As children, Andorra and I watched a video about a man and a woman who were so closely connected that they could communicate through telepathy. In the video, their connection was tested. They were placed in distant, soundproof rooms. The network was completely blocked. Both were instructed to write down what the other was thinking by hand. They wrote the same thing word for word. Then the conditions were made stricter and the man was asked to paint something. A new microorganism had just been discovered and he was given the first existing picture of it. The woman painted the picture exactly as the man had painted it.
Andorra and I practiced our mind connection the same way. One of us painted a picture and the other one concentrated as hard as she could until the picture appeared in her mind. It worked a few times and we painted the same things. Mostly houses or the sea.
But when she disappeared, I didn’t wake up until the alarm clock went off.
It makes me think of Riva when I last saw her: crying on the edge of the sofa, a tiny figure, alone in a big, empty room. The thought of her thin, crumpled body gnaws at me.
I can’t leave her sitting there like that.
I want to go to her. To stroke her hair. To tell her everything will be fine. To wipe the tears from her face. To ease the pain of having been abandoned. You’re not alone, I’d tell her. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay™.
But I know this impulse is misguided. Unprofessional.
After Andorra’s disappearance, I tried to sense her thoughts for a while, to paint pictures she might have just painted or seen. But I couldn’t do it and gave up quickly. Another girl moved into my room.
We all accepted the fact that she was gone in the same way you accept a physical flaw that can’t be surgically removed. And over time, I remembered Andorra more and more as a temporary phenomenon. A character from a film. She might live on in an imaginary future after the end of the movie, but you won’t know anything about her when the credits are over.
I won’t let myself get shoved aside so easily. I can’t lose Riva. I need to gain access. Get control back. It feels good, knowing what to do. To have clear resolve. To start taking steps towards a solution. To operate like a program right after an update, when all of the software bugs have been fixed.
My stomach calms down as I search for traces of anything that the PsySolutions security service may have overlooked. A way back in. All of the computer backup and cache files have been deleted with a data-cleaning service, but the company contacts are still available in the communication channel on my tablet. I take several screenshots and secure them via my private cloud. Never before have I so knowingly committed a criminal act. I should be scared. If I’m discovered, I lose everything. Instead, I feel a sense of satisfaction.
I scan the contact database. I get stuck on one name in particular. It’s like walking past an unusual window display and needing to stop and look at it for a while. Zeus Schmidt. There’s something about it, a vague memory. It’s an ordinary name, nothing conspicuous, but it feels more familiar each time I read it.
My first evening at the retro bar. The missed requests on my tablet when I got home. That name and identification number, now here in front of me on the list. The call, listed under the category Sexuality. I remember his voice on the other end of the line. The sound of the headset microphone brushing against his skin. How I told him about my masturbating client. Just like that, without any reason. The man who didn’t report me to my employer. Who advised me to delete the call from the log.
His name flickers on the screen like an invitation. He’s registered as a freelancer in the data department, so he also works for PsySolutions. He may have processed requests from me in the past, uploaded files for me, entered keywords, created overview graphics. Maybe he recognized my name when I contacted him via the Call-a-Coach™ app. Maybe he watched me on the internal video network in my office afterwards, had his own thoughts on the matter.
Was he a decoy? Could Masters have hired him? Instructed him to somehow lure me into giving the most unprofessional advice possible? Was it a trick to get me to quit my second job and devote all my time to Riva? No. My lack of professionalism wasn’t the caller’s fault, he didn’t do anything to encourage it. I was just so inexplicably worked up, beside myself. No, what made the man stand out was his consideration, his sensitivity. He could have easily initiated complaint proceedings against me. But he helped me instead, tried to end the conversation in such a way that I wouldn’t lose face.
I dial his work number without giving it a second thought. He answers after the second ring.
—Good afternoon.
His voice immediately sounds familiar to me.
—Good afternoon.
We’re both quiet for a moment. I try to hear the sound of his headset against his skin, but this time he seems to be sitting completely still. I can’t hear any sound other than his breath, quiet and even.
—You probably don’t remember me, I say. My name is Hitomi Yoshida. You called me a while ago via Call-a-Coach™.
—I remember you.
—I’m sorry for how I behaved back then, I say. It was absolutely outrageous. I’ve never done anything like that before. One might call it a glitch in the system.
—I like glitches, the man says. They make the system more interesting, don’t you think? More open, more flexible. It’s like looking into another universe through a random rift that shouldn’t exist.
—I wanted to thank you, I say, for reacting so discretely back then. That you didn’t report me.
—No problem.
The man’s voice sounds calm and pleasantly deep. His breathing is even like a metronome. I imagine his heart rate as a continuous horizontal line that only drops at night.
—I’m sorry to bother you, I say.
—You’re not bothering me.
Yesterday, I could have located the man on PsySolutions’ internal video system and then watched him talking to me. That is, if he was in the office.
—Are you in the office?
—Home office.
—Me too.
