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The Digital Advertising Alliance’s (“DAA”) “AdChoices” program provides users with choices regarding interest-based ads.
By clicking on the AdChoices icon presented in the corner of any ad served by program participants, you will be directed to a webpage where you can opt-out of targeted ads from that ad network and/or all participating ad networks. To learn more about ad targeting and how to opt-out of interest-based ads, please visit http://www.aboutads.info/choices/. T-Mobile adheres to the DAA’s Self-Regulatory Principles for Online Behavioral Advertising.
Your Ad Choices
Ads on Your Mobile Device, Computer or Other Device
You can opt-out of targeted ads served on your mobile device or computer by most advertising networks as follows:
· By clicking on the AdChoices icon on any interest-based ad.
· By visiting http://www.aboutads.info/choices/
You can also partially manage targeted ads on your mobile device through your device operating system’s settings for advertising IDs. Resetting your device advertising ID does not opt-out the device from targeted ads, but it may limit advertisers’ ability to associate past activity with your device.
Refer to your specific OS for details.
Please be aware that even if you opt-out of targeted ads you will continue to see just as many ads, but they may not be as relevant to you. In most cases, your opt-out choice will apply only to the specific device on which it was made. You may need to separately opt-out from your other devices. If the opt-out mechanism is cookie-based (such as the DAA AdChoices program) and you delete cookies or reset your device, you will need to perform the opt-out again.
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Ads on Social Media
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Network Usage Data Permissions Setting
With your permission, T-Mobile may analyze websites you visit and apps you use while connected to our network (Network Usage Data) to better understand your interests and provide a richer, more personal experience by using the data to deliver online advertising and provide analytics to online advertisers. The Network Usage Data may be combined with or used to verify third-party data we obtain from other sources. For instance, T-Mobile may use the Network Usage Data to infer advertising segments that may be of interest (e.g., pet owner or sports enthusiast) and create ad analytics (e.g., verify 3rd party data for accuracy).
If you choose to participate, the Network Usage Data is only associated with an advertising ID for your device (such as the Android or iOS Ad IDs or browser cookies), which you can change or delete. The information is not tied to anything that identifies you personally (such as your name or phone number).
Any resulting information shared with ad providers or other third parties is solely tied to the advertising ID. Changing, deleting, or disabling the advertising ID effectively disassociates prior data from your device going forward. If you choose to participate, you will not receive more ads – but the ads you receive may be more relevant to you. If you choose not to participate, you may still receive personalized ads from T-Mobile or others based on other data – but the ads will not be based on your Network Usage Data.
Your Network Usage Data permission setting is “off” by default. In order to participate in this program, you will need to turn the setting to “on.” You can change your preference at any time. (Note: If you change your selection from “on” to “off” – the data previously gathered for analysis under this setting may still be used until deleted, but additional Network Usage Data will not be used as part of this program.)
For T-Mobile customers, the settings for the program are available in your account profile and can be changed as follows:
- By opening your T-Mobile App on your device, selecting More > Profile Settings > Privacy and Notifications > Advertising & Insights > Advertising (Network Usage Data).
- By signing into your My T-Mobile account on T-Mobile.com, selecting Profile > Privacy and Notifications > Advertising & Insights > Advertising (Network Usage Data).
For Metro by T-Mobile customers, you can make changes to these settings from your Metro by T-Mobile device while connected to the wireless network (not on WiFi) under the “Advertising and Insights” setting for your account. Go here to view your choices.
Network Location Data Permissions Setting
With your permission, T-Mobile may analyze your location history – including precise location data – while connected to our network (Network Location Data) to better understand your interests and provide a richer, more personal experience by using the data to deliver online advertising and provide analytics to online advertisers. This program does not use real-time location information (e.g., to provide an advertisement based on your current location).
Instead, it uses past location information (e.g., last week’s or last month’s data). The Network Location Data may be combined with or used to verify third-party data we obtain from other sources. For instance, T-Mobile may use past Network Location Data to test and/or verify location data sets for the same time period gathered by third-parties (e.g., through mobile applications) or to infer advertising segments that may be of interest (e.g., a device is used by a long-distance commuter).
