Exhibit A: three members of The Appening—an unfortunately named but phenomenally successful software development team—sit around the table of my favourite boardroom. These aren't your common garden variety geeks; I'm not braced for one of them to jump up and yell by the power of Greyskull! These men are precise in everything—lean bodies, high cheekbones, eyeballs unnaturally polished with anti-redness drops. In unconscious uniformity, they all wear striped slim-fit shirts and smart trousers, and the only tell-tale sign of their professions is the state of their bitten-down fingernails and shredded cuticles. They even mutter to each other like some kind of hive mind collective.
They're not bothered about social graces or impressing me. But they like the SilentWitn3ss prototype they're passing around. They like it very much. Good job, too—Carson made them sign an NDA as tight as a gnat's ass before they were allowed in here, and that kind of ceremony tends to raise expectations somewhat. I like to deliver.
"So it's worn behind the ear?" says Mitch, whose shirt is candy striped. He flexes the curved, flesh-coloured silicon tube. "Or can you put it other places?"
"Anywhere you want." I take a sip of water and lemon, and try to drain the irony from my voice. "But we're going for the surveillance angle."
"Of course."
All three chuckle, low and dirty. Their shudders reveal their crazy eyes.
Leo isn't this kind of tech type. She's my exception...my much prettier exception. Thank fuck.
"Gentleman." I give the table a single rap. "Thing is, as much as I'm sure some moron will want to tape a SilentWitn3ss to his cock while he fucks his girlfriend or mother or whatever, I want them to stream directly to site. I'm sure you can appreciate that the public are idiots—"
More laughter; snider this time.
"—And they're not going to remember when streaming is on or off. So I need some kind of monitoring system that stops this shit getting through. Now I've been doing live news for over ten years and they haven't figured it out yet...I need you guys to figure it out."
Ian, who has a prematurely receding hairline, sucks in a breath. "For live streaming?"
I nod. "If Facebook can identify a face in a photo, then SilentWitn3ess needs to be able to identify tits and ass so it can shut down the stream."
Mitch glances between his colleagues with raised eyebrows.
I go on. "Here's how I want the site to work: we're not going to approve users to begin with. It defeats the point. But that means people can stream whatever the fuck they want on their channel, and I've got my own ass to cover. A public image to uphold. I don't want this to be YouTube with a bunch of pansies making vlogs and calling it news—I want proper vigilante stuff, where people load up and start streaming as soon as shit hits the fan. Also. This?" I point to the prototype in Mitch's uncared for-hands. "This is going to be expensive, so I need the cell phone app to be usable from the built in camera. Get things a little more accessible for people who don't want to invest."
"And if they're accidentally uploading porn," Mitch says, "it'll shut straight down, in theory?"
"They can accidentally upload all kinds of unsavoury shit." I throw each man an individually tailored glare. "Legally, I'll be covered, but I don't want the wrong kind of attention. We're going to have a slight time delay—that's just the reality of the technology—and I'll have a team who'll keep an eye on things. I'll also operate a single strike policy which will see offenders banned immediately."
Packer tuts. Packer has the kind of drawn-on mouth with suggests he's either tutting, scowling or sucking something about ninety percent of the time. "There'll be ways around that."
"Of course there will." I shrug. "But I think you'll agree that zero tolerance sounds a lot more trustworthy than we're all out of fucks."
"Right." Mitch puts the prototype down and starts flicking about on an iPad. "So...was Miss Reeves meant to be here today? Only it would be helpful to talk to the developers."
Right. They need to talk to her tits about cloud streaming and program models and the size of their...servers. They'll have seen the recent news stories; they know she's mine. Of course she's piqued their interest—few women do, but then not every exquisite blond is a Harvard-educated electrical engineer. When it comes to smart, gorgeous women, I not only hit the jackpot—I rammed it repeatedly with the business end of a sharp stick. On the digital grapevine, Aeron Lore is not fond of sharing.
So when I stare at these assholes like they're not fit to look upon her, they get it. They buy it. And they have no idea that the real reason I'm keeping Leo away is because she would disapprove of my ideas.
"I bought the developer." I smile at them innocently. "I am the developer." And that's that.
Ian tries to smiles back; he looks like an aroused uncle. "Understood."
"So how long will you need?"
"For the site and app? A month or so for the first model, but we'll have shop front design work ups in a week." Mitch is still playing with the calendar app on his iPad. "For the recognition technology...that could take longer. I'm reluctant to put an ETA on that."
"Then I want weekly updates."
"Sounds feasible."
Feasible? Jesus. It's like egos at fucking dawn in here. Enough already.
I get to my feet. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen."
"It's been great to meet you," says Mitch, who stands to shake my hand.
Yes, I really have to touch one of those hands. It's every bit as dry as it looks.
"You appreciate the sensitive nature of this project," I say in a low voice.
They all make a fuss of nodding and agreeing. Of course. Standard. Oh yeah.
You see, grasshoppers, I'm going to pay these highly intelligent, socially retarded men stare at tits and ass all day. They'll pretend otherwise, but they already love me for it. Marketing isn't just about getting the public onside; you have to seduce your staff, too.
Get 'em fat and swollen and ready, and they'll be too busy fucking themselves to ever fuck you over.
***
Leo insisted on dressing herself for the fundraiser, which I've allowed because Tuija is busy pretending to be sober, and because it pleases me to please Leo.
It also gives me time to do things like read the Rachel Fordham reports. She's still in therapy a lot; she lives alone; she doesn't appear to be fucking anyone.
Tommy says she's been circling the Lore Corp building on her lunch breaks. Just walking amid the knots of pedestrians, closer and closer, around and around. Waiting for an invitation, perhaps? Or just drawn like a magnet now I'm finally spilling somebody else's blood...? Is she angry at Leo for stealing her forbidden fruit away?
I quite like this idea that I'm a thing to be stolen, as if the hands of these little girls are somehow bigger than mine.
Heh. The things I will do with my hands later...oh, she's not ready.
I go to this fundraiser every year, and I'm always on the same table as Montgomery and Wife Number Three. Normally, I have Tuija on my arm, but tonight I have my Leo and the cameras are hungry. They stalked us outside; they flashed as I posed with her. I couldn't resist closing my teeth around the tip of her ear, and I bet that made a pretty picture. It's not in me to be modest.
I grew up an only child, which means you can look at my toys—I'll show them off, in fact—but god help you if you lay a finger on them.
Now we're sitting around an overdressed table in an overdressed ballroom, in the belly of an extravagant hotel (spend money to make money, sports fans, but never forget that it makes you look like a dick). They're going for the midnight feast atmosphere with low lights, tall burnished candelabras, and faux ivy strewn about like bunting. The menu is entirely vegetarian and already, I long for meat, consoled only by the feel of Leo's thigh beneath my fingers as I stroke her under the table. She's wearing a floor-length, strapless dark blue gown with a mesh cut-out over the belly, the kind that would display my handiwork like a trophy cabinet if I'd thought to carve over her stomach instead.
There's an idea. Mmm.
"Yes," I murmur in her ear during the speeches, "they're always this dull."
"You're not meant to talk," she whispers, though her hand finds mine anyway and she squeezes, just once. "It's rude."
"Blah blah, save the animals," I mumble into her neck. She smells like almonds tonight; a new perfume, perhaps. My little lion's all grown up.