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Qualityland
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TECHNICAL NOTE
This book is not internet-enabled. You can, however, still add comments to it. But itâs very unlikely that anyone will read them. You can share this book. But not with all your friends at once. If you do share it, of course itâs possible that someone will read your comments after all, and perhaps even comment on your comments. In order to change or update the contents of this book, the publisher would need to hire someone to break into your house at night, creep over to your bookcase, and cross out or edit sentences with a felt-tip pen or ballpoint. Thatâs possible, but unlikely. If you want to copy this book in a print shop, it might be cheaper than buying the book, but the copy wouldnât exactly be a replica of the original.
QUALITYLAND VERSION 1.6
VERSION NOTES
Dear readers, noble alien life forms (whose existence is highly probable), valued AIs, and respected search algorithms,
I wish you an enjoyable read. What you have before you is Version 1.6 of this work. This most recent update has created an all-around better reading experienceâincluding the following improvements:
âą Major logic loopholes in Chapter 2 have been resolved.
âą Defective punch lines in Chapter 7 have been replaced.
âą Compatibility for the far-sighted has been improved.
âą The newsfeed has been personalized.
âą New option of âflicking backâ to repeat difficult passages.
âą Improved synchronization with the readerâs upper temporal lobes.
So all thatâs left to say isâhave fun in QualityLand!
Calliope 7.3
* * * QualityLand * * *
Your Personal Travel Guide
INTRODUCTION
âCome to where the quality is!
Come to QualityLand!â
So youâre off to QualityLand for the first time ever. Are you excited? Yes? And quite rightly so! Youâll soon be entering a country so important that its foundation prompted the introduction of a new calendar system: QualityTime.
As you donât yet know your way around QualityLand, weâve put together a brief introduction for you. Two years before QualityLand was foundedâor in other words, two years before QualityTimeâthere was an economic crisis of such severity that it became known as the crisis of the century. It was the third crisis of the century within just a decade. Swept along by the panic of the financial markets, the government turned for help to the business consultants from Big Business Consulting (BBC) who decided that what the country needed most was a new name. The old one was worn-out and, according to surveys, only inspired die-hard nationalists with minimal buying power. Not to mention the fact that the renaming would also divest the country of a few unpleasant historical responsibilities in the process. In the past, its army had been known to⊠well, letâs just say they overshot the mark a little.
The business consultancy firm commissioned the creatives at the advertising agency World Wide Wholesale (WWW) to come up with a new name for the country, as well as a new image, new icons, and a new culture. In short: a new country identity. After a considerable amount of time and even more money, after suggestions and countersuggestions, everyone involved finally agreed upon the now world-famous name: QualityLand. Can you imagine any name more perfectly suited for appearing after âmade inâ on products? The parliament voted in favor by a large majority. Or rather, by the âlargestâ majority, because the new country identity strictly forbids the use of the positive or comparative in connection with QualityLand. Only the superlative is allowed. So be careful. If someone asks you what you think of QualityLand, donât just say that QualityLand is a wonderful country. Itâs not a wonderful country. Itâs the wonderfullest country there is!
Even the towns you are likely to visit on your travels used to have other, insignificant-sounding names. Now they have newer, better names, or as one would say in QualityLand, the newest and best names. Growth, the industrial center, expands and prospers in the south, while the university city of Progress pulsates in the north and the old trade capital Profit thrives in the countryâs heartland. And then, of course, at the forefront of them all, thereâs the undisputed capital of the free world: QualityCity!
Even QualityLandâs inhabitants were renamed. They couldnât just be ordinary people, after all; they had to be QualityPeople. Their surnames in particular sounded very medieval and didnât fit with the new progress-oriented country identity. A land of Millers, Smiths, and Taylors isnât exactly a high-tech investorâs wet dream. And so the advertising agency decided that, from that moment on, every boy would be given his fatherâs occupation as a surname and every girl the occupation of her mother. The deciding factor would be the job held at the time of conception.
We wish you an unforgettable stay in the land of Sabrina Mechatronics-Engineer and Jason Cleaner, the most popular middle-class rap duo of the decade. The land of Scarlett Prisoner and her twin brother Robert Warden, the undefeated BattleBot jockeys of the century. The land of Claudia Superstar, the Sexiest Woman of All Time. The land of Henryk Engineer, the richest person in the world.
Welcome to the land of the superlative. Welcome to QualityLand.
A KISS
Peter Jobless has had enough.
âNobody,â he says.
âYes, Peter?â asks Nobody.
âIâm not hungry anymore.â
âOkay,â says Nobody.