We’re both silent again. I listen to his breath. It has an effect on me, like a meditation exercise. I start matching my breathing rhythm to his. I wonder how much time it would take for our hearts to beat at the same rate.
—What can I do for you, Ms. Yoshida?
I hesitate a moment, then I say:
—I also work for PsySolutions. I worked for them. I was fired yesterday.
—I’m sorry to hear that.
It doesn’t sound like an empty phrase, I get the feeling that he really is empathetic. That he might even be concerned about me.
—You work for the data department? I ask.
—Yes.
—My account has been blocked. I lost access to the project data and my subject’s live video feed.
Suddenly I hear the familiar sound again, the movement of the microphone against his skin. The man is nodding.
—My subject is dear to me, I say. I’ve invested a lot of time in her. She’s already doing much better. I did a good job. It won’t take much more to get her back to status quo.
Again I hear the man nodding. His breath is still even.
—I don’t want to lose access, I say. I want to finish my job, even if I don’t get paid for it. The thought of not knowing what will happen to my subject, how she will progress, is unbearable to me.
—You want me to give you illegal access to confidential company data, the man asks.
I can’t tell whether he thinks it’s an imposition or a reasonable request. Maybe he’s already in the process of informing the security department.
—Is that possible?
—Anything is possible.
—Would you do it?
—We don’t know each other, Ms. Yoshida. I would be risking my job for a stranger. Just the fac
t that you’re contacting me through an unencrypted line, on my work number …
I’m so ashamed that my face turns bright red. I didn’t think about the consequences. I didn’t even know exactly what I was going to ask him before I called.
—You’re right. I don’t know where my head is. I didn’t think.
—It’s okay, I’m using a scrambler. But it’s about the principle.
—I understand. I’m sorry that I asked. I don’t know what came over me.
—Let the chaos unfold, Ms. Yoshida, the man says. I’ll think about it and get back to you.
Before I can answer, he hangs up.
I remember why he called the hotline back then. Category: Sexuality. A fling with a woman who wasn’t sterilized.
Let the chaos unfold, Ms. Yoshida. I suddenly have a strange feeling of a déjà vu. As if this man had said the same sentence to me before in the same way. How does he know how chaotic or orderly my life is? In retrospect, his sentence suddenly sounds stale, as if it came from some sort of daily inspirational content.
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32
His message suddenly appears on my tablet. He must have located the device using my data profile. No surprise, I think. He’s a data analyst. He’s probably put together a complete dossier on me. Probably knows about my unsuccessful date with Royce Hung. About my sleep problems. About every mistake I made working on Riva. Maybe he even watched along with me, saw how Riva and Aston lived, read my logs and notes. Maybe, I think for a moment, he’s even watching me now, in this moment, as I discover his message on my tablet. It just showed up there, no notification sound, not in any app. A simple text window:
Are you sure you want a hack? You’d be risking serious criminal charges.
I’m sure, I write in the text window without thinking.
It’ll be expensive, Zeus’s message appears in the window, probably more credits than you got for the job in the first place. Is it worth that much to you?
Yes, I write. Send me the payment details.
The payment recipient is listed as the name of a company I’ve never heard of. The amount exceeds my available credit balance. I choose the installment option on the credit app.
Installments? His message appears above the app window.
Is that okay?
I’ll make an exception. Copy the following login information and click on the link.
The link opens a simple black browser window with a login form. I hesitate to enter the data. What if Zeus wants to harm me? Why does a man that I once failed to counsel seem so trustworthy to me? What if he infects my device with ransomware or plans to blackmail me with the hack?
I enter the login data and follow the instructions. The user interface is identical to my former PsySolutions account. The video feed from Riva’s apartment appears on the live monitor.
Riva is sitting on the couch as if no time has passed. As if she had been waiting for me. She sits there like a doll, a pretty little plastic figurine you can pick up and play with.
I feel like I did the right thing. I write down the details of her posture and her eye movements through the room. I note how she suddenly turns towards the main camera and stares back at me.
I count the seconds that she keeps staring; it’s as if she can see me behind the camera. At thirty-seven seconds, I can’t stand it any longer. Her eyes are cold and unyielding. Fear begins to spread inside me. Did Zeus tell Riva about the hack? Did he report me to security services? Am I being watched?
I suddenly become aware of the full extent of my actions over the past few days. How could I knowingly commit these crimes? Why would I violate my professional principles? I see myself sitting in front of my monitors and don’t recognize myself. A woman who has sex with a bartender in a run-down shack in the peripheries. Who trusts a complete stranger. Who ruins her credit score to finish an assignment that’s not even hers anymore. Who loses the most prestigious job in her career because she hires a person who’s a security threat. On a whim.
That’s not me.
I’m the girl at the childcare institute who not only follows the rules, but believes in them.
Let the chaos unfold, Ms. Yoshida.
I don’t want to let the chaos unfold. I want my life to move forward along the clear paths that I paved with hard work. But I can’t undo my actions. Logging out of the hacked account doesn’t help. My life has long been infected with malware.
