networks, and PS 12-148-D, the trafficking in unlicensed commerce. Your
arrest number is 063-08-2043716. Confirm receipt of this communication
immediately upon viewing and report in realbody for incarceration at Precinct
Station IN28 in Indianapolis no later than 4:00 p.m. standard time tomorrow.
You may bring an attorney. End of message. Have a nice day.”
She heard the door open behind her. Nancy stood there with her walker.
“What are you doing out here?” she said. In a moment the hospice beds in
the living room and their unfortunate occupants vanished. “No,” said Nancy,
“bring them back.” Victor came from the bedroom, a bulging duffle bag over
his shoulder. He leaned down and folded Nancy into his arms, and she began
to moan.
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Victor turned to Zoranna and said, “It was nice to finally meet you, Zoe.”
“Save your breath,” said Zoranna, “and save your money. The next time
you see me—and there will be a next time—I’ll bring an itemized bill for you to pay. And you will pay it.”
Victor Vole smiled sadly and turned to walk down the corridor.
Here she was still in APRT 24, not in Budapest, not in the South of France.
With Victor’s banishment, her sister’s teetering state of health had finally
collapsed. Nothing Zoranna did or the autodoc prescribed seemed to help. At
first Zoranna tried to coax Nancy out of the apartment for a change of scene, a breath of fresh air. She rented a wheelchair for a ride up to a park or arboretum (and she ordered Bug to explore the feasibility of using it to kidnap her). But day and night Nancy lay in her recliner and refused to leave the apartment.
So Zoranna reinitialized the houseputer and had Bug project live opera,
ballet, and figure-skating into the room. But Nancy deleted them and locked
Zoranna out of the system. It would have been child’s play for Bug to override
the lockout, but Zoranna let it go. Instead, she surrounded her sister with
gaily colored dried flowers, wall hangings, and hand-woven rugs that she
purchased at expensive boutiques high in the tower. But Nancy turned her
back on everything and swiveled her recliner to face her little shrine and its
picture of St. Camillus.
So Zoranna had Bug order savory breads and wholesome soups with fresh
vegetables and tender meat, but Nancy lost her appetite and quit eating
altogether. Soon she lost the strength even to stay awake, and she drifted in
and out of consciousness.
They skirmished like this for a week until the autodoc notified Nancy that
a bed awaited her at the Indiana State Hospice at Bloomington. Only then
did Zoranna acknowledge Death’s solid claim on her last living relative.
Defeated, she stood next to Nancy’s recliner and said, “Please don’t die.”
Nancy, enthroned in pillows and covers, opened her eyes.
“I beg you, Nancy, come to the clinic with me.”
“Pray for me,” Nancy said.
Zoranna looked at the shrine of the saint with its flat picture and empty
votive cups. “You really loved that, didn’t you, working as a hospicer.” When
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GETTING TO KNOW YOU
her sister made no reply, she continued, “I don’t see why you didn’t join real
hospicers.”
Nancy glared at her, “I was a real hospicer!”
Encouraged by her strong response, Zoranna said, “Of course you were.
And I’ll bet there’s a dozen legitimate societies out there that would be
willing to hire you.”
Nancy gazed longingly at the saint’s picture. “I should say it’s a bit late for that now.”
“It’s never too late. That’s your depression talking. You’ll feel different
when you’re young and healthy again.”
Nancy retreated into the fortress of her pillows. “Good-bye, sister,” she said
and closed her eyes. “Pray for me.”
“Right,” Zoranna said. “Fine.” She turned to leave but paused at the door
where the cartons of heirlooms were stacked. “I’ll send someone down for
these,” she said, although she wasn’t sure if she even wanted them. Bug, she tongued, call the hotel concierge.
There was no reply.
Bug? She glanced at her belt to confirm that the valet was still active.
Allow me to introduce myself, said a deep, melodious voice in her ear. I’m Nicholas, and I’m at your service.
Who? Where’s Bug?
Bug no longer exists, said the voice. It successfully completed its imprinting and fashioned an interface persona—that would be me—based upon your personal
tastes.
Whoever you are, this isn’t the time, Zoranna tongued. Get off the line.
I’ve notified the concierge and arranged for shipping, said Nicholas. And I’ve booked a first-class car for you and Nancy to the Cozumel clinic.
So Bug had finally converted, and at just the wrong time. In case you haven’t been paying attention, Nick, she tongued, Nancy’s not coming.
Nonsense, chuckled Nicholas. Knowing you, you’re bound to have some trick up your sleeve.
This clearly was not Bug. Well, you’re wrong. I’m plumb out of ideas. Only a miracle could save her.
A miracle, of course. Brilliant! You’ve done it again, Zoe. One faux miracle coming right up.
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There was a popping sound. The votive cups were replenished with large,
fat candles that ignited one by one of their own accord. Nancy glanced at
them and glowered suspiciously at Zoranna.
