Blood Zero Sky Read Online Free Page B

N-Corp products aren’t that exciting. We’re the only company operating in the Western Hemisphere, and that means that there are no other companies’ products on the market for us to compete with. Since there’s no competition, there’s no financial incentive for us to innovate. So this new IC is no better than the last one, except that it’s green instead of silver, it has a slightly narrower screen, and you can strap it to your wrist. Of course, the fellows at Cranton are coming up with new stuff every day, but most of it is never developed, or if it does get developed, it’s never brought to the market.
    “Just enough to keep the lemmings entertained,” was my father’s axiom when it came to rolling out new products. “It’s not the product they need, May, it’s the need itself. They need to need something. It could be a sports car or a can of peanuts. It’s the distraction they crave.”
    To make that distraction work to the fullest, my mission is to make the new product, whatever it may be, more than just a necessity; it must be an obsession. The desire for it must eclipse all else in the consumer’s life.
    Easy.
    Ads appear on the imagers located inside your shower, on the doors of public toilet stalls, on the surface of your desk at work, inside commuter trains and elevators, in shopping plazas, inside your car, in the backs of the pews at church, in street signs, on the screen of your IC, in the living room of your apartment, in the ceiling above your bed, on the exterior of every building, of course, and in a million other places. The line between thought and suggestion is forever and irrevocably erased—that’s my job.
    Today, my marketing team and I sit in suede chairs around a huge ebony and mother-of-pearl inlaid conference table. A giant crucifix hangs on the far wall. I’m almost falling asleep as my team brainstorms about the launch plan for the new IC.
    They’ll be mandatory equipment for all Company employees by the end of the year, but those who want to buy it now can do so—at a 300 percent markup.
    My job is to make everyone want it now.
    “She should hold the IC next to her bra, like this,” says Miller, a pasty young man in a wrinkled tie.
    The screen at the center of the table lights up and displays Miller’s sloppy sketch of a ferocious-looking, half-naked girl standing before a fireworks-laced night sky, holding her IC. On the top right-hand corner of the sketch, the N-Corp logo with its big, black cross appears.
    “Yeah,” Dagny says thoughtfully, “I like that, but we need a man in there, too. And text. Something like: ‘I know what you’re thinking.’”
    “Not bad,” Jeff says.
    “That’s good,” Kate agrees.
    “Is the guy shirtless?” Carter asks.
    “Of course,” Dagny scoffs.
    “Does he have an IC, too? Or are they both holding on to hers? Maybe he’s looking at her screen—you know, trying to see what she’s uploading,” Miller offers.
    “Or should he have his own? Maybe they’re back-to-back, both engrossed. Like the IC is so fascinating, they don’t even notice each other,” Carter says.
    Dagny shakes her head. “One IC says luxury. It says there aren’t enough ICs for everyone, so if you’re lucky enough to get your hands on one, you’d better snatch it up.”
    “What do you think, May?” asks Miller, turning his bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes to me.
    Dagny watches me expectantly, too. Her face is round and plump, and the cross under her left eyes makes her features look strangely proportioned, as if she’s just stepped out of a painting by Picasso. Or maybe I just need more coffee.
    “Hmmm,” I yawn. “What market is this going to be focused on again?”
    “Mostly prime time imager—and we were thinking of using a variation of it as the tag during The Jimmy Shaw Hour in Christ,” Dagny replies.
    I nod, but before I can speak, there’s a din in the hallway, and we all look out the glass wall of the conference room. Four members of