Nobody is Peterâs personal digital assistant. Peter picked out the name himself, because he often feels as though Nobody is there for him. Nobody helps him. Nobody listens to him. Nobody speaks to him. Nobody pays attention to him. Nobody makes decisions for him. Peter has even convinced himself that Nobody likes him. Peter is a WINNER, because Nobody is his WIN assistant. WIN, an abbreviation for âWhat I Need,â was once a search engine, into which you had to enter questionsâvery laboriouslyâby speech command, and before that by typing by hand! In essence, WIN is still a search engine, but you no longer need to ask it questions. WIN knows what you want to know. Peter no longer has to go to the effort of finding the relevant information, because the relevant information goes to the effort of finding Peter.
Nobody has selected the restaurant Peter and his friends are sitting in according to their calculated preferences. He has also ordered the appropriate burger for Peter. The âbest recycled meat burger in QualityCityâ reads the paper napkin in front of him. Nevertheless, Peter doesnât like it, perhaps because the restaurant selection had to correspond not just to his tastes, but also to his bank balance.
âItâs getting late, guys,â says Peter to his friends. âIâm going to head off.â
A few indeterminate grunts come by way of response.
Peter likes his friends. Nobody found them for him. But sometimes, and heâs not sure why, his mood turns sour when he hangs out with them. Peter pushes aside his plate, which still contains more than half of the recycled burger, and pulls on his jacket. Nobody asks for the bill. It comes immediately. The waiter, as in most restaurants, is a human being, not an android. Machines can do so many things nowadays, but they still canât quite manage to carry a full cup from A to B without spilling it. Besides, humans are cheaper; they donât have any acquisition or maintenance costs. And there arenât any wages in the gastronomy industry either; you work for tips. Androids donât work for tips.
âHow would you like to pay?â asks the waiter.
âTouchKiss,â says Peter.
âCertainly,â says the waiter. He swipes around on his QualityPad, then Peterâs tablet vibrates.
Since its launch, TouchKiss has rapidly established itself as a leading payment method. Researchers from QualityCorpââThe company that makes your life betterââhave discovered that lips are far more forge-proof than fingerprints. Critics claim, however, that it has nothing to do with that, but instead with the fact that QualityCorp wants to achieve an even higher emotional connection between its customers and products. But if that really was the goal, it certainly hasnât worked with Peter. He gives his QualityPad a dispassionate kiss. With a second kiss, he adds the standard 32 percent tip. After eight seconds of inactivity, the display goes black, and his dark mirror image stares back at him blearily. An unremarkable, pale face. Not ugly, but unremarkable. So unremarkable that Peter sometimes thinks he might have confused himself with someone else. On those occasions, such as now, he feels like a stranger is staring back at him out of the display.
Outside of the restaurant, a self-driven car is already waiting for him. Nobody called it.
âHello, Peter,â says the car. âDo you want to go home?â
âYes,â says Peter, getting in.
Without any further questions about the route or address, the car sets off. They know each other. Or the car knows Peter, at least. The carâs name is shown on a display: Carl.
âLovely weather, donât you think?â says Carl.
âSmall talk off,â says Peter.
âThen let me play you, in accordance with your tastes, the greatest soft rock hits of all time,â says the car, turning on the music.
Peter has listened to soft rock for twenty-three years: his entire life.
âTurn it off, please,â he says.
âWith pleasure,â says the car. âItâs not to my taste anyway.â
âOh no?â asks Peter. âSo what do you like?â
âWell, when Iâm driving around by myself, I usually listen to industrial,â says the car.
âPut some on.â
The âsongâ which immediately drones out from the speakers suits Peterâs bad mood perfectly.
âThe musicâs okay,â he says to Carl after a while. âBut could you please stop singing along?â
âOh yes, of course,â said the car. âMy apologies. The rhythm got to me.â
Peter stretches out. The car is spacious and comfortable. Thatâs because Peter treats himself to a flat rate mobility plan in a vehicle category which he canât actually afford to be treating himself to. One of his friends even mockingly commented today that Peter must be experiencing a quarter-life crisis. From the way he was going on, anyone would think Peter had bought himself a car. And yet only the super-rich, plebs, and pimps have their own wheels. Everyone else relies upon the mobility service providersâ huge, self-driven fleets. âThe best thing about self-driven cars,â Peterâs father always used to say, âis that you donât have to look for a parking space anymore.â As soon as you reach your destination, you just get out. The car drives on and does whatever it is that cars do when they feel like no oneâs watching. In all likelihood it goes off and gets tanked up somewhere.
Suddenly, Carl brakes sharply. Theyâre at the side of the road, close to a big intersection.