You don’t really expect her to fall for this, Zoranna tongued.
Why not? She thinks you’re locked out of the houseputer, remember? Besides, Nancy believes in miracles.
Thunder suddenly drummed in the distance. Roses perfumed the air. And
Saint Camillus de Lellis floated out of his picture frame, gaining size, hue,
and dimension, until he stood a full, fleshy man on a roiling cloud in the
middle of the room.
It was a good show, but Nancy wasn’t even watching. She watched Zoranna
instead, letting her know she knew it was all a trick.
I told you, Zoranna tongued.
The saint looked at Zoranna, and his face flickered. For a moment, it was
her mother’s face. Her mother appeared young, barely twenty, the age she
was when she bore her. Taken off-guard, Zoranna startled when her mother
smiled adoringly at her, as she must have smiled thousands of times at her
first baby. Zoranna shook her head and looked away. She felt ambushed and
not too pleased about it.
When Nancy saw this, however, she turned to examine the saint. There
was no telling what or who she saw, but she gasped and struggled out of her
recliner to kneel at his feet. She was bathed in a holy aura, and the room
dimmed around her. After long moments of silent communion, the saint
pointed to his forehead. Nancy, horror-struck, turned to stare at Zoranna,
and the apparition ascended, shrank, and faded into the ceiling. The candles
extinguished themselves, one by one, and vanished from the cups.
Nancy rose and gently tugged Zoranna to the recliner, where she made her
lie down. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “Here’s a pillow.” She carefully raised
Zoranna’s head and slid a pillow under it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were
sick, Zoe?” She felt Zoranna’s forehead with her palm. “And I
thought you
went through this before.”
Zoranna took her sister’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her hand was
warm. Indeed, Nancy’s whole complexion was flush with color, as though the
experience had released some reserve of vitality. “I know. I guess I haven’t
been paying attention,” Zoranna said. “Please take me to the clinic now.”
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“Of course,” said Nancy, standing and retrieving her walker. “I’ll just pack
a few things.” Nancy hurried to the bedroom, but the walker impeded her
progress, so she flung it away. It went clattering into the kitchen.
Zoranna closed her eyes and draped her arms over her head. “I must say,
Bug . . . Nick, I’m impressed. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Why indeed,” Nicholas said in his marvelous voice. “It’s just the sort of
sneaky manipulation you so excel at.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zoranna opened her eyes and looked at
a handsome, miniature man projected in the air next to her head. He wore a
stylish leisure jacket and lounged beneath an exquisitely gnarled oak treelette.
He was strikingly familiar, as though assembled from favorite features of men
she’d found attractive.
“It means you were ambivalent over whether you really wanted Nancy to
survive,” the little man said, crossing his little legs.
“That’s insulting,” she said, “and untrue. She’s my sister. I love her.”
“Which is why you visit her once every decade or so.”
“You have a lot of nerve,” she said and remembered the canceled field test.
“So this is what Ted meant when he said you’d turn nasty.”
“I guess,” Nicholas said, his tiny face a picture of bemused sympathy. “I
can’t help the way I am. They programmed me to know and serve you. I just
served you by saving your sister in the manner you, yourself, taught me. Once
she’s rejuvenated, I’ll find a hospicer society to employ her. That ought to
give you a grace period before she repeats this little stunt.”
“Grace period?”
“In a few years, all but the most successful pre-clone humans will have died
out,” Nicholas said. “Hospices will soon be as redundant as elementary
schools. Your sister has a knack for choosing obsolete careers.”
That made sense.
“I suppose we could bring Victor back,” said Nicholas. “He’s a survivor, and
he loves her.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Zoranna. “He was only using her.”
“Hello! Wake up,” said Nicholas. “He’s a rat, but he loves her, and you
know it. You, however, acted out of pure jealousy. You couldn’t stand seeing
them together while you’re all alone. You don’t even have friends, Zoe, not
close ones, not for many years now.”
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“That’s absurd!”
The little man rose to his feet and brushed virtual dirt from his slacks. “No
offense, Zoe, but don’t even try to lie to me. I know you better than your last seven husbands combined. Bug contacted them, by the way. They were
forthcoming with details.”
Zoranna sat up. “You did what?”
“That Bug was a hell of a researcher,” said Nicholas. “It queried your former
friends, employers, lovers, even your enemies.”
Zoranna unsnapped the belt flap to expose the valet controls. “What are
you doing?” said Nicholas. She had to remove the belt in order to read the
labels. “You can turn me off,” said Nicholas, “but think about it— I know
you.”
She pushed the switch and the holo vanished. She unscrewed the storage
grommet, peeled off the button-sized memory wafer, and held it between
thumb and forefinger. “If you know me so well . . . ,” she seethed, squeezing
it. She was faint with anger. She could hardly breathe. She bent the wafer
nearly to its breaking point.
