Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle (47 page)

‘It’s a simple question. People want better services, cheaper downloads. Filters to kill the noise. They want the stuff they like. Who are you to say they can’t, because you’ve got a nineteenth-century notion of privacy?’

J-R glanced at Mark – who was standing on the balls of his feet as though ready to run or attack – then back to Perce’s panther smile. He attempted an answer.

‘People need to trust the government to keep their data private.’

‘So privacy’s important? Philosophical question.’

Perce walked to a cluster of chairs on the brink of the precipice. He nipped his trousers at the knee and sat facing the two friends, the sheer face of animated screens shouting through the glass behind him.

‘Hiding what you do online is important?’ he said.

J-R moved to a facing chair. Mark slid in beside him.

‘Certainly privacy is a right.’

‘So a guy walks down the street in a hockey mask, you’re not going to cross to the other side? You’re saying that would be normal? Why do these people want to be able to do that online?’

J-R and Mark exchanged a look.

‘That’s not the question, Mr Perce.’

‘Sean.’

‘People have legal rights. Those who protect their information shouldn’t abuse those rights.’

‘Who’s abusing?’

‘You are, Sean.’

J-R swallowed. This kind of borderline rudeness was standard practice for a government advisor, but this was like tilting at a giant.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘we have evidence –’

On cue, Mark pulled the file from his satchel and passed it to J-R, who conveyed it solemnly to Perce – who regarded this ceremony with amusement. J-R put a finger against the file.

‘Our findings.’

‘Sure, whatever.’

Perce dropped the file unopened on the chair beside him, stood and leaned forward to place a gentle hand on J-R’s shoulder.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I wanted to start by giving you the one-oh-one, J-R. Clear the air.’

He headed for his desk, leaving the two friends with the abandoned dossier. J-R twisted to keep an eye on Perce. His shifting persona was hard to lock onto. He continued his pitch.

‘See what you really think. Let you be the judge. Take a for instance: you know about the Grubly network, right?’

He sat behind his colossal desk. J-R and Mark looked at each other. J-R picked up the file and approached the desk.

‘We do. And we know what you’re doing with it. This file –’

He dropped it emptily on the desk.

‘Well, I’d hope you do: you just bought fifty million licences for it! No point kicking the tyres when you’ve already bought the car.’

J-R sat opposite Perce.

‘The contract isn’t signed, Sean.’

‘Will be Monday. Assuming we have a minister in office long enough to sign it!’

That was bloody low.

‘Mr Perce. We are precisely here to talk about Grubly. You are acquiring incredible quantities of data, covertly, from ordinary people. More data than you could possibly need, on every stripe of their lives. You’re using it without permission – for what? What are you doing
exactly
with this data?’

Perce blinked at him.

‘What am
I
doing?’

Mark came to stand beside J-R.

‘I’ve looked at the data flows,’ he said. ‘Immense. You must be getting images, audio, biometrics, even –’

Perce kept nodding as though this was an answer. When he spoke, it was to J-R.

‘Tell me, J-R. Do you lock your door at night?’

How many times had he used J-R’s name?

‘I’m really not in the mood for rhetorical questions. I live in South London. Naturally I lock my door.’

Perce smiled.

‘OK. Non-rhetorical question. Why do you lock your door?’

‘I’m fairly sure that question also counts as rhetorical; but my answer is, to control who enters my property.’

‘So that’s what Grubly is. It helps you control what enters your world. It’s a gatekeeper, inviting in the things you want. Turning others away.’

‘Hardly,’ said Mark. ‘It invades my world and rifles my data.’

‘Mark, thank you for that. If you want someone to guard your door shouldn’t they understand you?’ He turned again to J-R. ‘Grubly is no secret. We build better data on you, we learn your interests; that helps us give you better services and better deals – in return for what we make selling your information to other vendors.’

J-R grappled with his face, which he knew was conveying dumb astonishment.

‘You admit to profiting from a public programme? To selling personal information?’

