Sycamore

by Craig A. Falconer

  “No, Kurt, we highlighted a division in their ranks. There are the reasonable ones who worry about sanctity and then there are the hardliners who hide in trees and protest at funerals. Wait a minute... that’s it. Yes! That’s it!”

  “What’s what?”

  “We need to use the crazies to give the others a bad name; link them all together to create a dichotomy between lunatics and Sycamore. You know guilty by association? Well, no one ever gives enough credit to its old friend: innocent by opposition. If we can get some of those queer-bashing bigots to picket our launch we’ll be set. That crazy church you always see on the news protesting at funerals and outside of schools... what are they called?”

  “The Fury River Baptists?”

  “Right, Fury River! Even moderate believers like that woman will speak out to distance themselves from The Fury. This will do away with mainstream religious opposition, which could have been a huge pain.”

  “So you’re going to call up someone at that nutjob church and ask them to protest?”

  Amos shook his head. “We’ll do something to force their hand and make it seem like it was their idea. We as in Sycamore. I’ll put Minion to work on it; you and I won’t be getting our hands dirty on things like this.”

  “Fine. But did we do enough to defend against that TVBytes guy and his concerns?”

  “I’m annoyed at that, you know. We’re good enough to give TVBytes exclusive coverage of the Talent Search and in return they send a muckraker like him to our press conference? It’s not on.”

  “I know,” said Kurt, “but it’s done now. The question is, how do we react? Maybe throw in some defensive pointd along with the selling points on this week’s commercials.”

  “No. Only people with something to hide have to defend themselves, and we don’t really do commercials. Sycamore makes its money from advertising and we try not to spend it there. Real-world ads are most effective anyway; hell, if billboards can keep the people drinking puss-filled cow juice then they’re good enough for us. There’s a sky campaign launching in a few hours, in fact, obviously aimed at existing Lens-wearers.”

  “What does it say?”

  Amos pondered something for a few seconds. “Screw it,” he decided, “let’s do it now. It’s not like we have to pay ourselves by the hour.” He led Kurt out of the elevator and over to the north side of his enormous personal floor. “You look out there and I’ll set it up. It’s good. We really care about our advertising here. It’s an art form, you know — capitalism’s only native one.”

  Kurt’s eyes explored the clear sky above the city. Everything seemed quiet for a Monday morning. After thirty seconds of boredom he turned to Amos, who was prodding away at his palm while his eyes darted around at seemingly nothing. He came out of his full-screen trance and pointed Kurt to the message.

  A giant rainbow of text filled the sky, spelling “Demand More.” A straight line ran underneath: “Sycamore.”

  ~

  As with the week between the contest and his seeding, Kurt followed instructions to stay indoors and not post anything online until the launch. He spoke with Randy and the kids but by Sunday evening it had been sixteen days since he had seen them.

  Randy couldn’t stand in a queue all day so he planned to wait until Tuesday to get his Seed, when the launch would be extended from Sycamore’s flagship Liberty Street branch to its stores around the country and some 400 Tasmart superstores. Ever eager to please, Amos opted to throw in the necessary UltraLenses (RRP $299!) free for those who needed them.

  Kurt’s week had been slow, with no contact from Amos since Monday’s press conference. As he sat twiddling his thumbs on Sunday evening there were still a few hours until The Seed’s main online functions were set to go live. Forest was up and running so he decided to have a look around. His profile contained frightening amounts of data, all of it accurate and some of it undisclosed. But there was no point in worrying about it, he thought, because everyone else would be in the same boat.

  A mournful message greeted Kurt when he clicked out of his profile: “You have zero friends :-( .” He browsed the All Users section and, unsurprisingly, found only one other member. Kurt added Amos as a friend and closed Forest. Six seconds later he heard a ping in his ears and saw a new notification in his vista. “Friend request accepted. You have one friend :-) .”

  He clicked the link and arrived instantly back at his tree. An angelic sound filled his ears as the tree began to grow. It thickened and it rose and a branch emerged from its side. Kurt followed the branch’s link to Amos and noticed a new data field. “Popularity: Joint 1st (of 2).” He checked his own profile and saw the same thing.