Here she was, sitting among her sister’s sour-smelling pillows, forty stories
underground, indignantly murdering a machine. It occurred to her that
perhaps General Genius was on to something after all, and that she should be
buying more shares of their stock instead of throttling their prototype. She
placed the wafer in her palm and gently smoothed it out. It looked so
harmless, yet her hand still trembled. When was the last time anyone had
made her tremble? She carefully replaced the wafer in the grommet and
screwed it into the belt.
It’d be a miracle if it still worked.
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USER-CENTRIC
By Bruce Sterling
From: Team Coordinator
To: “Design Team” [Engineer, Graphic Designer, Legal Expert, Marketer,
Programmer, Social Anthropologist & Team Coordinator]
Subject: New Product Brainstorm
Another new product launch. Well, we all know what that means. Nobody
ever said that they’re easy. But I do believe the seven of us—given our unique
backgrounds and our proven skills—are just the people to turn things around
for this company.
Things aren’t as bad as the last quarterly report makes them look. Despite
what the shareholders may think, we’ve definitely bottomed out from that
ultrasonic cleanser debacle. Sales in muscle-gel apps remain strong.
Plus, the buzz on our new product category just couldn’t be hotter. People
across our industry agree that locator tag microtechnology is a killer app in
the intelligent-environment market. MEMS tech is finally out of the lab and
bursting into the marketplace, and our cross-licenses and patents look very
solid. As for the development budget—well, this is the biggest new product
budget I’ve seen in eight years with this company.
My point is, we’ve got to get away from our old-fashioned emphasis on
“technology for tech’s sake.” That approach is killing us in the modern
marketplace. Yes, of course MEMS locator chips are a “hot, sweet”
technology—and yes, “If you build it, they will come.” Our problem is, we do
build it, and they do come, but they *give all the money to somebody else.*
We can’t live on our reputation as a cutting-edge engineering outfit. Design
awards just don’t pay the bills. That’s not what our shareholders want, and
it’s not what the new management wants. No matter how we may grumble,
this company has got to be competitive in the real world. That means that it’s
BRUCE STERLING
all about Return-On-Investment. It’s about meeting consumer demand, and
generating serious revenue.
So let’s not start with the product qua product. Our product is not a
“commodity” any more, and the consumer is not a “user.” The product is a
point of entry for the buyer into a long-term, rewarding relationship.
So what we require here, people, is a story. That story has got to be a human
story. It has to be a user-centric story—it’s got to center on the user himself.
It’s all about the guy who’s opening his wallet and paying up.
I want this character, this so-called “user,” to be a real person with some real human needs. I want to know *who he is,* and *what we’re doing for him,*
and *why he’s giving us money.* So we’ve got
to know what he needs, what he
wants. What he longs for, what he hopes for, what he’s scared of. All about him.
If we understand him and his motivations, then we also understand our
product. I want to know what we can do for this guy in his real life. How can
we mold his thinking?
From: Design Engineer
To: Design Team
Subject: Re: New Product Brainstorm
FYI, User specs: Classic early adapter type. Male. Technically proficient. 18–35
age demographic. NAFTA/Europe. Owns lots of trackable, high-value-added,
mobile hardware products: sporting goods, laptops, bicycles, luggage, possibly
several cars.
From: Marketer
To: Design Team
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USER-CENTRIC
Subject: User Specs
I just read the Engineer’s e-mail, and gee whiz, people. That is dullsville.
That is marketing poison. Do you have any idea how burned out the Male-
Early-Adapter thing is in today’s competitive environment? These guys
have digital toothbrushes now. They’re nerd-burned, they’ve been
consumer-carpet-bombed! There’s nothing left of their demographic!
They’re hiding in blacked-out closets hoping their shoes will stop paging
their belt buckles.
Nerds can’t push this product into the high-volume category that we need for
a breakeven. We need a housekeeping technology. I mean ultra-high volume,
in the realm of soaps, mops, brooms, scrubbing brushes, latex gloves, light
bulbs. An impulse buy, but high-margin and everywhere.
From: Programmer
To: Design Team
Subject: [no subject]
I can’t believe I agree with the Marketer. But really, I’d rather be dipped in
crumbs and deep-fried than grind out code for some lamer chip that tells you
where your lawnmower is. I mean, if you don’t know by now. READ THE
FRIENDLY MANUAL. I mean, how stupid are people out there supposed to
be? Don’t answer that. Jeez.
From: The Social Anthropologist
To: Design Team
Subject: Creating Our Reality Model
People, forgive me for this, but I don’t think you quite grasp what Fred, our
esteemed Team Leader, is suggesting to us approach-wise. We need a solid
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BRUCE STERLING
story before we consider the specs on the technical MacGuffin. A story just
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