toilet. The floorboards were cold. The shelves of the bathroom had been filled with projections of the various creams and lotions of the period: the ritual of shampoo then conditioner, hair gel, bacterial soap, body butter, moisturising cream. These consumer objects required a particular behaviour from users and informed them of their obligations through advertising. It was a more wasteful system than his work as an accelerator.
He opened the medicine cabinet and inspected the household gods: aspirin, paracetamol, then further up, Levora, a contraceptive pill, and Zoloft, for the treatment of depression and anxiety in adolescence. The incomplete girl in the projection. About twelve years old. If they could unlock more of the family data, then it would be possible to recreate the mother and daughter in finer physical detail. And their psychology also, if Kakkar was in possession of cognitive algorithms.
Downstairs, he discovered that the furnishing of the house had proceeded while he slept: some of the projections had been replaced by physical replicas. A hearty rug was in the middle of the living room, and the white shelving units were now filled with family bric-a-brac: a varsity trophy of a bronze American football on a wooden plinth, ethnic objects acquired on holiday – Peruvian? Not his specialty – and framed needlepoint on the wall, perhaps from a grandmother. In the kitchen, the hearth screen continued to flicker and fluctuate: at any time of the day, wherever they were in the world, the mother could gauge exactly what her husband or daughter was feeling, could plot the precise change in mood over the course of the day. And inspect her own data too, to answer the pressing questions of the age: How am I feeling? Is this normal? Are we dying yet? Can
“I understand,” said Theodore.
“You are aware that this project may entail risk?”
He shrugged. He had decided not to ask any questions. Not yet. Let them tell him what they want him to know.
Professor Kakkar relaxed. “After the signing of the Cantor Accords, many data caches were put into storage in this facility. The far side of the moon was chosen because without a relay satellite, it is cut off from electromagnetic communication from Earth.”
“Just in case there is a breach of security,” explained Patricia.
“This is a breach of security,” observed Theodore.
“We are applying pressure to the surface of the data cache,” said Patricia. “Not a breach, as such.”
He looked at Patricia for an indication as to why they were taking this risk. He looked for her secrets in the way she adjusted her bob, in the way she went over the paperwork. Her body language was trained and deliberate, alluringly so. Her white lipstick disavowed the sensuousness of her lips, denied the redness of the body, and in drawing attention to its absence, evoked it. Every utterance conceals. Every gesture hides. Every silence calls attention to itself.
“I spent the evening going through the notes on your various problems,” said the psychologist. “I’m pleased to discover that you are candid about them. You were raised by your grandmother and because of that you hold opinions and views that derive from her world, formed from before the Seizure. Combined with your study of the period, and your experience with emergences, we are hopeful that you are the right supplier to help us unlock more of the data.”
“You’re saying I’m old-fashioned,” he said.
“Yes,” said Patricia. “And for once you might be able to use that to your advantage.”
----
He slept in the house. He was so exhausted that he awoke within his dream, and finding his body locked, tried to scream to wake himself. He managed a strained yet barely audible mewling before eventually gaining consciousness. He padded to the toilet. The floorboards were cold. The shelves of the bathroom had been filled with projections of the various creams and lotions of the period: the ritual of shampoo then conditioner, hair gel, bacterial soap, body butter, moisturising cream. These consumer objects required a particular behaviour from users and informed them of their obligations through advertising. It was a more wasteful system than his work as an accelerator.
He opened the medicine cabinet and inspected the household gods: aspirin, paracetamol, then further up, Levora, a contraceptive pill, and Zoloft, for the treatment of depression and anxiety in adolescence. The incomplete girl in the projection. About twelve years old. If they could unlock more of the family data, then it would be possible to recreate the mother and daughter in finer physical detail. And their psychology also, if Kakkar was in possession of cognitive algorithms.
Downstairs, he discovered that the furnishing of the house had proceeded while he slept: some of the projections had been replaced by physical replicas. A hearty rug was in the middle of the living room, and the white shelving units were now filled with family bric-a-brac: a varsity trophy of a bronze American football on a wooden plinth, ethnic objects acquired on holiday – Peruvian? Not his specialty – and framed needlepoint on the wall, perhaps from a grandmother. In the kitchen, the hearth screen continued to flicker and fluctuate: at any time of the day, wherever they were in the world, the mother could gauge exactly what her husband or daughter was feeling, could plot the precise change in mood over the course of the day. And inspect her own data too, to answer the pressing questions of the age: How am I feeling? Is this normal? Are we dying yet? Can
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