  While he was there, Amos sent him a message. “SycaStore opens at 8, hotshot. Fill your boots!” Kurt looked down to the time. Five to seven. He clicked into his SycaNews app to watch the hourly bulletin. The lead story surrounded the launch; more specifically, the threat of a protest. Terrance Minion sat in the studio representing Sycamore and the newsreader asked what message he had for the public.

  “We can’t live in fear of a hateful minority,” Minion said, “and we won’t. The Fury River Baptists have never done anything of note this far north and they know they aren’t capable. The people of our fine city will run them out of town if they dare show themselves tomorrow. I encourage everyone of sound mind to come on down to Liberty Street at 9am to show solidarity with those patriotic Americans who wish to embrace this new technology and won’t be bullied into staying at home. The Fury River Baptists have a constitutional right to free speech and so do we. Tomorrow, we all have a responsibility to exercise that right on Liberty Street by telling these terrorists loud and clear: not in my town.”

  Kurt clicked out of the SycaNews glad that Minion had delivered. He tried Relive but it still wasn’t ready. A new notice filled its holding page — something about Icarus, a service Kurt vaguely remembered Amos mentioning a few times. Icarus was described as “the final destination in supra-cloud storage!” and claimed to be capable of storing lifelong vista recordings for each user, accessible for just $14.99 per month. The server requirements for such an undertaking blew Kurt’s mind and he couldn’t even estimate the set-up costs involved. All he knew was that Amos had listened to his billion-dollar pipeline metaphor and that the trillion-dollar oilfield was primed for exploitation.

  He spent the next fifty minutes doing nothing but waiting until suddenly another text arrived from Amos. “Okay, hotshot. It’s up.”

  Kurt clicked into the SycaStore and liked what he saw. Like the operating system itself, the SycaStore’s layout was clean and familiar: charts on the right, large tiles of highlighted content to the left, categories along the top. Most pleasing of all was the Balance display in the bottom-right corner. “Kurt Jacobs. Balance: ∞.”

  There were five categories: Video, Music, Games, Apps and Subscriptions. Kurt explored the first two very quickly — just long enough to see that they had everything, to buy or rent — then took a longer look in Games. Many of the titles were familiar from his phone and computer, but now they came with the tantalising promise of full-immersion. The featured game was something called Happy Pigs and Kurt downloaded it out of curiosity. The filesize claimed to be 800MB but the game was available to play as soon as Kurt clicked it. He came straight out; there was too much to see to waste time playing games.

  Apps was empty, much to Kurt’s annoyance, with a holding page promising quality over quantity and the appearance of life-changing content within a few days. Auctions, Message Boards and something called “Happy Fun Casino Party” would be available for free at launch.

  Subscriptions was almost as uneventful. Consumers could access the endless music library for $12.99 per month and receive a selected daily movie for the same price. It seemed expensive but Kurt purchased both for convenience. His balance remained infinite.

  He didn’t like the Sycamore Film Club’s first selection so he bought a few nature documentaries from the SycaStore’s imp
ressive Video section and added them to a playlist. The picture quality was incredible and controlling the viewing options via his palm was significantly more intuitive than using a phone. A two-fingered pinch/spread changed the virtual screen’s size and dragging two fingers and a thumb moved it around the room. Kurt locked the screen to the wall facing his bed, as big as it would fit, and fell asleep watching two lions eat an ostrich.

  ~

  Right beside the “JESUS LAUGHS WHEN HOMOS BURN” placard, proudly held by a girl of no more than eight years, was another reading “SATAN LOVES SYCAMORE!” That was Amos’s favourite.

  “SATAN’S SEED” and “MARK OF THE BEAST” were less exciting and did little for Sycamore’s cause, but “SOW A SEED TO REAP DAMNATION” and “DON’T MESS WITH THE FURY” were worth more to The Seed’s success than all of the paid commercials in the world. The threatening tone played right into Amos’s victim game and ensured even more priceless publicity than the launch would have received without Fury River’s presence.