‘You’re thinking too narrowly. Someone has to pay for the amazing growth in our experience. It’s building daily, but we’ve barely begun. We still spend this tiny slice of time looking at a phone or at a PC; but those are the times that know you best. The world outside is uncustomised. People are wanting – expecting – personal all the time. The rest of the world doesn’t know you yet. Personal will soon expand to your clothing, your shaving mirror, your coffee cup. The surface area of our operations is expanding. And it won’t cost people a penny. Because they’re already giving me what I need to pay for it all.’

The man was in awe of himself. Mark, still standing, cut in.

‘You want to make the whole world an advert.’

‘
I want
?
Jesus Christ, all the things people tell me I
want.
Who said anything about
ads
?
We’re personalising the world.’

‘You’re profiling people and selling their identities.’

Perce stood and rounded the desk on Mark, assuming a nasty, lisping parody of his voice.

‘
Profiling
?
We’re understanding them! We’re
talking
to them.’

‘And how far does this
conversation
go? What are you getting from this contract? Criminal records? Debt records? Benefit claims?’

The two of them faced off over J-R’s chair. The tendons in Mark’s neck were tight, his temples glowing with sweat. This was real aggression.

‘And this would be wrong how, Mark? You’re a fan of criminals and scroungers running loose on the streets? Like that unwashed rabble outside?’

His arm flailed towards the screens, where news footage of the street encampment rolled by. Then he switched tack again, sweeping J-R out of his chair, leaving Mark behind.

‘So what we’re about, J-R? We give people control. Tailor their experience. Free up markets.’ He sat J-R back in the armchair by the vertiginous glass, knelt in front of him. ‘Elyse Martingale’s dream of empowered individuals. Bethany would love that, right?’ J-R’s heart was beating faster. ‘Now, I won’t lie to you, J-R, I’m an entrepreneur, not a politician. What I know is how to monetise. But think. What is the point of privacy laws when everything about everyone is already known? No way to put the genie back. You don’t have to like it but it’s going to happen – and when the music stops, whoever has the most data wins. You work in government.’

Did he, any more?

‘Of course.’

‘So you’ll know. You understand how hard it is to get anything done. Everything costs, there’s no money, all the hoops to jump – what do you do? Seriously, what do you do, J-R? The well is dry. Now, me, I hire the smartest software engineers in the world. There’s more IQ in one floor of this building than the whole of Westminster. Real smarts. But what we’ve built is smarter than any of us. It’s making better decisions, finding better opportunities, winning higher margins. The only reason I don’t just sit back and just let it happen is I’m hungry for the next idea that will make it even smarter.’

‘The next way to grab more data, more control,’ said Mark from across the room; but his words rebounded off Perce’s back.

‘I think people know what they want. I think we should stop telling them what they want, like politicians do, and start listening to what they say, and giving it to them. We’re going to make it easier than ever.’ Perce pulled up to his full height. ‘Let me demonstrate. We deal in facts here, J-R, in data. I can give you the facts. Then you make your mind up. You’re entitled to your own opinion but you’re not entitled to your own facts. Is that fair?’

J-R realised he was mirroring Perce’s smile. He must not succumb to his rhino charm. Still, it was true: facts were what counted. It was generally frustrating how little people understood that. Including, often, Bethany.

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Well, all right then. Let me show you some stuff.’

¶NewsHound

WTF???

BREAKING: Mondan ‘to shut down Parley’ says source. fu.bar/j2grp96

Overreaction much?

Five

‘Danielle. Girl, are you a sight for sore eyes.’

Jonquil. Obviously. Dani gives her the glass-eye and keeps loading her bag. She’s only come up to the Skunkworks to grab some must-haves from her desk. Not sure when or if she’ll be back. Impossible to think future tense.

‘This is so fucked-up,’ says Jonquil. ‘You’ve heard some kid
died
at 404 last night? Now there’s this like army of protestors forming on the street outside.’

Dani loads her bag with phone chargers: which it turns out she has a lot of. Most of them will be defunct; but who knows which? Jonquil watches with smiling patience.

‘So. We haven’t seen you around so much.’

Snap. That is it.

‘Well, you were about to fire me, remember? Last time I came here? When I was
toxic
?’

Jonquil puckers her mouth. The
girlfriend
act drops clean away.

