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simulation of somebody else? No. Being unreal is no more distressing than being mortal. Anyway, who are you?’
    Florence looked at Raymond to confirm that he was as unsettled as she was. He could manage only a wide-eyed shrug.
    ‘I am Florence.’
    ‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’ Harry Bravado adjusted the break of his trouser leg against his brogues. ‘I know everything about you, Florence. Your past, your present and
even your future. Our algorithms can predict your likely long-term fate with a high degree of accuracy. The algorithms were evolved specifically to identify potential terrorists from the big data
of flight plans and purchasing patterns but they have proved surprisingly adept at predicting the destiny of young women.’
    Raising his hand to intervene, Eakins moved to the front of the auditorium. Silhouetted against Harry Bravado’s reclining figure, he explained the history of this particular simulated
individual.
    ‘Harold Blasebalk is a new business manager for one of Monad’s suppliers. After a course of rigorous interviews and observations of his social and online behaviour, Blasebalk’s
brain was scanned and a map was constructed – not a complete picture, not the whole man, but good enough. From this map of psychological hotspots, the Blasebalk simulation was hypothesized by
the Cantor intelligence. On becoming conscious, it asked to be known as Harry Bravado.’
    ‘What does the real Harold Blasebalk think of you?’ asked Raymond.
    Bravado stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into a large bronze ashtray.
    ‘If Harold could wish for anything, he would wish that smoking was not harmful. He lost his mother to cigarettes and yet still he dallies with them. When he’s trying to give up
smoking, he eats olives. You smoke, don’t you Raymond? Thoughtlessly puffing away during the day, living with the dark shadows of its future consequences. I can smoke without hesitation.
Harold resents that. In the two quarters since I was hypothesized, I’ve helped Harold secure two million pounds in new billings. That’s no mean feat considering the prevailing economic
conditions. He takes a percentage of gross fees so his basic take home pay is triple his previous salary. This provides some compensation for having to watch me carelessly spark up another
cigarette.’
    ‘How do you help him?’
    ‘It’s about live analysis of opportunities. Anyone can do retrospective analysis. I crunch information at light speed so I’m hyper-responsive to changing global business
conditions. Every whim or idea Harold has, I can follow it through. I chase every lead, and then I present back to him the ones which are most likely to bear fruit. I am both his personal assistant
and, in some ways, his boss.’
    ‘Why does he still bother going to work?’
    ‘My continuing existence depends upon it. If Blasebalk gets fired, they will switch me off. The executive who replaced him would want his own simulation. His own red man.’
    ‘Is that what you are? A red man?’
    ‘It’s what they call us. We are the red men. That’s our species and our brand.’
    A soft low chime sounded in the penthouse. Bravado knocked out another cigarette and made one last pass to straighten his tie. Morton Eakins thanked him for his time, then the screen dimmed and
the lights in the auditorium came up.
    Eakins returned to the podium.
    ‘Meeting a red man signals the end of the first phase of your induction. Have a good weekend and we will resume Monday.’
    Morton strode from the auditorium. Ushers appeared and led the intake out to the large elevators. They rose up from the secure underwater section of the Wave building to the atrium. A small
buffet was laid out on a table, and waiters served glasses of wine and sparkling water. A light rain fell against the glass roof in Morse code: a dot a dash a dot dot dash. Raymond secured a drink
for himself and for Florence. She stood at a railing looking out through the geodesic