What Lies Beyond the Stars

by Micael Goorjian

  The lights dimmed slightly, and the crowd reacted with a cheer. Adam tried to join. “Whooo-hoo!”

  That sounded fucking pathetic, he thought. Adam never had been any good at the crowd thing. It always made him feel like an alien pretending to blend in with real human beings and doing a crap job of it. I just need to engage in life more, Adam thought. “Engage with the present moment” was one of his therapist’s favorite catch phrases. According to Dr. M., dissociative disorder was an issue for many programmers, not just Adam.

  Adam really did want to be more present. After all, here he was at the epicenter of human innovation, about to imbibe the messianic words of one of the industry’s loftiest high priests. Anyone in tech would die to be in your shoes.

  “Whoo–hooo!”

  Up on stage, the giant projection screen read:

  TED TALKS PRESENTS

  INNOVATIONS IN NEW MEDIA TECHNOLOGIES

  Rene Adiklein

  VP Marketing Strategist—Virtual Skies Media Group

  Defying his 72 years, Rene Adiklein bounded onto stage like a teenage pop star. People were often taken aback by the man’s youthful vitality. One prominent blogger once described him as “Silicon Valley’s Mick Jagger.” His signature slate-gray suit fit his slim frame impeccably. His shirt, carnation pink, was fastened at the collar by a round, black pin with a gold A (a design Adiklein had created himself). But the most distinctive aspect of Rene Adiklein’s appearance was his shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair, which he wore slicked back to accentuate his cheekbones and long, slender nose, giving him the appearance of a bird of prey.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Merci beaucoup.” Adiklein flashed the crowd a quick smile while adjusting his headset microphone. Thanks to his Swiss upbringing, Adiklein’s accent was French with a punchy hint of German. Not so thick as to be difficult to understand, but just enough to be irresistibly charming.

  Like every other geek in the room, Adam knew the basics of Adiklein’s rise to prominence. He had begun as a marketing consultant, promoting everything from Humvees to energy drinks, from pharmaceuticals to luxury airlines. He was so successful that at one point it was rumored that his clients numbered no fewer than 40 Fortune 500 companies. Then, during the mid-’80s, Adiklein started spending more and more time in the business parks of Silicon Valley, apparently sensing the immense impact technology would soon have on commerce.

  At first he stayed behind the scenes, a name you might have heard whispered about in the tech industry, but unless you were Bill Gates or Larry Ellison, Adiklein was not someone you actually met. During the ’90s many of the big tech firms began paying ungodly amounts to consult with the marketing guru before launching a new product, to fix a company’s image, or to understand future consumer trends. He became known as the “Oracle of Silicon Valley,” not for his profound understanding of technology itself, but because he had a more-than-profound understanding of the inner workings of those quickly becoming obsessed with technology, which soon turned out to be pretty much everyone on the planet.

  The cheering crowd showed no hint of quieting. Finally Adiklein raised a hand, signaling that he was going to begin.

  “Today is a very special day. For today I have decided to reveal a particular secret of mine, long shrouded in mystery.”

  As though following the diminishing curve of the audience’s applause, the word mystery landed perfectly in the silence. Adiklein let it hang a moment before theatrically pulling a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “On this paper I have written a code.” Adiklein paused for a moment as he sized up his audience.

  Adam marveled at how deftly his new überboss handled such a large crowd. Given Adiklein’s reputation for avoiding the spotlight, Adam assumed he would be more at ease speaking to smaller groups, in boardrooms or at country clubs.

  “A code that is a key,” Adiklein continued. “A key that can unlock forces capable of shaping the very world around us. A seed from which the gardens of our social behavior arise.”

  He smoothed the paper between his slender fingers. “There are countless codes programmed into each and every one of us. Unconsciously dictating our needs, our desires. We’re encoded for sex, violence, love, wealth, food, alcohol, drugs—you name it. But if you dig down deeply enough, you will find that there is, in truth, a single underlying code that is the root of them all.

