Ashin Varanin
Professional Enabler
"Define exclusivity, Selka."
Darkness, mild brown, like a brownout but without the inability to think. A voice that came from somewhere in front of her, right in front of her, though nobody was there. The voice was old, strong, male, infinitely familiar. Insofar as she had any sense of her body -- and this could be false, an artifact of a mind under construction -- she felt like she was strapped to an armchair.
"Exclusivity," she said, and stopped. Because she was a gutter rat from Metellos, an AgriCorps washout, a woman of indeterminate means -- but she was also two other things, two other sets of self and memory, and that condition tightened imaginary fingers on the imaginary arms of an imaginary chair. And those two other instances of Selka Ventus, like partitioned operating systems, offered answers beyond what she would have said. It took her an indeterminate amount of time to compile her answer. "Exclusivity is being able to claim that the product you've just bought is only owned by you, or someone just as good as you."
"And what is the virtue of exclusivity," the old man's voice whuffled, "as a marketing strategy of a galactic business?"
Which part of it -- the words, the substance -- came from what she thought of as the real self, and did that definition have any foundation? "I suppose," she said after indefinable time, "the answer is that exclusive labels can stick around -- can persist up until a certain point of market saturation -- up until -- feth, I'm blanking. You can sell more and keep the price high so long as your customers only run into each other every now and again. They'll pay the asking price so long as they keep feeling it's exclusive, because their feeling is more important than the truth."
"Exactly, Selka."
Darkness, mild brown, like a brownout but without the inability to think. A voice that came from somewhere in front of her, right in front of her, though nobody was there. The voice was old, strong, male, infinitely familiar. Insofar as she had any sense of her body -- and this could be false, an artifact of a mind under construction -- she felt like she was strapped to an armchair.
"Exclusivity," she said, and stopped. Because she was a gutter rat from Metellos, an AgriCorps washout, a woman of indeterminate means -- but she was also two other things, two other sets of self and memory, and that condition tightened imaginary fingers on the imaginary arms of an imaginary chair. And those two other instances of Selka Ventus, like partitioned operating systems, offered answers beyond what she would have said. It took her an indeterminate amount of time to compile her answer. "Exclusivity is being able to claim that the product you've just bought is only owned by you, or someone just as good as you."
"And what is the virtue of exclusivity," the old man's voice whuffled, "as a marketing strategy of a galactic business?"
Which part of it -- the words, the substance -- came from what she thought of as the real self, and did that definition have any foundation? "I suppose," she said after indefinable time, "the answer is that exclusive labels can stick around -- can persist up until a certain point of market saturation -- up until -- feth, I'm blanking. You can sell more and keep the price high so long as your customers only run into each other every now and again. They'll pay the asking price so long as they keep feeling it's exclusive, because their feeling is more important than the truth."
"Exactly, Selka."