Personal shopper

 “Personal shoppers,” said the woman.  She was wearing a suit by Vivienne Westwood, something she wouldn’t have been seen dead in before the designer had died, and was struggling to carry it off well.  Her age, though well disguised by regular plastic surgeries, discrete supports, and the benefits of owning the majority share in several expensive cosmetics companies, contrasted with the heavy punk ethic that the suit conveyed: the large print over the jacket, the newspaper effect on the trousers, the brash colours that proclaimed that here was someone you couldn’t ignore.  She looked like a walking contradiction and Margoyle was having trouble deciding if she should be entertaining this relic’s proposal or throwing her out on the street.

The deciding vote in this case was that she had arrived at Data Analytics Marketetic Normalisations offices and been allowed in.  Getting the address to the office required a serious effort and, after a recent cyberattack, a good cryptanalyst and access to the more stable cryptocurrencies; being allowed in through the front doors was almost surely by invitation only.  So Margoyle listened, wondering where in her portfolio personal shopping was supposed to fit.

“We have about thirty-five thousand of them,” said the woman.  Margoyle controlled herself with well-practiced reflex and only a faint smile appeared on her lips; something that she’d learned from studying the Mona Lisa.  “They are effective enough, but we are, naturally, intending to automate the task entirely.”

Cogs turned in Margoyle’s head.  Personal shoppers twenty years ago were people who greeted you in expensive stores and then lead you around, commented on your personal style and taste and then improved it for you.  You left with a lighter wallet but your bags were heavy with the promise of societal approval and the respect of your peer group.  Now… well, euphemisms were the kind of thing that DAMN manipulated like puppets on strings.  A personal shopper must be a warehouse worker, surely.  And with that thought Margoyle’s smile stretched a little more across her face, though not so much as to indicate approval, and she understood the implicit reason for this elderly woman’s visit.

“We are looking for advice from your consultants,” said the woman, sounding a tiny bit lost for a moment.  Margoyle appreciated that: up until DAMN agreed to work with a client the whole office and set-up was designed to be confusing and nightmarish.  “Ideally, we’d like to retain some of the autonomy that the current personal shoppers have, without the issues that arise from having egos.”

Margoyle relaxed a fraction.  This was firmly in the remit of Soft Power and Furnishings which she had run with a titanium fist in an iron glove for nearly five years.

“I see,” she said, her voice smooth and low, almost like a cat purring.  “You have a number of, let’s call them human, workers, and you’d like to take advantage of their lower-level brain functions without the interference of higher-level, more evolved, effects?”

The woman stiffened a little and a faint dust of powder fell from her face onto her collar.  Margoyle felt it added to the punk effect and said nothing.

“Human is a very strong word,” she said, her voice sounding strained, perhaps as though she were holding her stomach in to impress a potential lover.  “Our lawyers have advised we avoid such terminology.  In their contracts they agree to be reclassified as nematodes.”

Margoyle nodded and leaned forward.  A recessed keyboard and screen in her desk, angled so that she could see them but her clients couldn’t, flickered dimly to life and she tapped a note out in proprietary shorthand that her interns should identify the firm of lawyers that had proposed this and research them.

“Nematodes,” she said thoughtfully.  “I imagine that the benefits package you offer is tailored specifically to that?  And thus a cost-saving rather than a cost-centre?”

The woman smiled beatifically and Margoyle considered immediately that that smile would look very good on the front of glossy magazines on newstands. Another note flickered from her fingers to the keyboard.

“Indeed,” she said.  “Last year we reduced emissions from our toilet facilites so much that we were able to obtain green funds for it!”

“A laudable achievement,” said Margoyle.  “So, am I right in assuming that the proposition that we are considering here is how to leverage current sentiments in specific law-focussed lobby groups to enable the transfer of consciousness from lower-level creatures such as nematodes into non-human bodies, perhaps primarily metallic, to facilitate the automation of personal shopping?”

There was a pause while the elderly woman eliminated paraphrases and circumlocutions and determined that what Margoyle was proposing was, in fact, what was being asked for.”

“Yes,” said the woman matter-of-factly.  “How much will it cost?”