  “And I am here today to tell you that the men and women you learn about in your history books are those who have discovered this première règle, and used it to define the world we live in today. It is the skeleton key that unlocks every one of your dreams—success, power, influence, and market dominance. Every door will open to the man or woman who controls this one code.”

  Folded paper in hand, Adiklein made his way forward to the edge of the stage. Then, as if dropping a small nuclear bomb, he added, “The code consists of a single word.”

  Adam glanced around at the crowd. Amazing. In less than a minute, Rene Adiklein had 2,000 people completely enraptured.

  “So. Can you guess the word?” Adiklein paused for effect, but not long enough for some asshole to break his momentum. “No? Okay, how about I give you some hints, yes?” Adiklein strolled across the front of the stage, the folded paper held casually in his hand by his side.

  “Without this one thing, we die.” After a beat he called out, “Food, maybe? No. How about air?” He shrugged. “No, too easy. What I have written on this paper is the single most valuable commodity on the planet! That’s right. At this very moment, wars are being fought all over the world just to gain control of this, right here!”

  He waved the paper in the air. “Oil, maybe? Gold? Money? Land? No, no, no!” Adiklein’s voice rose with intensity. “All that means nothing—zero, rien du tout—to the man who controls this one thing! The. One. Thing!” Adiklein pivoted back to the podium, set down the folded paper, and picked up a small handheld remote. With a click he triggered his PowerPoint presentation.

  Adam’s chest tightened as he realized that all the lights in the auditorium were dimming. Even the giant projection screen behind Adiklein faded to black. Sitting in complete darkness was unnerving enough, but sitting in it with 2,000 other people was even creepier. A wave of murmurs confirmed that Adam wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. Then the strains of symphonic music began rising out of the void, building quickly to a crescendo of Twentieth Century Fox proportions. There was a sudden burst of light before one giant word appeared on the screen:

  ATTENTION

  The lights came back up, accompanied by the sound of laughter and applause. On stage Adiklein was laughing as well. After taking a sip of water, he continued. “So. Do I have your attention now?”

  More laughs. “Are you paying with your attention?” He put out a hand like a doorman accepting a tip. “Thank you very much. I’ll take it!” Again the crowd laughed.

  “Yes, I’ll take it because I understand that your attention, it is the only thing of value you have to offer me. That is right. The more I keep of your attention, the more I keep of you.”

  Adiklein’s thumb clicked the remote, triggering on the screen behind him an image—a glossy advertisement showing an infant lying in a crib, wide-eyed, looking up at its adoring mother. “From the moment we are born, what is the first thing we need?” Adiklein raised his eyebrows expectantly, then answered for everyone, “That’s right, our mother’s attention.”

  More images—babies and toddlers being held, fed, played with, loved. “We are starved for attention, right? We cry for it.”

  The next image was a European fashion ad: a gorgeous brunette in a miniskirt, teetering on high heels on a cobblestone street. Adolescent boys, a grocer, and an old man on a bike all stare googly-eyed. The model has the classic I-couldn’t-care-less-about-any-of-you look on her face.

  “Why does the woman wear the lipstick, the uncomfortable high heels, the short skirt when it’s freezing outside? What is she after here?” Adiklein stabbed the air with his index finger
. “Attention.”

  Another slide, this time a James Bond look-alike getting into a new Maserati in front of a country club. Valet attendants, country club members, and nearby golfers all look on in envy. “Why does a man work himself to death so he can buy the shiny new car, the club membership he never uses, the expensive watch?” Adiklein cupped a hand to his ear, and this time some of the crowd shouted along with him. “Attention.”

  Next on the screen came a barrage of red-carpet photos from Hollywood movie premieres. “We all want to be famous, right?” Adiklein waited for a response, but only got chuckles. Provoking the crowd, he added, “Oh, come on. Yes, you do! Fame is the new religion. You’ve all been raised to worship it.”

  Adiklein cued the next series of images—more tabloid photos, but now the tone shifted from glamorous to gruesome. Ugly paparazzi shots of rock stars, politicians, and reality TV stars looking needy and psychotic. Turning on the audience, Adiklein demanded, “Why? What for? What kind of imbecile would desire this kind of madness!” Adiklein continued quickly, not waiting for a sing-along. “Because of that massive hole inside of each and every one of us that can only be filled with attention, attention, attention.”