  Kurt’s long black car pulled up and stopped beside the few dozen protestors. He climbed out in front of them, bringing their rabid gesticulations to new heights. He fought a smile and tried to look shocked.

  Terrance Minion, now seeded, caught Kurt’s eye from his position beside a group of reporters. Minion faced Kurt and sent him a Glance across the street. Kurt chuckled as the letters appeared in his vista as quickly as Minion could write them: “I always deliver.”

  Amos emerged from inside the branch, feigning grave concern to usher Kurt inside. Only ten minutes remained before the scheduled 9am launch but Amos had other ideas. “I’m delaying the launch,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  “For attention. I’ll say it’s unsafe to open the branch without more police protection. By the time the police get here, word will have gotten out and more people will have turned up.”

  Kurt sat on one of the store’s fancy barstools and ran his fingers through his hair. “Have you really thought about this? If people think it’s dangerous here, why would they come down?”

  “I don’t like diluting terms, Kurt, but those Fury River folks are basically terrorists. They are trying to use terror to get what they want, aren’t they?”

  “You’re making my point. They’ll scare people away.”

  “No… the point is that people will do anything for freedom. If freedom is at risk they’ll turn out to defend it. And if by some universal accident I’m wrong, we’ll blame poor sales on the crazies and count the money when Tasmart starts offering The Seed tomorrow.”

  Amos exited the store before Kurt could reply. He walked over to where Minion had been standing and announced his intention to broadcast a live interview. The morning news crews in attendance gathered around his new position in the middle of the road, tactically selected for its symbolic placement between the terrorists on one side and the freedom-loving queuers on the other.

  “Roll in five,” he said, “and no sooner.” He then shook his head briskly and began pacing. At the count of five he hurried towards the cameras with his hands in the air, the expression on his face mimicking that of a rabbit cornered by a ferret.

  “Where are the police? Where is the government? Chasing oil in distant deserts while these homegrown terrorists try to intimidate us in our own city? Sycamore’s customers and supporters are sitting ducks if these maniacs turn violent! I can’t sanction the opening of the store with a clear conscience until real police protection arrives, so I regret to announce that The Seed’s launch will be delayed. We salute the brave people of this great country who share our commitment to progress in the face of resistance from raisin-brained luddites and their hateful demonstrations. Thank you.”

  Irritated but understanding, the crowd applauded. Some hollered and whistled.

  Amos climbed on top of Kurt’s expensive taxi and addressed his queuing customers directly, with jackhammer-like, staccato emphasis on every word. “We will not bow to pressure from these bigoted terrorists.” Then came his final cry of defiance, delivered with all the force of an affronted führer. “Not today!”

  If the previous cheers had been loud, these were thunderous. And then, quite organically, the crowd began to chant. Amos was powerless to hide his glee as their message rang loud and clear: “Sy-ca-more... Sy-ca-more... Sy-ca-more.”

  The news cameras panned back to Amos from the queue and a reporter held a microphone under his mouth to pick up his voice amidst the supportive roars. “There it is!” he yelled, no louder than necessary. “The people have spoken, and hope is stronger than fear.”

  By the time the police arrived the queue had swelled. It was difficult to judge from ground-level, but the helicopter pictures of citizens congregating on Liberty Street in response to Amos’s spirited appeal showed the extent of his success and encouraged even more viewers to turn out for freedom. Those pictures would play across the country and the wider world throughout the day, cementing Sycamore’s position at the centre of everyone’s attention.

  The store opened some 40 minutes late and the efficient seeding process began. There were eight doctors in eight booths, each working as quickly as they could. 24 consumers could be processed per minute — slightly less if they also required UltraLenses. A well-staffed counter ran around the store’s perimeter to handle payment and registration with minimal fuss; with over 60 service points, the store was designed for a day like this. Consumers received a numbered ticket to hand to their seeder and the seeder input the code to a tiny screen on their needle before proceeding.

