Youre safe here, p.14
You're Safe Here, page 14
There were no visible windows in the room, but plenty of light cascaded from wide seams where the ceiling didn’t quite meet the wall. Noa was struck by how angular everything was; the room itself was shaped like a misformed trapezoid. It stood in direct contrast to the smooth, sloping lines that hugged nearly every edge in WellPark. It was beautiful, as she’d told Emmett, but also harsh and disorienting. What the fuck am I doing here?
A woman wearing a nearly identical uniform to Emmett’s and Taylor’s, but in slate gray, emerged from around a corner. Noa guessed she was in her sixties, but it was hard to tell. Her hair was wrapped in a loose bun and, like Taylor’s, was so pale it looked more white than blond.
“Hello,” she said, “and welcome. I’m Inga. Emmett will be back shortly, but I can show you to your room.”
It had been years since Noa had heard an accent different from the slightly global, American mash-up that dominated WellCorp, but Inga spoke each singsong word like she was trying to capture its final syllable in her mouth before it escaped her lips. It felt like the one soft thing in the room, and Noa could have listened to it for hours.
Inga gestured for Noa to follow her, picking up her bag, and guiding her down a long hallway. Noa wondered which of the identical closed doors Emmett and Taylor were behind until Inga abruptly stopped at one. The black door matched the walls exactly, except it was embedded about an inch into the wall, framed by a white lacquered edge. Inga swiped her wrist in front of the Reader, then stood back for Noa, placing her bag on the floor just inside the door.
“Please take as long as you need to wash up, then return to the living room. Emmett will meet you there when she is ready,” she said, then walked back down the hallway with purpose, toward a more pressing task.
“Thank you,” Noa called after her, immensely grateful to see a bed and, beyond it, a window.
It had to be midafternoon, but it was surprisingly dark outside, boxed in by fog that usually burned off by this time of day. Noa walked to the window, which ran from the floor to the ceiling but was barely wider than she, to get her bearings. She could see now that she was in the hills above Malibu, apparently tucked into one of them. A small square of the window could be unlatched, and Noa was relieved to discover she wasn’t a total prisoner as she pushed it open. She could squeeze through it if she ever needed to.
The view of the ocean was almost exactly the same as the one from her apartment, but instead of only being able to see the horizon line, she could also see parts of the coast. Her room faced the craggy tip of Point Mugu with an aerial view of WellPark. Do I still work there? The only signs of life were the shuttle moving along the tracks and a security car driving toward the main building, but she knew thousands milled underground or were hidden away in buildings. She imagined taking a stick to it, like an ant colony, and stirring the soft dirt to watch the panic bubble to the surface.
She’d assumed, from her exit, that she would never be going back there, but now she wasn’t sure where she stood. Emmett had brought her here, but only after she’d been chased out by guards. Maya had smuggled her out twenty minutes before she was meant to leave, clearly at Emmett’s behest, but why weren’t the guards working in accordance with her? It was Emmett’s company, after all. Noa brought her head back inside, leaving the window wide open, to survey the room.
The furniture was almost identical to the pieces she and Maggie had shared in their apartment. She placed her bag at the end of the bed, unzipping it to toss the book on top of the duvet—it comforted her to see it—then walked into the bathroom, past a slightly smaller version of the WellNest she and Maggie had shared, a WellEcon model. In the bathroom, the SmartMirror above the sink recognized her and projected her preferences along with her now-empty schedule and the afternoon’s headlines. The mirror smoothed out her pores and smaller imperfections, but even with its help, she could see that she looked like shit. She pushed her hair back, taking in her sunken eyes.
Next to the sink were two sealed glass bottles of water. She uncapped one and chugged it, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom. She grabbed the second and took a sip from it as well.
Noa peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. It was easy to pretend, standing under the water, that she was still in her apartment. She crouched down until she was sitting on the tiled floor and pulled her knees into her chest, pushing her eyes against them. The water was slightly cooler at this level, the droplets already losing their heat by the time they ran through her hair and down her back.