  The screen displayed even darker images—a skinny, awkward schoolgirl being bullied, a pimple-faced boy posing with a gun, news coverage of a school shooting.

  “Why does the outcast, the nobody bring the gun to school? Shoot his teacher, shoot his classmates? Shoot himself? Why? Why?”

  The answer this time came from a piece of live news footage on the screen as a somber newscaster turned to his co-host, saying, “Yet another tragic case of a disturbed young man crying out, saying, ‘Look at me, notice me, give me your attention.’”

  The news footage froze on a haunting image of the teenage killer, and then slowly faded out. From the darkness Adiklein said softly, “Without attention we disappear. We become nothing. We cease to exist.”

  Once again Adam felt a tickle of panic creep into his chest. It wasn’t just sitting in the dark with 2,000 people, or even Adiklein’s provocative comments; it was that damn yellow light still wriggling beneath the surface of his mind, aching to be remembered. Adam found himself groping in his pocket for his emergency Xanax. Before he could distinguish the pill from a compressed piece of lint, the lights came back up. Techno music swelled as a dramatic overhead image of downtown San Francisco filled the screen.

  “The business world is no different.” Adiklein’s tone was now brighter as well. “In our sector of Internet technology, computer software, and social media, we are equally dependent on this same lifeblood. This same attention.” A new series of images gracefully dissolved one into the next, idyllic scenes of a rising tech company: funky office spaces, fresh-faced programmers, inspired designers, development meetings, product unveilings, investors cheering.

  “We have our own words for attention, don’t we?” Adiklein yelled out, “Ten thousand hits! Attention. Twenty thousand clicks! Attention. Users, visitors, friends, followers, traffic, eyeballs, views, likes—all these are quantitative expressions of attention. If your site isn’t sticky enough, if what you’re blogging about isn’t provocative enough, if what you’re developing doesn’t reach through the damn screen and grab attention, then, like the baby whose mother loses interest, your business will quickly die.” The series of images ended with a grim shot of an abandoned office space, the remains of a start-up gone bust.

  Adiklein coolly set down the remote and moved to the front of the stage.

  “Attention is the currency of the day. A plain and simple fact. Now for the real question . . .” He took a long pause before asking, “If I am good enough to earn some attention, what do I do with it?

  “I don’t just slip it under the mattress.” Playing the greedy miser, Adiklein pantomimed hiding away his cash. “No, no, no. I must invest it, I must learn to work with the attention I’ve collected, so it can grow.

  “You see, the more I appreciate the nuances of this new form of currency, the more I begin to see the incredible things it can do for me. I see that attention is more dynamic than a dollar bill or a gold ingot. It is alive! And if it is alive, it must eat—no? Of course! Just like I do with my little doggy, I must learn how to properly feed the attention I’ve gathered, so it will grow and grow, and more importantly, so it will remain obediently by my side. Perhaps I can even learn to feed it the right kind of food to encourage it to depend on me.” Adiklein smiled, and then returned to the podium to take another sip of water.

  Adam wondered what exactly Adiklein meant by feeding attention the right kind of food. Blake had recently told Adam about the first time he met Adiklein at one of the acquisition meetings with Virtual Skies. “Half the time I had no fucking clue what that dude was talking about,” Blake said, “but I know it was brilliant!”

  On stage Adiklein adopted a more casual, improvisational tone. “Okay then, let’s have some fun, shall we? I’d like to take an example from something we’re doing over at Virtual Skies.” Adiklein smiled, knowing that any details about the inner workings of Virtual Skies would be like manna from the heavens to this crowd. Back in 2004 Adiklein had stunned the tech world when he began working exclusively for Virtual Skies Media Group, a then-floundering new media company. But as it subsequently skyrocketed to success, everyone knew it was Adiklein’s doing. Within five years Virtual Skies had a record-breaking IPO launch, as well as its own spectacular new building, the Virtual Skies Tower, right in the heart of downtown San Francisco.