  Kurt watched the process with interest. There was beauty in its simplicity. Walk in, squeeze wrist, extend fingers. Seeded. One ear, other ear, have a nice day. Next please.

  The Seeds for he and Amos had been pre-prepared so weren’t a true reflection of how the system operated. It was obvious now that consumers were being assigned a numerical code which was then linked to The Seed so that their personal data was loaded from the get-go. All they were asked for was their name and social security number. Sycamore already had a database on everyone; the code just told The Seed whose data to sync.

  Minion only worked with social media data and not everyone was online. There had to be government cooperation. Kurt asked Amos whether his suspicions to that effect were well-founded and Amos told him that they were. “Yes there’s a database and yes we’re using it,” he said. “But without Minion’s algorithm, the data we’d be working with is nothing more than what you’d find on the chip inside a passport. Anyway, have you seen the queue from the sky?”

  Kurt hadn’t, so Amos took him through a staff-only door and turned on an old-fashioned TV. It had six channels. The launch was on every one. Always a big story, suddenly The Seed was the only story.

  Despite the rapidity of seeding, the queue continued to grow. By 10.30 it coiled around the city’s streets like a serpent, more hydra than snake. The aerial pictures were breathtaking but there was still no way of knowing how many people were outside. Kurt estimated that around 10,000 could be seeded before 6pm but there had to be double that on the street. Though Amos ensured him there was “a Seed for everyone,” time constraints meant that demand was going to outstrip supply for the day. As if The Seed needed a further publicity boost, it would appear scarce and difficult to obtain.

  The protest; the queues; the limited launch; the brilliance of the concept… Kurt, Amos and Minion had danced for rain and brought forth a perfect storm.

  The reporter for the station Amos and Kurt had tuned in to was walking the queue and interviewing its more interesting-looking members. There were babies in pushchairs and old men in wheelchairs, workers and lovers and hipsters and mothers. Everyone had their own reason for being there. The reporter moved towards the head of the queue, where people had obviously been waiting longest and hence would be most rabid in their anticipation. He settled at a teenage boy who looked a little like Julian.

  “What are you most looking forward to with The Seed that’s brought you o
ut so early this morning?” the reporter asked clumsily.

  “Me? It’s just, like, the best thing ever! I can watch anything and talk to anyone without carrying a phone around, right? And the data is free… unlimited use. Right now I’m paying by the megabyte for going over my limit every month. I’ve already got UltraLenses and the thing about rewinding stuff I’ve already seen is awesome.”

  “Have you ever queued like this before?”

  “Yeah — UltraLenses. And, uh, I was at a couple of iPhone launches. But never for this long.”

  “And what excited you more, new iPhone models or The Seed?”

  “Dude, that’s like asking if I prefer, like, something amazing or something meh. Amazing every time, obviously. The iPhone queues had cooler people, though.”

  Amos turned the volume down. “See, that’s the kind of kid we would have got no matter what: a trend-chasing little hipster. It’s everyone else that sets us apart. If the camera crew went to the back of the queue they’d get better stories from the folks who are just turning out. The Seed has become more than a product. It’s a cause to be defended.”

  The teenage boy dumped his iPhone in the rapidly-filling SycaCycle box by the front door and took his voucher for 50% off the cost of seeding. Around a third of queuers were trading in their old smartphones for this generous $250 discount. Old was a misnomer, of course; most of the phones were less than two years old, the latest models in the planned-obsolescence production cycle that Sycamore was about to break.

  “What are you going to do with all of the abandoned phones?” Kurt asked. “If you’re collecting them at every store when the launch expands there will be millions. Is it for recycling?”

  Amos grinned. “I have a somewhat grander gesture in mind. You’ll see next week.”

  More interviews followed as the reporter walked along Liberty Street. One elderly woman looked forward to feeling safe. “It’ll be like having a CCTV camera protecting me all the time,” she said. “No one will attack me when I have my Lenses in and my Seed is recording everything they see.”