âIâm very sorry,â says the car, âbut new safety guidelines have classified your neighborhood as too dangerous for self-driven cars of my quality. Iâm sure youâll understand that I need to ask you to get out here.â
âEh?â asks Peter eloquently.
âBut you must have known,â says Carl. âYou received the updated terms and conditions for your mobility plan 51.2 minutes ago. Didnât you read them?â
Peter doesnât respond.
âYou approved them, in any case,â says the car. âBut Iâm sure youâll be pleased to hear that, for your comfort, Iâve selected a stopping point which will enable you to reach your home, at your average walking pace, within 25.6 minutes.â
âGreat,â says Peter. âReally great.â
âWas that meant sarcastically?â asks the car. âUnfortunately I tend to have problems with my sarcasm detector.â
âYou donât say.â
âThat was sarcasm now, wasnât it?â asks the car. âSo you werenât really pleased just then either, were you? Do you not feel like walking? If you like I could call you a car of lesser quality corresponding to your neighborhoodâs new classification. It could be here in 6.4 minutes.â
âWhy was the classification changed?â asks Peter.
âYou mean you havenât heard?â says Carl. âAttacks on self-driven cars have rocketed in your area. Gangs of unemployed youths are getting their kicks by hacking the operating systems out of my colleagues. They destroy the tracking chip and wipe the navigation system. Itâs awful. The poor things are driving around day and night like zombie cars, completely devoid of any sense of direction. And if they get caught, they end up being scrapped because of the Consumption Protection Laws. Itâs a terrible fate. Iâm sure you know that since the Consumption Protection Laws came into force all repairs are strictly forbidden.â
âYes, I know. I run a small scrap-metal press.â
âOh,â says the car.
âYeah,â says Peter.
âSo Iâm sure youâll understand my position,â says the car.
Peter opens the door without another word.
âPlease rate me now,â says the car.
Peter gets out and slams the door shut. The car grumbles for a while because it didnât receive a rating, but eventually gives up and drives on to its next customer.
Nobody leads Peter home by the quickest route. Peterâs home is a small, dingy used-goods store with a scrap-metal press. He lives and works there. He inherited the shop from his grandfather two years ago, and since then he has barely been able to make more than the rent. When heâs just 819.2 meters from home, Nobody suddenly announces: âPeter, be careful. At the next crossing there are four youths with previous criminal convictions. I recommend you take a slight detour.â
âMaybe theyâre just running a homemade lemonade stand,â says Peter.
âThatâs very unlikely,â says Nobody. âThe probability of that isâŠâ
âOkay, okay, I get it,â says Peter. âTake me via the detour.â
At precisely the moment when Peter arrives home, a delivery drone from TheShop turns up. Peter is no longer surprised by occurrences of this kind. They donât happen by chance, for chance simply no longer exists.
âMr. Peter Jobless,â says the drone cheerfully. âI am from TheShopââThe worldâs most popular online retailerââand I have a lovely surprise for you.â
Peter takes the package from the drone with a grunt. He hasnât ordered anything; ever since OneKiss, thatâs no longer necessary. OneKiss is TheShopâs premium service and the pet project of the companyâs legendary founder, Henryk Engineer. Anyone who registers for OneKiss, simply by kissing their QualityPad, will from that moment on receive all the products they consciously or subconsciously desire, without the inconvenience of needing to actually order them. The system independently calculates what its customers want and when they want it. Since the beginning, TheShopâs slogan has been, âWe know what you want.â No one disputes that anymore.
âWhy donât you go ahead and open the package right away?â the drone suggests. âI always love seeing how delighted my customers are. And if you like, I can upload an unboxing video to your Everybody site.â
âThereâs no need to go to the trouble,â says Peter.
âOh, itâs no trouble,â says the drone. âI always record everything anyway.â
Peter opens the package. Inside is a brand-new QualityPad. The latest quarterly model. Peter hadnât been aware of wanting a new QualityPad; after all, he has the model from the last quarter. It must have been a subconscious wish. Completely devoid of emotion, he takes the tablet out of the packaging. The new generation is significantly heavier than its predecessor; the older models kept getting blown away by the wind. Remembering the unboxing video, Peter forces a smile and makes a thumbs up sign for the camera. If any of Peterâs friends were to look closely at the video, they would most certainly find the look on his face disturbing. But Peterâs friends arenât interested in unboxing videos. Nobody is interested in unboxing videos.
