Digital Power Ch. 01

Disclaimer: This is fiction. Do not interpret it as anything else. This is a story with themes of non-consent, rape, reluctance and sexual manipulation. The acts depicted in this story are criminal and are only acceptable in fantasy. If you are not interested in this type of story, please look elsewhere.

As a fan of Sci Fi, I've wanted to write a story in this genre, but link it to the non-consent and coercion genre. Recently reading a few books on the potentially dystopian future that may be created by the rise of infotech and biotech, I thought that would provide an interesting lens for a story.

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'Wake up Moona. . . Wake up. . . It is time to get ready.' The voice in her ear whispered gently, penetrating her dreams. She gradually surfaced from her slumber, comforted by the soft sheets, puffy duvet and spongy pillows. White bedding contrasting with the soothing pale green walls of her small one-room apartment, specifically designed to relax and refresh.

Moona stretched, yawning, her tank top hardly containing her full breasts, almost oversized on her slender frame. She squeezed them playfully and tweaked her easily hardened nipples, enjoying the sensual feeling easily achieved by a feature of which she was proud, despite the unwanted attention they seemed to attract from the male students and even some lecturers on campus. She kept fit and in shape for herself, proud of her firm body and pleased that it contributed to her high health index.

'Coffee is made and there is a bowl of fruit in the fridge.' The voice in her head encouraged. 'You have ten minutes to eat and get into the shower. You need to leave by 8 am precisely.'

"Sure Al. I'm on it." She murmured in the way she always responded to the Algorithm, jumping out of bed, her brief panties the only other garment she was wearing, striding purposefully over to the kitchenette.

As she approached a 3-D image appeared on the wall, visuals of storms wreaking havoc on people and buildings in the Middle, accompanied by a precise voice describing the troubles out there. The date-time in the top right corner read 7:03. July 16th, 2038.

Moona really felt deep compassion for the unfortunate people in the Middle, the self-governed territories in the tropics. Prone to extreme floods, droughts and pandemics with few resources, weak governance and widespread inequality, and most importantly limited access to global information and technology.

They were the source of some natural resources and selected migration for the Tech Nations, but the rise of new technology two decades before had rendered most of humanity irrelevant. Not even exploited, other than as markets for the consumption of basic commodities and services. People eking out their existence, increasingly remote and left behind by the dual revolutions in infotech and biotech that were increasingly controlled by a small global elite.

In the late 2020s research on the interface between information technology and biotechnology proved without a shadow of a doubt that human decisions were based on a series of heuristic risk assessments, reflecting learned and emotional impulses that were usually sub-optimal. At the same time the rise of AI combined with biotech and infotech was demonstrated to assist people to make better decisions reflecting their preferences.

This was a natural progression from earlier dependence and general dumbing down of humans with the ubiquitous rise of the early algorithms behind search engines, map direction, social media platforms and entertainment apps, replacing the need for memory and experiential decision making. The algorithms could do it better if they knew a person's preferences. And knowing someone's preferences was simple, with the rise of big data processing, being able to compare an individual with billions of others to accurately discern their character and desires.

Improvements in biotech, miniaturisation and universal coverage of ultra-speed connectivity and streaming micro-cams, meant that the smartphone became all but irrelevant. A small rice size receptor implanted behind the ear was all that was necessary for the algorithms to communicate with a person, while wearable biomonitors and cams would feed the necessary information on an individual's location, actions, emotions and hormones back to the algorithm to provide appropriate real-time guidance on both mundane and life-changing decisions.

By the late 2030s, literally everyone in the Tech Nations had the device installed and depended upon their own personalised Algorithm. Moona had named the gentle male voice in her head Al and permanently wore a black choker to provide bio data. She often felt it was more like a collar than an accessory, but she dared not remove it for too long, because ongoing tracking of her biophysical, chemical and hormonal state was a condition of subsidised social services.

Stylistically, women commonly wore chokers, while men wore wrist bands. The rise of biotech, rejuvenation, and appearance enhancement meant that how one looked was as important as what one did. Automated social media posting enabled by the algorithm, ensured one was seen in the right ways electronically, but required one to always look good.