She wanted to cry, but felt too exhausted. Plus, she didn’t know what to cry about. She no longer had a home, which meant Maggie wouldn’t have a home once she Redocked. How will she reach me? Has she been notified already? Even as she thought it, Noa doubted it. Maggie would be protected from the information, to maintain the serenity of her retreat. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and imagined Maggie stepping into the shower, sitting on the floor, pulling Noa onto her lap, into her arms. She could practically feel herself being cradled, kissed. It would be okay. It had to be okay.
Noa stood up slowly, pressing her forehead against the tile. This was not the time to let memory get the best of her. When was the last time she and Maggie had showered together? They used to all the time in the beginning, even in the tiny tub in Maggie’s bungalow, because they could hardly stand to be apart for any longer than a few moments. They continued, in the new apartment’s dual-head, because their routines had become so in sync, it made sense. But then, at a certain point, they had stopped, mutually and wordlessly choosing to spend more time apart, and Noa began to use the time with the water running to message Maya.
She stepped out of the shower, the water turning off automatically behind her, and wrapped a towel around herself, tucking the corner in at her chest. It felt comforting to do something so normal under the circumstances, to secure a towel around her body. She heard a slight rustle from the bedroom, but when she stepped into it, it was empty except for a faint trace of lilac.
A closet emerged from the wall, holding identical cashmere sets, all in black. White for the host, gray for the house staff, black for visitors or WellCorp employees, Noa guessed. She let her towel drop to the ground and pulled a fresh bra and underwear on before slipping into the set, which fit her perfectly. It reminded Noa of an upgraded version of the uniform Travelers wore, but instead of scrub-like pajamas, it fit like a tailored suit made entirely out of cashmere. She took a few minutes to unpack the few things she’d brought with her, hanging her clothes and leaving the novel on the bed.
She touched her wrist to confirm that the bracelet had survived the escape, then ran her fingers through her short hair, straightening it down, and slipped into mules she found placed on the floor next to a small round table by the exit.
The door closed softly as she walked down the hallway lined with other closed doors toward the light of the living room. Behind her, the hallway seemed to be swallowed in darkness. Panic briefly seized her as she realized she might not be able to find her room later.
Emmett was already in the living room, sitting in one of the plush white chairs in front of the now-lit fireplace countering the air-conditioning, her hands posed as if reading a book, even though she wasn’t holding one. Noa watched her mime flipping a page, then looped around the chair to announce herself in Emmett’s peripheral.
Emmett smiled, but the warmth she had exuded earlier was completely gone. She spoke to Noa without looking up. “I just have one paragraph left in this chapter. Please, take a seat.”
The chair she gestured toward was about thirty percent larger than it should have been. Noa had to choose between resting her back against it or placing her feet on the floor. She glanced at Emmett, who was tall enough to do both, as if the chair was built for her. It probably was. She perched herself at the edge, planting her feet on the ground. Emmett pressed her hands together, “closing” the book.
“Dostoevsky,” Emmett said, turning to face Noa.
“What?”
“Brothers Karamazov. It’s the book I’m reading,” she said, holding her green eyes on Noa. Noa had only been this close to Emmett once before, but recognized her signature light vetiver and white floral fragrance. Her skin exuded a warm, dewy glow despite the absence of any makeup. Her glance suddenly shifted a few feet behind Noa. “Ah, Inga! Noa, are you hungry at all?”
Noa wasn’t, she realized, but knew she must be. It had been a full day since her last meal. “I could eat.”
“So polite,” Emmett said, the edge of condescension tugging at the fabric of her carefully woven poise. “Inga, would you mind fixing us each a sandwich and some mint tea,” she requested without glancing at Noa for approval. “Thank you so much.”
Noa waited until Inga had left the room before she asked, “What am I doing here?”
“I think you can help me and the Travelers,” Emmett answered calmly, as if anticipating the question. Everything about her was polished, collected.