If you choose to participate, the Network Location Data is only associated with an advertising ID for your device (such as the Android or iOS Ad IDs or browser cookies), which you can change or delete. The information is not tied to anything that identifies you personally (such as your name or phone number). Any resulting information shared with ad providers or other third parties is solely tied to the advertising ID. Changing, deleting, or disabling the advertising ID effectively disassociates prior data from your device going forward.
If you choose to participate, you will not receive more ads – but the ads you receive may be more relevant to you. If you choose not to participate, you may still receive personalized ads from T-Mobile or others based on other data – but the ads will not be informed by your Network Location Data.
Your Network Location Data permission setting is “off” by default. In order to participate in this program, you will need to turn the setting to “on.” You can change your preference at any time. (Note: If you change your selection from “on” to “off” – the data previously gathered for analysis under this setting may still be used until deleted, but additional Network Location Data will not be used as part of this program.)
For T-Mobile customers, the settings for the program are available in your account profile and can be changed as follows:
- By opening your T-Mobile App on your device, selecting More > Profile Settings > Privacy and Notifications > Advertising & Insights > Advertising (Network Location Data).
- By signing into your My T-Mobile account on T-Mobile.com, selecting Profile > Privacy and Notifications > Advertising & Insights > Advertising (Network Location Data).
For Metro by T-Mobile customers, you can make changes to these settings from your Metro by T-Mobile device while connected to the wireless network (not on WiFi) under the “Advertising and Insights” setting for your account. Go here to view your choices.
Welcome to the Metrozone – Orbit Books
THROUGHOUT THE CAPITAL, THE SIGNS ARE APPEARING
THE APOCALYPSE IS ALMOST HERE
AND WHAT WILL REMAIN IS THE LONDON METROZONE
WE STRONGLY ADVISE THAT YOU MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE INZONE
INDIVIDUALS LEFT IN THE OUTZONE WILL NOT BE GRANTED CITIZENSHIP
BORDERS WILL SOON BE CLOSING
FOR INFORMATION ON HOW TO GAIN ENTRY, VISIT THE NEW OFFICIAL WEBSITE HERE
The Metrozone series by Simon Morden is out this Spring – Equations of Life (April), Theories of Flight (May) and Degrees of Freedom (June).
Read on below for an exclusive chapter one extract.
_____________________________________________________________________
Equations of Life by Simon Morden
CHAPTER ONE
Petrovitch woke up. The room was in the filtered yellow halflight of rain-washed window and thin curtain. He lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the city.
For a moment, all he could hear was the all-pervading hum of machines: those that made power, those that used it, pushing, pulling, winding, spinning, sucking, blowing, filtering, pumping, heating and cooling.
In the next moment, he did the city-dweller’s trick of blanking that whole frequency out. In the gap it left, he could discern individual sources of noise: traffic on the street fluxing in phase with the cycle of red-amber-green, the rhythmic metallic grinding of a worn windmill bearing on the roof, helicopter blades cutting the grey dawn air. A door slamming, voices rising – a man’s low bellow and a woman’s shriek, going at it hard.
Leaking in through the steel walls, the babel chatter of a hundred different channels all turned up too high.
Another morning in the London Metrozone, and Petrovitch had survived to see it: God, I love this place.
Closer, in the same room as him, was another sound, one that carried meaning and promise. He blinked his pale eyes, flicking his unfocused gaze to search his world, searching . . .
There. His hand snaked out, his fingers closed around thin wire, and he turned his head slightly to allow the approaching glasses to fit over his ears. There was a thumbprint dead centre on his right lens. He looked around it as he sat up.
It was two steps from his bed to the chair where he’d thrown his clothes the night before. It was May, and it wasn’t cold, so he sat down naked, moving his belt buckle from under one arse cheek. He looked at the screen glued to the wall.