While she couldn't afford comprehensive appearance modification, Moona was blessed with natural beauty. Her mixed Hawaiian and Scandinavian genes giving her long silken brown hair, high cheekbones, exotic eyes and permanently pouting lips, creating a sensual and striking look that men swooned over.

She finished her shower, appreciating the reflection of her body in the full length bathroom mirror, firm breasts that defied gravity, ripped stomach from hours in the gym, round hips that framed the trimmed strip of hair above her neat pussy, long taught tanned legs that tapered to narrow ankles. Applying the minimal amount of makeup to accentuate her gorgeous features, she smiled at herself, feeling good.

'It is time to get dressed Moona.' Al's tone never changed, but the word selection chided her to action.

"Okay, okay." When they were alone, people tended to talk to the Algorithm as if it were in the room with her. In public, it was seen as bad manners and Al only gave guidance, while monitored everything. Always for her own good and only to support her choices...

She went across to her wardrobe, mainly filled with student clothes but three new work outfits hanging neatly for her to choose. She reached for the most conservative loose knee length skirt and blouse.

'Not a good choice Moona.' Al's even voice in her head.

"It's the most comfortable." She murmured. "The others make me feel so exposed."

'You will stand out at DT. Professional women there dress smartly. I advised you not to buy it.'

She'd gone clothes shopping the day before, preparing for the first day at her new job out of university. As always, Al was part of her clothes selection, effectively advising her by combining information on her tastes, the nature of the occasion and social expectations about which she could not be aware.

To her incredible pride and excitement, she'd been appointed as a junior staffer in the ethics department at DT, one of the world's mega tech conglomerates. She knew Al had helped her get the job, engaging with the company HR Algorithm to review her biometric and psychometric data, to evaluate her fit with the job role.

She had the educational qualifications, having recently majored from a good university with philosophy and ethics, chosen because in the new world it was one of the few roles artificial intelligence was not suited for. Moona had been deemed suitable because she'd shown an aptitude for logic and free thought, based on a strong, but flexible moral code, and with enough social compliance to be useful to the tech company.

Information about the implied or common dress code for woman at DT had been the basis of Al's recommendations, guiding her to what she thought were more revealing short pencil-skirt suits, with tailored jackets over flimsy blouses. Definitely not the long flowing dresses or pant suits she'd initially selected. She'd chosen two outfits picked by Al but had insisted on this one as well, because that is what her friends at smaller less high-profile companies were wearing and she felt more comfortable in it.

That act alone had taken some courage, because the Algorithm always noted non-alignment with its superior decision-making competency. While not forbidden, because the concept of free will was enshrined in the use of AI to support people, there were tolerance bands for decision alignment.

Effective social functioning depended upon maintaining a low risk profile, because non-alignment implied sub-optimal decision making, which would have negative consequences on everything from one's health, safety, education, work or relationships. Access to health care, university scholarships, desirable jobs, insurance and decent accommodation all required a low-risk profile.

Moona had always effectively managed her profile, which had resulted in her educational and job opportunities, even though she came from a regular family. No big corporate high-flyers as role models or more importantly to provide her with a social network. She'd got where she was by virtue of her capabilities, her diligence, her cooperation. . . and her looks if she was really honest.

Unlike her friend Rags, also a bright philosophy student. He'd become enamoured by anarchist thought and increasingly rejected his Algorithm's guidance. When he'd dropped into a high-risk profile, he'd also dropped out of university without saying anything to anyone, his necessary scholarship withdrawn. University without scholarship was only affordable by the super wealth elite.

There were even unsubstantiated rumours of him being disconnected from the Algorithm and possibly exiled to the Middle Territories. In this brave new world, civilisation meant cooperation and optimality, not disruption and dissent. So, people didn't really talk about him much once he was out of their lives.

Now Moona had a choice to make. She'd rejected guidance to buy the outfit, so she felt she couldn't reject it again. Maybe in a couple of days' time but not yet. So, she picked the short tight navy-blue skirt suit and translucent ivory blouse.