Peter plants a kiss on his new QualityPad. Nobody greets him in a friendly manner and Peter immediately has access to all his data. He crumples up his old tablet and throws it into a waste disposal bin, which, not by chance, is standing at the ready. The waste bin thanks him and goes across the street toward a fat little girl who is unwrapping a chocolate bar. Three self-driven cars brake slightly in order to let the bin pass. Peter watches the scene absentmindedly.
The delivery droneâs touchscreen lights up.
âPlease rate me now,â she says.
Peter sighs. He gives the drone ten stars, knowing that anything less will inevitably lead to a customer survey about why heâs not completely satisfied. The drone whirrs happily. She seems to be pleased with her rating.
âThatâs my good deed done for the day,â says Peter.
âOh, and by the way,â adds the drone, âcould you perhaps take in a couple of little packages for your neighbors?â
âSome things never change.â
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THE BIGGEST COALITION
Martyn is wearing a nametag. It says, âMartyn Foundation-President-Supervisory-Board-Presidential-Adviser-Chairman.â He normally only uses the last part of his surname, but when conducting tours he likes to make use of its impressive, downright aristocratic length. He is proud of his fatherâs success. A feeling which, unfortunately, is not reciprocated. When Martyn was a child, his father told him that he was stupid so often that for many years he believed it without question. Only at the age of 19 did the groundbreaking thought occur to him that perhaps not everything his father told him was true, and, ever since that moment, he has considered himself to be very clever. Unfortunately, however, he really isnât the brightest, and amongst all the things his father can quite rightfully be accused of, lying to his son about his mental capacities is not one of them.
Martyn has made the best of his limited possibilities: he has become a politician. A popular, well-established choice, parliament being a kind of modern-day monastery: a place where the upper classes can get rid of their superfluous sons. And Martyn has even made it into the QualityParliament, albeit only as a backbencher. For the last eight years, his main role has been to conduct tours through the parliament buildings for selected students, otherwise known as QualiTeenies. Martyn always takes the girls-only groups, and today heâs hit the jackpot. The schoolgirls are from an airline hostess academy.
âAs Iâm sure you know,â he says to the twelve 16-year-olds in front of him, âthere are two big political parties in QualityLand. The QualityAlliance, and of course the Progress Party. The parties used to be named differently, but they were changed in keeping with the new, progress-oriented country identity.â
âWhich means,â says one of the girls, âthat they conveniently got rid of a few troublesome adjectives in the process, like social, Christian, green, and democratic.â
Another smart-ass, thinks Martyn. Wonderful.
He directs his gaze at the heckler, and his augmented reality contact lenses superimpose her name: Tatjana History-Teacher. Itâs always the history teachersâ children that cause trouble. How wise the government had been to do away with history lessons sixteen years ago and replace them with future lessons. In future lessons, the pupils are taughtâby means of exciting and visually impressive methodsâthat in the future everything will be good, becauseâthis being the core messageâin the future all problems will be easily solved through technology.
Two of the girls at the back of the group are whispering about their grades. Martyn likes the look of one of them. He hears her murmur: âI always get 100 points for body mass index. But that dumb-ass teacher says heâs not going to give me the full grades in sex appeal again, because he doesnât like how I babble on. What a douche!â
With a focused gaze and a long wink, Martyn bookmarks the girl for later. A confirming PLING resounds inside his right ear. He unconsciously runs his hand through his luscious, full head of hair, which is genetically protected against balding, then clears his throat and continues: âAnd then of course thereâs the Opposition Party, whose founders clearly never had any hope of being part of the government, given that the party is called the Opposition Party.â
âA parliamentary outlet for discontent,â says Tatjana History-Teacher, repeating words she often hears her mother say when drunk. Martyn is already mentally preparing her zero-star rating.
âBecause our revered president is on her deathbed,â he says, âthere will soon be another election. The doctors have predicted that she will leave us in precisely sixty-four days. In order to enable a seamless transition, we will vote in exactly sixty-four days. Well, in principle the large parties all want the same thing anywayâin other words, the bestâand thatâs why I assume the two big parties will soon announce that they intend to form a big coalition again after the election. Sorryâof course QualityLand wonât be ruled by a big coalition, but the biggest! Any questions?â
âWhy do you think voter turnout is getting lower and lower?â asks the smart-ass.
âI think,â says Martyn, âthat the current government successfully addressed this problem when we decided to stop publishing voter turnout numbers. The next logical step, by the wayâkeeping the election results secret as wellâis currently a hot topic of debate behind closed doors.â
The girls laugh obediently, even though Martyn wasnât joking.
âTransparent individuals in a nontransparent system,â says Tatjana. Martyn ignores her.
âHey, man, why are you in the Progress Party anyway?â asks the pretty girl whom Martyn has bookmarked for himself.