His reflection stared back, high-cheeked, white-skinned, palehaired. Like an angel, or maybe a ghost: he could count the faint shadows cast by his ribs.
Back on the screen, an icon was flashing. Two telephone numbers had appeared in a self-opening box: one was his, albeit temporarily, to be discarded after a single use. In front of him on the desk were two fine black gloves and a small red switch. He slipped the gloves on, and pressed the switch.
“Yeah?” he said into the air.
A woman’s voice, breathless from effort. “I’m looking for Petrovitch.”
His index finger was poised to cut the connection. “You are who?”
“Triple A couriers. I’ve got a package for an S. Petrovitch.” She was panting less now, and her cut-glass accent started to reassert itself. “I’m at the drop-off: the café on the corner of South Side and Rookery Road. The proprietor says he doesn’t know you.”
“Yeah, and Wong’s a pizdobol,” he said. His finger drifted from the cut-off switch and dragged through the air, pulling a window open to display all his current transactions. “Give me the order number.”
“Fine,” sighed the courier woman.
He could hear traffic noise over her headset, and the sound of clattering plates in the background. He would never have described Wong’s as a café, and resolved to tell him later. They’d both laugh. She read off a number, and it matched one of his purchases. It was here at last.
“I’ll be with you in five,” he said, and cut off her protests about another job to go to with a slap of the red switch.
He peeled off the gloves. He pulled on yesterday’s clothes and scraped his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp vigorously. He stepped into his boots and grabbed his own battered courier bag.
Urban camouflage. Just another immigrant, not worth shaking down. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and palmed the door open. When it closed behind him, it locked repeatedly, automatically.
The corridor echoed with noise, with voices, music, footsteps. Above all, the soft moan of poverty. People were everywhere, their shoulders against his, their feet under his, their faces – wet-mouthed, hollow-eyed, filthy skinned – close to his.
The floor, the walls, the ceiling were made from bare sheet metal that boomed. Doors punctured the way to the stairs, which had been dropped into deliberately-left voids and welded into place. There was a lift, which sometimes even worked, but he wasn’t stupid. The stairs were safer because he was fitter than the addicts who’d try to roll him.
Fitness was relative, of course, but it was enough.
He clanked his way down to the ground floor, five storeys away, ten landings, squeezing past the stair dwellers and avoiding spatters of noxious waste. At no point did he look up in case he caught someone’s eye.
It wasn’t safe, calling a post-Armageddon container home, but neither was living in a smart, surveillance-rich neighbourhood with no visible means of support – something that was going to attract police attention, which wasn’t what he wanted at all. As it stood, he was just another immigrant with a clean record renting an identikit two-by-four domik module in the middle of Clapham Common.
He’d never given anyone an excuse to notice him, had no intention of ever doing so.
Street level. Cracked pavements dark with drying rain, humidity high, the heat already uncomfortable. An endless stream of traffic that ran like a ribbon throughout the city, always moving with a stop-start, never seeming to arrive. There was elbow-room here, and he could stride out to the pedestrian crossing. The lights changed as he approached, and the cars parted as if for Moses. The crowd of bowed-head, hunchshouldered people shuffled drably across the tarmac to the other side and, in the middle, a shock of white-blond hair.
Wong’s was on the corner. Wong himself was kicking some plastic furniture out onto the pavement to add an air of un warranted sophistication to his shop. The windows were streaming condensation inside, and stale, steamy air blew out the door.
“Hey, Petrovitch. She your girlfriend? You keep her waiting like that, she leave you.”
“She’s a courier, you perdoon stary.
Where is she?”
Wong looked at the opaque glass front, and pointed through it. “There,” the shopkeeper said, “right there. Eyes of love never blind.”
“I’ll have a coffee, thanks.” Petrovitch pushed a chair out of his path.
“I should charge you double. You use my shop as office!”
Petrovitch put his hands on Wong’s shoulders and leaned down. “If I didn’t come here, your life would be less interesting. And you wouldn’t want that.”
Wong wagged his finger but stood aside, and Petrovitch went in.