Noa nodded slowly, shifting in her seat. Emmett’s legs were crossed and her hands rested gracefully on top, so that her limbs formed an elegant stack.
“I think it’s probably best if I start at the beginning. You don’t mind, do you?” Emmett asked, taking a deep breath and uncrossing her hands, which immediately floated to conduct each word. There was something about the way she spoke that reminded Noa of Maggie. “I have always valued privacy and access to isolation above all else. It’s why I created WellNests in the first place.”
Emmett didn’t need to tell Noa the story about her grandfather, how they’d both found sanctuary within his woodshed. She and every WellCorp employee had heard it a thousand times. This time, a thought occurred to Noa: of the number of cameras in WellCorp, the tracker in her wrist, the electrodes in her brain. How can Emmett not see it? The kind of isolation she was describing was more fleeting because of WellCorp.
“Access to privacy, to a place of one’s own, is vital to human development, growth, and creativity, and the only thing that could possibly birth a solution to climate disaster, in my opinion,” Emmett went on.
It was amazing to Noa how, with enough money, you could almost turn opinion into fact. But she tried to keep an open mind. She often jumped to conclusions without weighing both sides. It was an instinct that allowed her to make swift decisions at work, but could skirt into impulsivity in her personal life—and, apparently, get her fired.
“WellPods and WellNests both grew from that same seed. I saw WellPods as a singular opportunity for a nearly two-month escape from life, a chance to regroup in unencumbered isolation and then be, effectively, reborn.” Her hands, which had been gracefully moving as she spoke, now came together in a prayer in front of her lips. “Oisín’s vision was always larger. He was able to see the potential that had been placed in our laps—which is why he pushed even harder for the Pods’ completion than I did, in the end.”
Noa remembered the messages left on the Device. It has to be now, Oisín had written. Emmett uncrossed and recrossed her legs, as if wondering how exactly to put it, then took a deep breath.
“Last year, healthcare was a twenty-trillion-dollar industry. Hospitals, pharmaceuticals,” she said, counting each, starting from her thumb, “health insurance, concierge medicine. People will spend any amount to keep themselves and their loved ones alive. And we owned a growing percentage of the market, thanks to body-embedded tech.”
“Lenses and Injectibles,” Noa said.
“At their base level, Injectibles are obviously a hybrid identification card, geo- and fitness-tracker, and blood-testing system.” As Emmett spoke, she maintained eye contact except for the moments she glanced down at her own forearm, pinching what Noa assumed was her Injectible. “You of all people should understand that.”
Noa’s hand floated self-consciously to the familiar square on the back of her arm as Emmett continued, “You know, the insulin pump was the first Injectible-integrated drug delivery accessory we offered? But that technology has improved beyond the scope of what I thought was possible when I created them as a companion to WellNests.”
Emmett leaned forward until her forearms rested against the tops of her thighs.
“Oisín wanted to use the Injectibles’ and Lenses’ combined capacity for biomathematics and predictive modeling against a user’s normal parameters, to be able to detect diseases as soon as health markers indicated any abnormalities.”
“Okay.” Noa didn’t understand yet what this had to do with the Pods. She had a sense she was playing a game with Emmett, but she didn’t know any of the rules or even which side she was on yet.
“Your lunch should be ready by now,” Emmett said, suddenly brightening, “if you’d like to grab it from the kitchen.”
Disoriented, Noa followed her command and stood to walk past a dining room encased on three sides by windows, into the kitchen that Inga had disappeared into. An older man was sitting at the table, but didn’t acknowledge Noa as she walked past. His eyes were glued to the table, lost in thought. Though there was no sign of Inga, she found a tray that held a glass teapot stuffed with mint leaves and two sandwiches layered with ingredients Noa hadn’t seen in years on the slate-black countertop next to the sink.
“Feel free to bring it into the living room,” Emmett called.
Carefully balancing the meal, Noa returned and set the tray down on the low coffee table in front of Emmett.