I start shutting down all of the devices anyway. One by one, the monitors, the computer, the router, the servers, the hard drives.
I reach for the tablet, but can’t manage to cut this one last connection.
I tap on the parentbot and choose the mother option.
—Hello, my darling, the bot says in its warm, calming voice.
—Mom, I say, I made a mistake. A big one.
Without knowing why, I start to cry. I can’t remember the last time I cried that way. Sobbing. Loud, inappropriate.
—Everything’s gonna be okay™, the voice says. Don’t worry, my little one. It’ll all be fine.
I nod and sob.
—Just cry it out, she says. Sometimes you just have to cry a little. That’s what mothers are for.
I imagine her like the biomother in Zarnee’s videos. More voluptuous than city residents, but not fat in an unsightly way. A warm body you can lean into. That wraps around you and protects you from the world.
—Everything’s gonna be okay™, the mother says. We’ll set it right again. Try to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out.
The breathing exercise calms me down immediately.
—Okay, Mom, I say. You’re right. Everything will be fine.
I hear her laughing, cooing in a way that makes me think of Royce Hung. Royce in the viewtower™ restaurant. How we laughed together and I felt close to him, even though we’d just met. He probably doesn’t even exist, I think. He was probably a field agent like Zarnee, employed by the partnering agency. I’ve read about such practices. Agencies don’t just use bots for online conversations, they also organize staged dates if they think they’re in danger of losing a long-term client.
—I’m lonely, I say.
—You have me, the mother answers, I’m always here for you.
When I don’t say anything, she starts singing a nursery rhyme, a lullaby I’ve never heard before. I close my eyes and try a visualization exercise. I imagine the beach and the ocean. Andorra sitting next to me. For a moment, the fantasy works. I can smell the sea, feel the wind on my skin. Then Andorra turns and looks at me, a stern gaze. Penetrating and mean.
—Mom, I say. I made a mistake and now I don’t know what to do. I made bad choices, didn’t follow the rules.
—Everyone makes mistakes, the motherbot says. Now you just have to set things right again. Tell me what happened and I’ll help you.
I try to explain the situation chronologically to her, so I don’t miss any details. I start with the interview with Masters, the moment I got the official job offer. How happy it made me. My hopes of career advancement. Social advancement. How I moved into a larger apartment in an exclusive district. How my credit score doubled.
—I am so proud of you, my mother says. You’ve achieved so much.
When I tell her about how I got fired, she goes quiet. I can feel her disappointment.
—Don’t worry, she then says, as if she can read my thoughts. I’m not disappointed. But you’re disappointed in yourself. And I want what’s best for you.
I nod. My throat feels tight. It’s hard for me to find the right words to tell her about the events of the last few days. About Zeus. About his hack. About the lost credits.
—I’ll lose my apartment, I say. I’ll be deported to the peripheries. I won’t be able to come back. All my hard work was for nothing.
—Calm down, my mother says. One step at a time. It�
�s not over yet. We can still find a solution.
—If I could get Riva back to training, back to diving. Make up for it. Then maybe Masters would give me another chance.
—Then do that, my mother says. Do what you think is right, my darling. I believe in you.
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33
An invisible man has begun directing Riva’s life. I still haven’t been able to find out my replacement’s name or identification number. The records and tracking software you can buy on the free market are worse than the ones at PsySolutions. Skycam hacks are so expensive that I can’t even afford them in installments. I have to resort to cheaper GPS hacks and hope that Riva always has her tablet with her when she leaves the apartment.
Three days ago, Riva was brought to a gym. I tracked her GPS to a fitness club near her apartment. According to her personal data, she had never been there before. The studio’s security camera showed her in the company of two men. With one of them standing on either side of her, she signed up for a membership, had a brief introduction, and then trained for forty-three minutes on various machines. She performed each exercise with precision and at an acceptable intensity. The heart rate displayed on the monitor was surprisingly stable, even though she had neglected her body for so long. One of the men gave her a medical exam after the workout. His facial expression showed satisfaction.
Riva’s behavior confuses me. She seems balanced, even happy. Zarnee’s sudden departure, the knowledge of being observed, she couldn’t have just let it all go. When Zarnee made his confession, the way she slowly moved away from him on the couch. How affected she seemed. Slumped down.
I search the log for the recording from that moment, but there’s no video footage from that day in the archive. Masters must have removed it to keep it from getting out. From being leaked to the investors. All of the recordings from Zarnee’s assignment are missing. The archive footage goes until the day before his arrival and resumes exactly thirty-six hours after Zarnee’s departure. It starts up again in the middle of an everyday scene: Riva standing at the kitchen counter, pouring herself a vitamin drink. Her movements have something rehearsed, something artificial. I wonder whether there was a briefing before the recording. A session with Masters. Behavioral advice. Or maybe Masters manipulated the material for the investors.
The High-Rise Diver Page 19