The woman was easy to spot. Woman: girl almost, all adolescent gawkiness and nerves, playing with her ponytail, twisting and untwisting it in red spirals around her index finger.
She saw him moving towards her, and stopped fiddling, sat up, tried to look professional. All she managed was younger.
“Petrovitch?”
“Yeah,” he said, dropping into the seat opposite her. “Do you have ID?”
“Do you?”
They opened their bags simultaneously. She brought out a thumb scanner, he produced a cash card.
They went through the ritual of confirming their identities, checking the price of the item, debiting the money from the card. Then she laid a padded package on the table, and waited for the security tag to unlock.
Somewhere during this, a cup of coffee appeared at Petrovitch’s side. He took a sharp, scalding sip.
“So what is it?” the courier asked, nodding at the package.
“It’s kind of your job to deliver it, my job to pay for it.” He dragged the packet towards him. “I don’t have to tell you what’s in it.”
“You’re an arrogant little fuck, aren’t you?” Her cheeks flushed.
Petrovitch took another sip of coffee, then centred his cup on his saucer. “It has been mentioned once or twice before.” He looked up again, and pushed his glasses up to see her better. “I have trust issues, so I don’t tend to do the people-stuff very well.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try.” The security tag popped open, and she pushed her chair back with a scrape.
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to ever see you again, is it?” said Petrovitch.
“If you’d played your cards right, you might well have done. Sure, you’re good-looking, but right now I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.” She picked up her courier bag with studied determination and strode to the door.
Petrovitch watched her go: she bent over, lean and lithe in her one-piece skating gear, to extrude the wheels from her shoes. The other people in the shop fell silent as the door slammed shut, just to increase his discomfort.
Wong leaned over the counter. “You bad man, Petrovitch. One day you need friend, and where you be? Up shit creek with no paddle.”
“I’ve always got you, Wong.” He put his hand to his face and scrubbed at his chin. He could try and catch her up, apologise for being . . . what? Himself? He was half out of his seat, then let himself fall back with a bang. He stopped being the centre of attention, and he drank more coffee.
The package in its mesh pocket called to him. He reached over and tore it open. As the disabled security tag clattered to the tabletop, Wong took the courier’s place opposite him.
“I don’t need relationship advice, yeah?”
Wong rubbed at a sticky patch with a damp cloth. “This not about girl, that girl, any girl. You not like people, fine. But
you smart, Petrovitch. You smartest guy I know. Maybe you smart enough to fake liking, yes? Else.”
“Else what?” Petrovitch’s gaze slipped from Wong to the device in his hand, a slim, brushed steel case, heavy with promise.
“Else one day, pow.” Wong mimed a gun against his temple, and his finger jerked with imaginary recoil. “Fortune cookie says you do great things. If you live.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Destined for greatness.” Petrovitch snorted and caressed the surface of the case, leaving misty fingerprints behind. “How long have you lived here, Wong?”
“Metrozone born and bred,” said Wong. “I remember when Clapham Common was green, like park.”
“Then why the chyort can’t you speak better English?”
Wong leaned forward over the table, and beckoned Petrovitch to do the same.
Their noses were almost touching.
“Because, old chap,” whispered Wong faultlessly, “we hide behind our masks, all of us, every day. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. I play my part of eccentric Chinese shopkeeper; everyone knows what to expect from me, and they don’t ask for any more. What about you, Petrovitch? What part are you playing?” He leaned back, and Petrovitch shut his goldfish-gaping mouth.
A man and a woman came in and, on seeing every table full, started to back out again.
Wong sprung to his feet. “Hey, wait. Table here.” He kicked Petrovitch’s chair-leg hard enough to cause them both to wince. “Coffee? Coffee hot and strong today.” He bustled behind the counter, leaving Petrovitch to wearily slide his device back into its delivery pouch and then into his shoulder bag.
His watch told him it was time to go. He stood, finished the last of his drink in three hot gulps, and made for the door.
“Hey,” called Wong.
