"You still out tonight?" Ethan asks.
"Fundraiser." My cell vibrates in my hand; a message from Leo. "I'll be back early morning." I might be spending the evening with Leo, and the invitation back to her place might be implicit, but I won't be one of Those Dudes who moves in the minute he lays claim to a woman. I like my space. Besides, I have Ash's Fantasy Mom issues to deal with before a girl ever sets foot in here.
"What kinda fundraiser?" Ethan straightens the collar of his shirt. He's been smartening up for the school run lately; probably trying to bang a bored mommy. If that wouldn't impact his ability to do his job, I'd give him tips—no woman would've touched him in yesterday's black t-shirt, which said My Bad in small pink letters. "Anything cool?"
He means anyone cool, and what the hell. Let's indulge him. "Anyone who's anyone who's vegan in Hollywood, probably. It's an animal shelter thing." People kiss my ass; I give them money; they feel awkward blocking the ridiculous story one of my columnists publishes about them. Here we go round the fucking mulberry bush.
"Really? So, like, Jessica Alba?"
"I have no idea."
His pout of disappointment is comical.
***
Tech types have a certain kind of intelligence. It's not as cold as mine, but it's very, very specific—the kind that looks straight beyond people or emotions and sees only numbers and logic. I wouldn't want it for myself; it comes with a lack of social awareness that makes life difficult. But I find these types very useful. They're tools who make tools.
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."