CHAPTER ONE
The Prediction That Did Not Scare Anyone
The notification arrived at 06:14 local time and did not vibrate.
Riquanley Rooskrantz noticed this because he had configured his device to vibrate for everything except government advisories and system wide announcements. Those arrived silently. They appeared like facts rather than requests.
He was standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. Outside the window the city was already awake in the way cities had learned to be awake. Quiet movement. Timed lights. Pedestrians crossing with the confidence of people who knew how long the light would last. No one ran anymore unless they were exercising or performing for an audience.
The notification hovered at the edge of his vision until he acknowledged it. He did not touch it. He read the first line and felt nothing.
PROBABILITY SYSTEM UPDATE CONFIRMED
PUBLIC ACCESS GRANTED
That was all. No exclamation points. No urgency. No language that suggested history had just bent a few degrees to the left.
The kettle clicked off. Riquanley poured the water slowly over the coffee grounds, watching the bloom spread and collapse like a controlled reaction. He liked the first thirty seconds. They were predictable but still alive.
He acknowledged the notification with a blink.
The Rooster Clock had gone public.
If there had been panic it would have sounded different. Panic had a sound. It was phones vibrating too fast, voices lifting in pitch, vehicles accelerating and then stopping too suddenly. This morning there was only the distant rhythm of traffic and the soft hum of residential power systems cycling through their optimized draw.
Riquanley took his mug to the small table by the window and sat down. He watched a delivery drone pause in midair as if reconsidering its life choices before continuing on its route. Somewhere below a child laughed and then stopped abruptly, corrected by an adult voice he could not hear clearly enough to resent.
He opened the full brief.
The document was written in the kind of neutral language that pretended neutrality was not a position. It explained that a predictive behavioral model developed over fifteen years using anonymized data sets from global networks had reached a threshold of accuracy that justified public integration. It explained that the system did not predict individuals but trends. It explained that no decisions would be made solely by the system. It explained that oversight committees existed.
Riquanley smiled faintly at that part.
He scrolled.
Accuracy estimates were listed without adjectives. Eighty seven percent at twelve months. Seventy one percent at twenty four months. Fifty eight percent at thirty six months.
The numbers were extraordinary. They were also framed carefully enough that a reader without a background in systems analysis would not feel the need to question them. Probability was comforting when it came with decimals.
There was a section labeled COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS. He did not read it yet.
He finished his coffee and washed the mug immediately. He always did that. Objects left dirty suggested a future that required attention. He preferred to minimize that.
At 07:02 his work device activated. That one did vibrate.
Audit request. Priority two.
He accepted.
The address populated automatically. Residential complex. Older infrastructure. Southern edge of the city where zoning regulations had stalled upgrades rather than forced relocations. People there still replaced things instead of updating subscriptions.
He put on his jacket and stepped outside.
The air smelled like rain that had already decided not to fall. The sky was pale and blank, as if waiting for instructions.
On the street level screens were already adjusting. News tickers that usually led with market fluctuations now carried a restrained banner.
PREDICTIVE SYSTEM RELEASED
GOVERNMENTS REASSURE PUBLIC
Reassurance was another word that pretended to be neutral.
The ride took twelve minutes. The vehicle did not ask him what route he preferred. It knew which one minimized delay and energy use. He watched the city slide past with the practiced detachment of someone who had audited too many systems to believe in coincidence.
His job title was Senior Systems Auditor. In practice this meant he was paid to notice the things that did not fit the story being told.
The building was concrete and glass and tired. It had been designed during a decade when architects believed transparency would encourage trust. Now it only made the wear visible.
A woman met him at the entrance. Mid forties. Administrative posture. Her eyes were too alert for the hour.
You are Rooskrantz she said.
He nodded.
Thank you for coming so quickly.
Priority two he said. Not urgent.
She hesitated. People often did when confronted with a designation that conflicted with their emotions.
We found him this morning she said. He lived alone.
She led him through the lobby and into an elevator that still required manual button presses. Riquanley appreciated that. It made the ascent feel earned.
What happened he asked.
She looked at the floor indicator instead of at him.