“You no pay.”
Petrovitch pulled out his cash card and held it up.
“You pay next time, Petrovitch.” He shrugged and almost smiled. The lines around his eyes crinkled.
“Yeah, whatever.” He put the card back in his bag. It had only a few euros on it now, anyway. “Thanks, Wong.”
Back out onto the street and the roar of noise. The leaden sky squeezed out a drizzle and speckled the lenses in Petrovitch’s glasses so that he started to see the world like a fly would.
He’d take the tube. It’d be hot, dirty, smelly, crowded: at least it would be dry. He turned his collar up and started down the road towards Clapham South.
The shock of the new had barely reached the Underground. The tiled walls were twentieth-century curdled cream and bottle green, the tunnels they lined unchanged since they’d been hollowed out two centuries earlier, the fans that ineffectually stirred the air on the platforms were ancient with age.
There was the security screen, though: the long arched passage of shiny white plastic, manned by armed paycops and monitored by grey-covered watchers.
Petrovitch’s travelcard talked to the turnstile as he waited in line to pass. It flashed a green light, clicked and he pushed through. Then came the screen which saw everything, saw through everything, measured it and resolved it into three dimensions, running the images it gained against a database of offensive weapons and banned technology.
After the enforced single file, it was abruptly back to being shoulder to shoulder. Down the escalator, groaning and creaking, getting hotter and more airless as it descended. Closer to the centre of the Earth.
He popped like a cork onto the northbound platform, and glanced up to the display barely visible over the heads of the other passengers. A full quarter of the elements were faulty, making the scrolling writing appear either coded or mystical. But he’d had practice. There was a train in three minutes.
Whether or not there was room for anyone to get on was a different matter, but that possibility was one of the few advantages in living out along the far reaches of the line.
He knew of people he worked with who walked away from the centre of the city in order to travel back.
It became impossible even to move. He waited more or less patiently, and kept a tight hold of his bag.
To his left, a tall man, air bottle strapped to his Savile Row suit and soft mask misting with each breath. To his right, a Japanese woman, patriotically displaying Hello Kitty and the Rising Sun, hollow-eyed with loss.
The train, rattling and howling, preceded by a blast of foulness almost tangible, hurtled out from the tunnel mouth. If there hadn’t been barriers along the edge of the platform, the track would have been choked with mangled corpses. As it was, there was a collective strain, an audible tightening of muscle and sinew.
The carriages squealed to a stop, accompanied by the inevitable multi-language announcements: the train was heading for the central zones and out again to the distant, unassailable riches of High Barnet, and please – mind the gap.
The doors hissed open, and no one got out. Those on the platform eyed the empty seats and the hang-straps greedily. Then the electromagnetic locks on the gates loosened their grip. They banged back under the pressure of so many bodies, and people ran on, claiming their prizes as they could.
And when the carriages were full, the last few squeezed on, pulled aboard by sympathetic arms until they were crammed in like pressed meat.
The chimes sounded, the speakers rustled with static before running through a litany of “doors closing” phrases: English, French, Russian, Urdu, Japanese, Kikuyu, Mandarin, Spanish. The engine span, the wheels turned, the train jerked and swayed.
Inside, Petrovitch, face pressed uncomfortably against a glass partition, ribs tight against someone’s back, took shallow sips of breath and wondered again why he’d chosen the Metrozone above other, less crowded and more distant cities. He wondered why it still had to be like this, seven thirty-five in the morning, two decades after Armageddon.
The first lounge zone in the metro was opened
New issue
RG-Nedelya
Rodina
Thematic applications
Union
New issue
Economy
. 2021 01:02
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Irina Ogilko
The first experimental recreation area was opened at the Salaryevo metro station on the Sokolnicheskaya line. Who and how rests here, do Muscovites who are always in a hurry need it? Correspondents of “RG” tried to find out this.