“That’s pretty,” Emmett said, reaching out for the gold bracelet, which had slid out from under Noa’s sleeve around her hand.
“Oh, thank you,” Noa said, instinctively lifting her arm to shake it back under her sleeve when Emmett reached out to inspect it.
“Is it a family heirloom?”
“Yeah—I mean, not of my family’s but of my fiancée’s, I think. Who was that at the table?” Noa asked, changing the subject.
“Hmm?” Emmett was leaning forward to pour the tea into her mug. “Oh, Arthur. You’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Noa sat down on the edge of her seat. She could see a perfect strata of ricotta, tomatoes, and pesto between the two slices of bread, with real whole grains, but she felt sick to her stomach. She leaned forward to pour herself a glass of the pungent brew as Emmett sat still, watching her.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Noa pressed. “Why are you telling me all of this?” A former employee who had reacted to being fired by escaping campus felt like an unlikely confidante for divulging company secrets to.
Emmett took another slow, deep breath, making Noa think again of Maggie: her thoughtful consideration, her long pauses that went just beyond the length of social acceptability when she didn’t quite have the words yet. Then again, everything reminded her of Maggie these days.
“Since the invention of the internet, people’s actions have been coded as data so that they can be fed through algorithms that increase their spending and benefit corporations. It began with supermarkets using purchasing sequences to determine future outcomes. Of course, early social media sites delivered ads tailored not only to the accounts an individual followed, but to the people they were spending their time with offline. We’ve all gotten used to our everyday decisions being tracked as data, haven’t we? We even packaged and sold our users’ Injectibles data back to them, offering precise recommendations in WellNests.
“Our thoughts and actions have been treated like property for decades, sold between companies without us even knowing. It was never a big leap for us to apply the same ownership, the same intimate knowledge, to our bodies.”
“I don’t understand,” Noa said, at the same time she worried she understood everything perfectly. She had been staring at the sandwiches, the ingredients blurring into a kaleidoscope of green and red, as Emmett spoke, but returned her gaze to Emmett’s eyes, which were gazing intently at Noa with an expression that Noa had never seen in her curated keynotes or public interviews.
“WellCorp has access to nearly every aspect of a user’s life: the innermost thoughts shared with their Emmies, their health, where they go when they think they aren’t being watched. We’ve collected enough data to know virtually everything about most people in the world: their habits, their future actions—even their past.” Noa shifted uncomfortably as Emmett spoke. “Combined with the advances in immunoassays, this technology would enable us to catch and treat illnesses early on, to bring the hospital to your wrist.
“The vision was, admittedly, incredible—if we could get it to work. I’m talking about chemotherapy, dialysis even, becoming as easy as applying a patch or heading into an annual physical,” Emmett said, her hands flying as she spoke. “Imagine, a notification would arrive on a patient’s Device or Lens telling them they had cancer, but instead of this being a death sentence or prelude to chemo, the system would simply ship a targeted accessory patch or instruct the patient to head to the nearest WellHealth center to receive an injection. Cancer, with an Injectible, is no more than an inconvenience. But the big money in healthcare is dependent on lengthy treatments. This would be far less lucrative for the healthcare provider, which is why Oísin suggested we flip the model on its head and charge for the diagnosis instead of the treatment.”
Noa didn’t even have to think about it. “Pay to cheat death.”
“For a monthly fee, premium subscribers would no longer have to suffer from treatable diseases like HIV, measles, organ failure, the flu, heart conditions.” Emmett listed them off. “Twenty percent of the world’s population has an Injectible. Even lowballing it, that’s one point eight billion users. If even one percent of those opt for a subscription model at one thousand per month, that would generate two hundred and sixteen billion dollars per year. That’s a conservative estimate, and it’s almost entirely profit. It’s brilliant, but the technology just wasn’t there. Any attempts at trials were muddied. We needed a double-blind study completely removed from external variables.”
“Hence your interest in the Pods,” Noa said, catching on.