Apparent suicide.
Apparent he repeated.
There was a note she said. Digital.
The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor. The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and old cooking oil. Someone down the hall was playing music quietly enough that it felt like a secret.
The apartment door was open. Inside two uniformed responders stood near the kitchen counter speaking in low voices. They straightened when they saw Riquanley.
The body was in the living area.
He did not rush. Rushing suggested expectations.
The man lay on the floor near the window. Late thirties perhaps. Well groomed. No visible signs of struggle. The method was clinical and efficient.
Riquanley crouched and activated his visor at minimal enhancement. The data overlay confirmed time of death within a narrow margin.
He stood and walked to the window. Outside the city moved as it always had.
What was his occupation he asked.
Data compliance officer one responder said. Private sector.
Riquanley turned.
Did he have access to predictive systems.
The responder checked his tablet.
Limited she said. Read only.
Riquanley nodded.
And the note.
The administrative woman stepped forward. She hesitated again before transmitting the file.
The note was brief.
I am tired of pretending my choices are mine.
That was all.
Riquanley closed the file and stared at the blank wall for several seconds. He was not performing grief. He was calculating context.
Was the Rooster Clock live before this he asked.
The woman swallowed.
A pre release window was opened last night for select agencies she said.
Including this one.
Yes.
Riquanley looked back at the body.
Was he flagged he asked.
The responders exchanged a glance.
Flagged how.
By the system he said. Any elevated risk indicators.
The responder hesitated just long enough to answer honestly.
Yes.
Probability of self harm within twelve months was listed at sixty two percent.
Riquanley felt something then. Not shock. Not anger. A tightening in his chest like a muscle realizing it had been engaged without consent.
When was the flag generated.
Three weeks ago.
Who had access to that information.
The woman answered quietly.
He did.
The apartment felt smaller suddenly. As if the walls had moved in a few centimeters when no one was watching.
So he knew he was likely to kill himself Riquanley said.
Likely the responder corrected.
Likely enough to change behavior Riquanley said.
The responder did not answer.
Riquanley activated his recorder.
This audit will include system access logs and notification framing he said. I want to know exactly what language was used and when.
Of course the woman said quickly.
He turned back to the body one last time. The man looked peaceful in the way people sometimes did when they believed they had solved a problem.
Outside the building a small crowd had gathered. Not out of panic. Out of curiosity. People filming out of habit.
Riquanley walked past them without looking.
On the ride back his device filled with commentary. Analysts debating ethical thresholds. Influencers explaining probability to audiences that preferred metaphors. A senator assuring the public that no one would be reduced to a number.
Riquanley muted everything.
At his office the lights adjusted automatically to his presence. The space was clean and unremarkable. A place designed to disappear around its occupants.
He accessed the system logs.
The Rooster Clock interface was elegant in a way that bordered on cruel. Clean graphs. Smooth curves. Risk indicators presented like weather forecasts.
The man had received his notification at 22:43.
ELEVATED RISK DETECTED
RECOMMENDED ACTIONS AVAILABLE
The system had offered resources. Counseling links. Behavioral suggestions. Sleep adjustments. Social engagement prompts.
It had also included a disclaimer.
PREDICTIONS ARE PROBABILISTIC AND DO NOT DETERMINE OUTCOMES
Riquanley leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Probability did not need to be destiny to be heavy. Knowing the odds changed the game. Anyone who pretended otherwise had never been audited by their own data.
He opened the COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS section.
The first line read.
The system does not predict individual decisions.
Riquanley laughed once. Quietly. Not because it was funny but because it was precise in the way lies often were.
Outside his office window the city continued its day. Trains arrived on time. Markets adjusted within acceptable margins. People went to work or stayed home based on forecasts they pretended were preferences.
No alarms sounded.
No riots broke out.
Somewhere a man had learned that his future included his own death and had chosen to get ahead of it.
Riquanley saved the audit under a new designation.
Priority one.
He did not yet know what that would cost him. He only knew that something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not visibly.
The worst changes never announced themselves.
They simply arrived quietly and waited for people to adapt.
And people always did.