"Okay. You win." She muttered in frustration, going over to pick out underwear from the dresser.

She reached for her regular bikini-cut panties and a plain bra when Al intervened. 'That will not look good with your outfit. Try the new black lingerie you chose yesterday.'

With an irritated groan, she picked up the tiny lace thong and push-up bra that Al had advised her to buy, to prevent lines showing though the skirt and to add a hint of style to the plain blouse. She put them on, feeling quite sexy when she briefly glanced at herself in the mirror.

'And the stockings. Your heels will not look good with bare skin.' If Al ever displayed emotion, this would have been said as if she were trying his patience.

Reluctantly, Moona slipped on the black thigh-high stockings and the three-inch pumps that Al had advised her to buy, to match the lingerie. Feeling conflicted, smart, sexy, sophisticated and slutty all at the same time, but confident, knowing no one would know what she had on underneath. It was only for her she rationalised, as she slipped on the blouse and skirt, noticing the highlight of black lace through the translucent blouse, before covering it with the jacket.

She left the apartment on the dot of eight, as planned, to pick up her driverless ride. On the way to start her exciting new professional life at DT.

Across town, Kane walked confidently, if somewhat nonchalantly, into the three-story glass and steel architectural statement that was his head office. He never came in before 10am, preferring to start his day at home with a leisurely coffee and breakfast and catching up on news. Being the CEO of DT meant he wasn't bound by the 9am start time of his minions. He glanced appreciatively at the two receptionists on the front desk, who watching him apprehensively in return.

He looked good for his forty-five years, the product of wealth, and the appearance and longevity enhancement it afforded. Thick dark hair, chiselled features, cold grey eyes and a lean fit body, gave him presence, which was reinforced by the power he was used to wielding. Kane was a member of the Elite, the small super wealthy class that emerged with the rise in biotech and infotech companies. The business leaders that controlled the data, information, technology and infrastructure that underpinned the post-industrial economy.

DT had risen as a conglomerate that pioneered the use of big data and information to influence people to support causes, purchase goods, trust brands and elect politicians. Pressing the right buttons in effective ways to make individual's 'free will' respond emotionally in order deliver a predictable outcome from activists, consumers and electorates alike. Outcomes that the elite's desired and enabled resource flow, corporate growth and political power.

Most importantly ensuring political allies were elected and corporate aligned policies and legislation were adopted. Taking the early pioneering work by groups like Cambridge Analytica and perfecting it to be far more effective. It was companies like DT that created and maintained the Algorithms upon which everyone depended.

As he rode up in the glass elevator that only went to the third floor, where all of his fellow executives had their offices and facilities, he looked out over the open plan spaces on the ground and first floors. This wasn't the heart and body of the company, just it's head and its face to the outside world. Operations and R&D were located offsite at the DT Campus.

Most of DT's head office employees were woman, young technically competent good-looking women. He smiled to see them sitting at their desks, common meeting areas or clacking along in their heels, all wearing short business skirts and blouses. Worker bees servicing the interests of the company. Electronically linked to the company Algorithm, referred to as Alpha.

As he exited the elevator, a statuesque brunette was waiting with a tablet to brief him on the day and take any instructions, having been told by Alpha that he was on his way up. While not really necessary because Alpha would assist him through the day, he loved the anachronism of a female assistant briefing him. Dressed to his preference in an extremely short stretch skirt showing a hint of her stocking tops on her long legs, with pumps creating a delightful tension in her muscles, and a sheer blouse revealing a suggestion of her lacy red bra. Her manicured and painted fingernails, hair done up in a messy bun with large framed glasses accentuating her pretty hazel eyes and gorgeous features, ensured that she was the image of a retro sexualised secretary.

"Morning, Sir. I trust you are well this morning." Her sultry voice, quiet and respectful to match the attentive expression. But not the slightly anxious look in her eyes that she could never hide. It was never good if he was in a foul mood, nor if she was guilty of some perceived infraction.

