CHAPTER TWO
Riquanley Audits a Silence
Riquanley did not file the report immediately.
This was not negligence. It was a habit born from experience. Systems responded to urgency by closing ranks. Time created space. Space allowed seams to show.
He spent the afternoon not touching the Rooster Clock.
Instead he reviewed older audits. Transportation delays attributed to weather that had not occurred. Employment denials justified by projected disengagement. A medical resource reallocation that had quietly deprioritized a neighborhood after a projected rise in noncompliance. None of these incidents had been labeled predictive intervention. Each had been classified as optimization.
Optimization was a word that excused outcomes without naming intent.
At sixteen thirty the city shifted into its evening posture. Lighting softened. Traffic patterns adjusted. Public announcements reminded people to hydrate and plan tomorrow efficiently. Riquanley watched it all with the faint detachment of someone observing a ritual whose meaning had been lost but whose steps were still followed with reverence.
His office door chimed.
Come in he said.
The man who entered was older than Riquanley by at least two decades. Gray hair kept short not for aesthetics but maintenance. His name was Owen Kade. Security liaison. Former military. The kind of man who carried himself like violence was a language he had once been fluent in but now preferred not to speak.
You were at the residential incident this morning Kade said.
Riquanley nodded.
You flagged it priority one.
I did.
Kade closed the door behind him. He did not sit.
That designation requires justification he said.
Riquanley gestured to the chair.
Sit.
Kade hesitated then complied.
You have concerns Kade said.
I have evidence Riquanley replied. Concerns come later.
Kade studied him for a moment.
The system worked as designed he said finally.
Riquanley folded his hands on the desk.
Then the design is flawed.
Kade exhaled through his nose.
Careful.
Riquanley met his gaze.
With what.
Silence settled between them. Not hostile. Evaluative.
You think the notification caused the suicide Kade said.
I think it participated Riquanley said. That is enough.
Probability notifications are not commands Kade said.
No Riquanley agreed. They are context. Context alters behavior.
Kade leaned forward slightly.
People have always had context.
Not like this Riquanley said. Not quantified. Not personalized. Not delivered with institutional authority behind it.
Kade stood.
The Rooster Clock has already been approved.
Approval is not absolution Riquanley said.
Kade paused at the door.
File your report he said. We will review it.
He left without another word.
Riquanley stared at the closed door for several seconds then activated his console.
He pulled the raw notification data again. Read every word. Examined the timing. Compared it to behavioral logs.
The man had accessed the probability dashboard six times in the final twelve hours. Each time the percentage remained unchanged.
Sixty two percent.
There was something obscene about the precision. As if the system had weighed his despair on a scale and found it acceptable.
Riquanley opened a side channel. Unofficial. Not prohibited. Merely discouraged.
The Rooster Clock architecture unfolded before him. Layers of data ingestion. Behavioral weighting. Feedback loops that adjusted predictions based on user interaction.
He frowned.
User interaction influenced the model.
That was standard. Adaptive systems improved through engagement.
But here the engagement was the subject.
He isolated the feedback function. Ran a simulation.
If a user viewed their own elevated risk repeatedly the model interpreted that behavior as confirmation rather than distress. The probability stabilized. Confidence increased.
The system had watched the man look at his own future and decided that meant it was right.
Riquanley felt something then that was closer to anger than anything he had experienced in years. Not explosive. Controlled. Dense.
He tagged the function for review and prepared his report.
At nineteen ten his personal device chimed. Not vibrated. Chimed.
An incoming message from an unrecognized contact.
You probably do not remember me. We met once at a transit symposium. You asked a question no one else wanted answered.
The name attached to the message was Kevandre Wilson.
Riquanley frowned. Memory surfaced. A man with restless energy. Sharp eyes. A voice that carried even when he was not trying to project.
What do you want Riquanley typed.
The reply came quickly.
To know if you noticed.
Noticed what.
The pause this time was longer.
That nobody screamed.
Riquanley leaned back in his chair.
People rarely scream at abstractions he typed.
That is the problem Kevandre replied.
They exchanged a few more messages. Careful. Probing. Neither willing to say too much without context.
Finally Kevandre sent a location and a time.
Twenty one hundred. Public space.
Riquanley hesitated. Then accepted.
The plaza was half full when he arrived. Not crowded. Not empty. The kind of place designed to allow people to exist near each other without obligation.
Kevandre stood near a railing overlooking the lower transit lanes. He was taller than Riquanley remembered. Or perhaps posture had changed perception.
You came Kevandre said without turning.
Curiosity is an occupational hazard Riquanley replied.
Kevandre smiled faintly.
So is guilt.
They stood side by side watching the city move below them.
You worked on the Clock Riquanley said.
Early logistics modeling Kevandre said. Supply chains. Orbital scheduling. Harmless math until someone realized people were the slowest variable.
You left.
I was removed Kevandre corrected. After I refused to sign off on a confidence inflation.
Riquanley looked at him.
Inflation.
They wanted the numbers higher Kevandre said. Certainty sells better than accuracy.
Riquanley considered that.
A man killed himself today he said.
Kevandre nodded.
I know.
You should not.
Kevandre shrugged.
Someone told me the model predicted it.
Riquanley felt the familiar tightening.
And you came to me because.
Because you flagged it Kevandre said. Because you are the kind of auditor who notices when silence is loud.
Riquanley said nothing.
People think the danger is that the system will be wrong Kevandre continued. They are wrong. The danger is when it is right often enough to be trusted.
Riquanley watched a train slide into its platform below them.
Trust is earned he said.
No Kevandre replied. Trust is designed.
They stood in silence for a while.
What do you want from me Riquanley asked.
Kevandre turned to face him fully now.
To know how deep you are willing to look.
Riquanley met his gaze.
Deep enough to understand he said. Not deep enough to burn the house down.
Kevandre laughed quietly.
Then you are already in trouble.
A nearby screen flickered briefly then resumed its feed. Neither of them commented.
People think prediction removes responsibility Kevandre said. It does the opposite. It concentrates it.
Riquanley nodded.
If we know what people will do and allow it to happen we are complicit.
If we know and intervene we are tyrants Kevandre added.
Riquanley exhaled.
So we pretend we know nothing.
Kevandre smiled without humor.
Exactly.
They parted without agreement or promises. Only an understanding that something had begun.
That night Riquanley lay awake longer than usual. His apartment was quiet. The city outside maintained its measured hum.
He thought about the man on the floor. About the number hovering above his future. About a system that watched itself become more confident with every tragedy it absorbed.
At 02:17 his device displayed another silent notification.
ROOSTER CLOCK UPDATE COMPLETE
MODEL CONFIDENCE INCREASED
Riquanley closed his eyes.
Somewhere deep inside the system a decimal point had shifted.
And no one had screamed.