‘Well, you made your bed, Danielle. And believe you me, this thing has screwed us both. You may not’ve heard but I resigned yesterday. Yes. Uh huh. Everything I took four years building here I walked away from. I do not know what in hell I’m even going to do.’

‘Well aren’t you Saint cunting Jonquil?’

‘Ungrateful! I put up with so much shit from you, girl. Always one eye to protect you.’

‘By shopping me to the police?’

Jonquil’s mouth clamps suddenly shut.

‘Yes,’ says Dani, ‘I know about that, thanks for nothing.’

Ah, Christ, is she Tiny Tears today? Anger makes her strong, then tears pull the rug.

‘I was your best friend, Danielle. You have no idea.’

‘I trusted you!’

‘No. No no no. This is not about trust. This is about loyalty. If you don’t know how to give it you don’t get to take it.’

‘Fuck you! Shit on your lousy backstabbing loyal bullshit – God! I am so glad I never, never have to take this shit from you again!’

Silence falls in the empty office. Rows of neutered flatscreens look on. Dani suffers it for about ten seconds then scoops up her bag and hits the stairs. Six flights down to the basement and the tunnel.

¶takebackIDhub

Where is Sean Perce?

Six

‘You know about
Everything About You
?’ said Perce.

No, J-R did not.

‘Really. Do you not talk to your own colleagues? You should. It’s not all the Ministry of No these days. Some of your colleagues actually understand why we’re so valuable.’

Perce was in motion, alternately perching at his desk and pacing the room. Now he leaned at his computer, rapidly clicking the mouse as he spoke.

‘Here. Good example of the match and trace ability of Grubly. It uses people’s comms, geolocation.’ He beckoned them both with a cupped hand. ‘Come see. It’s pretty cool.’ He swivelled the flatscreen for J-R to see. ‘Honestly? I wish Beth had understood these possibilities more. She could have made other conversations happen. There are so
many
uses for this kit, in central government. Security-wise. But she’s nobody’s tech, is she?
So
not her grandmother. Still. Her loss.’

He typed something into a dialogue box. His own name.

‘I’m easy as a starter. There’s only one Sean Perce on the database.’

He clicked
Find.
A satellite image zoomed rapidly to central London and continued to hone in on a labelled aerial shot of 404 City. As the zoom braked, a pulsing icon of a man appeared. Perce gave a wave and pointed to himself.

‘There I am. Beat that, Google, huh?’

J-R turned to Mark for confirmation of what he’d just seen. Mark, leaning into the screen, was unreadable.

‘And this is the
Everything About You
icon,’ said Perce, scribbling his mouse pointer over a strobing 8 – the symbol of infinity – that hung beside his on-screen avatar.
‘I’m not going to show you what’s behind there – not yet. But it knows a lot about me. A
lot.
I can’t hide from the data, any more than anyone. So, who else is in the news today? Hmm: I know!’

As soon as
B-e-t-
appeared in the search box, J-R knew, too.

‘What are you—?’ he began, then stopped.

He’d been about to accuse Perce of tracking a minister of state using demonstration software on a desktop PC. Nonsense.

Perce completed Bethany’s name and pressed
Search
. The map swiped to the left, revealing the City of London, Holborn; then made a sharp corner onto Westminster,
Downing Street.
The strobing male icon had been replaced by a female variant. Somewhere over the State Dining Rooms, 10 Downing Street, by J-R’s estimation.

‘Uh oh. Headmaster’s office,’ said Perce and then, under his breath, ‘Poor Beth.’

J-R and Mark were frozen.

‘Jesus Christ, lads. You look like I just shot a puppy.’

J-R pointed at the screen, a caveman stumbling on fire.

‘How did –?’

Perce gave a gameshow smile.

‘Geolocation primed on mobile phones, PCs and tablets. Any device that has Grubly we can triangulate. In this case, Beth’s personal phone. What do you say, J-R? Info-warrior like you? Are you on or off my map? You have a phone on you?’

Hypnotised, J-R drew his ageing smartphone from his pocket and showed it to Perce. Perce nodded.