Being built now
EMO
A small round thing you wear. You talk to it. Your work gets done.
A small round thing you wear. You talk to it. Your work gets done.
One tap on the glass and it is listening. Say the thing the way you would say it to a person. Tap again and it is gone from your shoulders and into your brain, sorted, with a date and an owner.
Nothing to type. Nothing to file. Nothing to remember afterwards.
Turn the rim with your thumb before you speak. A task. A reminder. A question. A meeting. The story of your day. Something to go away and research. Fourteen in all, and each one arrives as a different kind of thing at the other end.
You are not recording audio. You are saying what you mean, and it lands already understood.
When something genuinely needs you, it appears on the glass and waits. A person who says a job is finished. A worker of yours that will not spend anything until you say so.
Hold the glass and answer in one sentence. The decision is made and the work moves, and you never opened anything.
Turn the rim to Agent and describe a job the way you would describe it to a new person. Every night at eleven, read my mail and write me a page. Every Friday, ask the team for next week's numbers. Chase anyone who has gone quiet for three days.
It works out what it needs, wires it together, tests it and runs it from then on. You never open it again. The only time you hear from it is when it needs a decision it is not willing to make for you.
No signal, so it keeps what you said and sends it the moment it can. The screen tells you how many are still waiting. Nothing you say is ever lost, whatever the network is doing.
On this display black is not a colour, it is off. The face you see almost all day is a few white letters floating on nothing. It is dark because it is doing nothing to you.
Two microphones and an echo-cancelling front end, made for the car park, the corridor, the site, the café at lunchtime. You speak normally. It takes your voice out of the noise.
Leave it alone for five minutes and it does not sleep, it switches off completely. Press it and it is awake before your thumb leaves the glass.
Machined aluminium, fifty-five millimetres across and fifteen thick, with a lanyard through the case. No buttons to learn: press to wake, tap to speak, the rim to choose, one button that always means go back.
New versions arrive on their own and install overnight. You wake up to a better device than the one you wore yesterday.
One removes the keyboard. The other removes the work. Both start with the same tap.
Hold the glass and talk. The words appear where you are already writing — the mail, the document, the reply you have been avoiding for three days — punctuated, in your own phrasing, as fast as you can think it.
Typing becomes the slow way to write.
Describe the job once, on the way to the car, and hand it over. A worker with a machine of its own opens the applications, fills the forms, moves between the sites and finishes the thing, the way a person would.
Show it once and it keeps the method for good. It comes back only when a decision needs a human — and that arrives on your chest, not in a queue.
Neither is finished. They are named here because they are what this object is being built towards, and because you should know where it is going before you decide to wear one.
The first EMO devices are being built now. We are not taking money for something you cannot hold yet, so there is no price and no pre-order on this page — when the first units are ready, the people who asked will hear from us first. Send one line and you are on that list.