  “Earlier this year, as you may have heard, Virtual Skies acquired a young company named Pixilate Gamehouse to head up our new social gaming division.”

  A cheer erupted from the programmers surrounding Adam, who quickly joined in. Blake Dorsey, a natural at crowd stuff, contributed a piercing, two-finger whistle followed by some frat-worthy fist pumps. Adiklein smiled. “Sounds like some of you might be here today, yes?” Adiklein put his hand up to shield his eyes and leaned forward beyond the stage lights to search the crowd.

  Out in the audience, Adam noticed just offstage was a man with a headset, looking irritated by the audience interaction. According to gossip, Adiklein had put TED Talk’s production team through the wringer. Just getting him to agree to the 18-minute format had been tough enough. He had reportedly also refused to hand over a copy of his speech until moments before the audience entered the auditorium.

  “Yes, Pixilate.” Adiklein smiled proudly. “Very successful in the gaming world. Their online multiplayer, you probably all know, is . . . um . . . The Blood of Love? The Blood of . . . something? Help me out, guys . . .”

  Blake Dorsey shouted, “Lust 4 Blood!”

  “Yes! Thank you, Blake! Lust 4 Blood.”

  To the headset guy’s chagrin, Adiklein said, “Stand up, Blake. Please.”

  Seemingly surprised, but not in the least bit shy, Blake immediately did as he was told.

  “Blake Dorsey, everyone, founder and managing director of Pixilate. If you don’t already know his name, you soon will. One of my rising superstars.”

  As the audience gave Blake a generous hand, Adam caught Adiklein giving Mr. Irritated Headset a look, as if to say, I am Rene Adiklein and I will do whatever I want, fuck you very much.

  Cameramen were struggling to get a good shot of Blake, who had jumped onto the armrests of his chair à la Roberto Benigni. The crowd ate it up. Blake Dorsey was arguably the hippest geek in the room. For one thing, he broke with the techie dress code of tee shirt, jeans, and hoodie. Instead Blake dressed like a rock star—motorcycle boots and hand-tailored suits over tight designer tee shirts. He had sandy-blond hair and Abercrombie & Fitch good looks. He was that rare popular guy in high school who, for whatever odd reason, wasn’t afraid to be seen hanging out with a nerd.

  That was actually how Blake and Adam became friends, but it was in college, not high school. And when the two formed Pixilate together, Adam provided the programming genius while Blake became the company’s public face
. His enthusiastic smile was a passport of likability, whether he was talking up angel investors or presenting demos at gamer conventions. Occasionally spiteful bloggers accused Blake Dorsey of being a slick, conceited prick, but for most everyone else, including the crowd at the Moscone Center tonight, Blake was just plain hard not to like.

  On stage Adiklein gave a parental shake of the head as he watched Blake high-fiving the programmers seated around him.

  “Well, Blake, it looks like you have your gang of wunderkinder here with you.” Then Adiklein shouted, “What the hell, all of you over there, stand up! Allez, allez, stand up! I want the world to meet the geniuses of Pixilate Gamehouse!”

  As Mr. Irritated Headset groped in his breast pocket, presumably for cigarettes, only to remember he had quit, Adiklein smiled contently. What he had just done was so inappropriate for a TED Talk that it would be the talk of the blogosphere for months.

  As the cheering died down, Adiklein continued. “Two and a half million registered players to date! Not bad, eh? But do I care about profits? Pffff. No! I measure success by how much attention is being earned—number of players, average hours played. But most important, I look at the quality of attention, because not all attention is valued the same. I want attention that is young, that is hungry like a baby bird waiting with its mouth wide open, eager to discover our next amazing new product or service.”

  During the VIP reception, Blake and the other genius nerds from Pixilate buzzed around in euphoric bliss, working their way through the swarm surrounding Adiklein, attempting to get as close to him as possible. Adam, however, opted for leaning against a marble pillar near the buffet. Glaring up from the table next to him was an epic array of catered deliciousness. Adam could eat none of it. He had forgotten to bring his Zantac.