"Actually, very good Stephi." He said with a self-assured smile. "What have we got today?"

"ExCo at eleven, lunch with Aiden and then a Council meeting at two. You're free from four." Referencing the tablet in the way she knew he liked.

"Good." Approaching his office and a pretty young blond, standing at attention holding a cup of coffee, he grinned, saying. "Ahh. Thank you, Candi. Why don't the two of you join me for a few minutes. . . And shut the door."

He had already gone into the office when the two women glanced at each other in trepidation, following him in, both clearly hearing Alpha's instructions in their heads. 'Cleavage. Posture. Parade.'

Over an hour earlier, Moona had a very different experience of arriving at the DT head office. Not having an access card, she'd reported to security. A couple of large uniformed male guards were lounging in chairs behind a counter, chatting when she arrived. She didn't like the way they looked her up and down, literally undressing her, before grinning and looking at each other.

"Morning Miss. Can we help... you?" A gruff voice from the crew cut man, not sounding very helpful and emphasising the 'you' as he stared at her chest.

"Yes, please. My name is Moona Wilson." She knew to be respectful of authority. "I'm starting my new job here today. In the Ethics Section." She couldn't help revealing her sense of pride at this statement.

"Hmm. A smart professional girl." The other bald one said with a smirk. "Look here, love."

An optical scanner confirmed her claim, while she bit her tongue to prevent responding with indignation at his familiarity.

'Calm down, Moona. Your bios are elevating.' Al's calming voice in her head affirming her decision. 'It means nothing.'

She didn't agree and made a note to raise their misogynistic attitudes to her section head once she was inside. But not wanting to antagonise these men, yet, she stayed quiet.

The bald one took her to a side entrance, into a room with security scanners. A ping sounded as she stood front of the body scanner, hands held above her head, feet apart.

"Sorry, love." The guard smiled without a hint of apology. "I just need to check you're not carrying anything prohibited. Stand here. Feet on the marks. Hands behind your neck."

"Surely a female guard should do a body search?" She asked.

Al advising. 'Do what he says. It is protocol.'

Taking the required position. Thinking this was very odd, but not having the courage to challenge the security man.

"No female guards on duty." He responded, standing in front of her, face to face, eye to eye, waiting for her to resist. Sliding his hands down her arm sleeves, down her side, around and up her back, and then under her boobs, giving them a subtle squeeze.

She said nothing, just turning bright red with embarrassment as he knelt down and unnecessarily gliding his hands from her ankles, up her stockinged legs and under her skirt across the skin of her upper thighs. Muttering "Nice" as his hand bumped into her panty clad crotch and slipped up the crack of her thong split buttocks.

"Hey. Don't!' She yelped, moving away and bringing her hands down to push his arm away.

"Just doing my job, Miss." He leered. "Can't take any chances with security at DT. Too many secrets and too much tech that others want." As if that explained her inappropriate groping.

'Don't make trouble. He is finished now.' Al chiding her.

The guard led a blushing Moona down into the basement, along a deserted corridor with closed doors, until she was shown into a room marked 'INDUCTION'.

It was decorated in the retro chic style of the rest of the building, but windowless with only a couple of closed doors leading off on either side. It felt almost like a doctor's waiting room, a couch and some comfortable chairs around a low table, on which were spread company pamphlets instead of magazines.

"Take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly." The guard left, ogling her one last time, before closing the door with a loud click. It sounded as if it were locked, which it was why she immediately tried to open it.

"What's going on Al?" She murmured, finding the entire ordeal increasingly strange. "Al. . . Al?"

Silence. Nothing. She started to panic. There must be a signal jammer. She hadn't been without Al there to support her. Ever.

Calm down. That's what Al would say. Be patient. There's nothing to worry about. You're here for a job. They're super security conscious, as you'd expect from a tech company.

She controlled her breathing, with difficulty, drawing on her yoga techniques, as she sat down, perched on the edge of one of the chairs, hands clasped in her lap, eyes flitting nervously around the room. Waiting.