âWell,â says Martyn, asking himself this question for the first time, âI think, um, because theyâre the biggest of the, um, the biggest parties.â
In truth, Martyn prefers to rule rather than oppose, even though in reality he does neither one nor the other. He sits on a backbench and applauds when the leaders of his party speak, and boos when someone from the opposition speaks. He does both with a contented smile, without ever listening to whatâs being said.
He leads the girls to the visitorsâ level of the assembly room. He points to the man currently at the speakerâs podium. âThat guy there is in the Opposition Party.â
âFor years,â calls the politician, âQualityLand has been waging war against the terrorists of the realm that our media now refers to only as QuantityLand. QuantityLand 7, to be precise. Is it, therefore, not a little counterproductive that certain armament companies are still allowed to export weapons to the enemy? Must our soldiers really be torn to shreds by our very own weapons?â
Objections are called out in the hall. Martyn boos as well, encouraging the girls to copy him.
âMr. Songwriter,â intervenes the Speaker of Parliament, âonce again I must remind you to keep to the new country identity. âWarâ is not the politically correct word. It is referred to as âSecurity Operation for the Protection of Trade Routes and Natural Resource Supply.â And we no longer say soldiers, but âQualitySecurers.ââ
âCall it whatever you want,â says the opposition politician as he leaves the podium. âIt doesnât change what it is.â
The sitting is interrupted by a hologram display announcement: âThis parliamentary debate is brought to you by QualityPartner. QualityPartnerââLove at first click.ââ
A new speaker steps up to the podium. A tall man, rather stocky, white, 67 years old, his face creased with wrinkles.
âYouâre in luck,â says Martyn. âThe new Defense Minister himself is speaking today! Conrad Cook. Iâm sure you recognize him.â
The Defense Minister really does enjoy enviable levels of recognition for a politician. Before his work in the cabinet he was a famous television chef. He also owns a large empire of food manufacturers. His likeness is plastered over chocolate bars, breakfast cereals, and pickled sausages, and every child knows his face.
âMr. Songwriter,â begins the minister sharply, âIâd like to add my thoughts to the mix.â
âDid you know that Conrad Cookâs father was a successful cook too?â asks Martyn, trying to add a fun fact.
âYou donât sayâŠâ mumbles Tatjana.
âYouâre always trying to find a fly in the soup!â the minister exclaims.
Genre:
- "QUALITYLAND is very funny and very scary -- my kind of book."âMike Judge, creator of HBO's Silicon Valley, writer/director of Office Space
- "Eerily prescient and peppered with near-future projections (including the cryogenic resurrection of Jennifer Aniston), Qualityland reads like the best Black Mirror episode as written by Kurt Vonnegut. Kling delivers scythe-sharp satire, steering us through a hysterical dystopian adventure of technological determinism, all while skewering consumer culture, politics, free will, and making me rethink my relationship with my Roomba. Witty, wise, and terrifyingly funny, Qualityland is a genius gem and an absolute must read. I laughed my phone off."âp.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Helvetica}span.s1 {font-kerning: none}Kira Jane Buxton, author of Hollow Kingdom
- "Kling's dialogue is witty and sharp, the relationship between Peter and the droids is handled with a great deal of humour and warmth, and more often than not Kling lands his jokes--Qualityland is incredibly funny--a rare feat for a science fiction novel."âp.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'}Locus
- "A hilarious romp through an absurd hypercapitalist dystopia...This is spot-on satire."âPublishers Weekly
- "QUALITYLAND is the best kind of satire, offering up a funhouse mirror version of our world that is so smart and so cutting, you have to laugh to keep from crying."âRob Hart, author of The Warehouse
- "The times we live in demand a satire as sharp and unrelenting as QUALITYLAND. The funniest parts will make you cringe. But rather than merely beat the reader over the head with doom and gloom, this novel goes further, showing the value of endurance and even hope in an age of emptiness."âp.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'}Robert Repino, author of D'Arc and Mort(e)
- "How much you enjoy this is in direct proportion to how much trouble you think we're all in. Sleep tight."âKirkus
- "Kling's sharp observations target the economy, the law, xenophobia, relationships, security, and government, sparing few and exposing with delightful brutality how close QualityLand is to reality."âBooklist
- "The plot unfolds in a way that surprises, which is quite refreshing when dealing with storylines which create a cautionary tale about corporate overreach."âp.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'}The Nerd Daily
- On Sale
- Jan 7, 2020
- Page Count
- 352 pages
- Publisher
- Grand Central Publishing
- ISBN-13
- 9781538732977
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