Sergey Mikheev
The recreation area is located not on the station platform, but in the spacious underground lobby of the metro. The second exit from the station leads to it, in the direction to the city through the Salaris shopping center. The lounge area consists of two wide wooden benches and one more vertical one, on which you can lean while standing. On the sides, each has two connectors for recharging gadgets, which are visible from a distance by the backlighting with blue LEDs. Up to 12 gadgets can be charged at the same time in the recreation area.
I must say right away that such care for the power supply of phones is not in vain on four square meters. “Salaryevo”, although a new station that opened in 2016, before there was not a single socket for recharging phones. Just as they are not in the carriages of the trains plying along the Sokolnicheskaya line. The discomfort from this is especially felt in winter, when the batteries of all gadgets are quickly discharged. In the lounge area, while the equipment is “feeding”, its owners can relax: for their comfort, they put a couple of small living thujas. There are no screens with advertising or information in front of the shops, the view is towards the large hall of the lobby, from where some flows of passengers move towards the metro exit, while others, on the contrary, go to the station.
It would seem, what is special? Resting places and plants in Moscow are now an indispensable attribute of any well-maintained urban area. But in the subway, this is really a novelty.
– It is very convenient that a place of rest has appeared, – Rodion Artemyev, a third-year student of RTU MIREA, shared with RG. – During the day of study and part-time work, my phone is very discharged. There is not always time to recharge it in the city. And then there was a successful pause between daily activities and the road home.
When asked by RG whether it is worth extending the experience to other metro stations, the girl with a laptop on another bench nodded in the affirmative:
– It’s like a useful subway hack. Do you know where else you can charge your phone without leaving the subway? That’s right, in the train cars on the Koltsevaya Line, in the transition to the Chekhovskaya station, Natalya Petrukhina joined the conversation. – Where can I sit? Sometimes you want to chat with someone on the road without going to a cafe. Perhaps, at stations with high passenger traffic, such seats are not needed. But at less busy stations, they have long been needed.
…There is a group of teenagers on one of the benches, on the other a young man in headphones sat down with his eyes closed. “The place is good, there are acoustics, there are a lot of passengers not only from the metro, but also from the international bus station,” he said. “Here, the Music in the Metro project would not hurt.”
Muscovites will test the novelty until January. Then, if passengers appreciate it, such lounge areas may appear at other stations.
Rossiyskaya gazeta – Stolichny issue: No. 262(8613)
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City
A well-maintained pedestrian zone has appeared near the Novokrestovskaya metro station. Paths were paved with paving slabs between the entrance to the subway and the embankment of the Gulf of Finland, benches, trash cans and swings were installed, which are an art object in their own right.
And also observation binoculars!
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Posted by Ludmila Semenikhina (@ludmilasem)0002 Green oases with ornamental trees and shrubs have also been created in different parts of the pedestrian zone. The entire space is accessible for people with limited mobility due to the absence of steps and curbs. The composition is completed by an art object in the form of a soccer ball, which is illuminated at night.
The project was implemented as part of the second stage of the improvement of the coastal territory of Krestovsky Island, which was approved in March 2019. “The area around the arena looked like a stone jungle. Therefore, we decided to re-plan this territory and make a fairly long walking route, which would consist of several parts, ”said Ivan Gromov, head of the Petrogradsky district, at the opening of the pedestrian zone.
As a reminder, the Smolny approved the project for the improvement of the embankment in Lakhta Center, proposed by Gazprom. So, on the section of the Primorskoye Highway, adjacent to the tallest building in Europe, an ennobled embankment with slopes to the water and a green area will appear. Previously, the designers of the building showed the project of the “Northern Square” – with an amphitheater staircase, like in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a central platform where a skating rink can be filled in winter.
Designers, employees and builders of the Lakhta Center are in constant contact with St. Petersburg residents. Previously, they showed how installers change light bulbs at a height of 462 meters – in order to carry out the work, climbers overcome the distance to the spire along the fire escape. For the 316th anniversary of the founding of St. Petersburg, Lakhta Center has prepared an unusual gift – 60 time-lapses collected into a single large-scale video panorama of the city (with the best views!).
