Chapter 1: Prologue: Love Is Everywhere

1 PROLOGUE: LOVE IS EVERYWHERE

Linda Kleinschmidt roused herself in a cloud of fine linens and elegantly filtered San Francisco sunlight. She wondered how her life had somehow leapt from a one-meal-a-day-in-a-family-shelter childhood to this high-end-perfume-ad glow, but then she knew: she was about to be married, in just three days’ time, to the third-richest man in America. A delicious goal, mostly. But that “mostly” was colonizing her thoughts.

Sean Manginaro, on the opposite coast, had been up for hours, including the time change. His inner alarm clock had buzzed at 3 a.m., after which Sean chugged a protein shake, with its satisfyingly brutal taste recalling burnt coffee and sour milk. Sean never wasted a second, embarking on a five-mile run, calisthenics based on a program designed to eliminate Navy SEAL candidates, an icy shower, and a bicycle ride to the gym he owned, all while most of his clientele remained in bed. Was Sean keeping blazingly fit, or punishing himself for his transgressions? Or was he just single-mindedly determined not to think about his ex-wife Linda, or the catastrophic rumors he’d heard?

Tremble Woodspill had stayed up all night in Arkansas, as she so often did, scribbling in the most minuscule print, since her stash of yellow legal pads was running low. But at twenty-three, she had no lack of energy, and she might have downed a few Adderall, which she considered mildly enhanced Skittles. Tremble always wrote feverishly, as her work remained an unslakable passion (and while she would eventually transfer everything to a TroneBook, she preferred to write her earliest drafts by hand, which felt more visceral, more immediately connected to her emotions). Her first collection of essays, titled Life as We Fucking Know It, would be published later this year, an event she still found incomprehensible, since she lacked such necessities as a home address or a reliable supply of ballpoint pens. And being superstitious, she was convinced horror was looming, and that she should text her editor, Rob Barnett, for reassurance. Was her life about to genuinely begin? Would strangers read her words, and maybe nod or laugh or pause for just a second, because Tremble had conveyed something truthful? Or would a calamity occur, would the publisher go bankrupt, or would Rob, despite his constant praise and encouragement, change his mind? Oh, shut the fuck up, Tremble told herself, you need to get laid.

In the farthest reaches of Queens, Isabelle McNally was staring at the young guy slumbering beside her as she debated breaking up with him, firmly but caringly, or continuing to forcefully nudge him with her elbow until he opened his eyes and had sex with her.

Paolo Baumgarner, Rob Barnett’s best friend, was shivering in his darkened office, convinced, with good reason, that his life was in danger, at the hands and dental drill of a man he hadn’t told Rob anything about, which meant Rob couldn’t save him.

Mayor Churn LeBloitte was deep into his habitual dream, in which federal agents appeared at his small-town law office and demanded he become President of the United States, without the peskiness of an election, because they’d heard about his staggering political skills, not to mention his roguish way with the ladies. “This isn’t a request,” an agent would make urgently clear. “The nation needs you.”

All of these people had two things in common: they all owned TronePhones, those ubiquitous devices that had infested the Earth, and most of them had purchased additional TroneTek products as well. Beyond this, they were all seeking love in one form or another, but were helpless to locate that love, or sustain it, or even categorize its nature: What were they pursuing? Something unrequited and doomed? A fling, a hookup, a tragic fable, or a lasting if negotiated wedlock? Despite their careers, family issues, workout routines, and committed new diets, all any of these people yearned for was love, and soon, but with whom and how?

Trone Meston was dozing on his private jet, headed for California, smiling to himself, with what others might take as a grimace or indigestion. He’d just made a final inspection of Artemis Island, the $18 billion retreat off the coast of Maine where his wedding was scheduled for Sunday. But unlike much of the world’s population, especially when it came to matters of the heart, Trone acted from absolute certainty. After years of research and investment, he was about to unleash not merely a social media platform or handheld gadget, but an advance in civilization. Trone was going to predict, define, and control love, on behalf of everyone. This made Trone happy and proud because, like so many geniuses, he knew exactly what he was doing. And he knew the world was waiting.