BUBBLE NEST
CHAPTER TWO
FIRST INTERVIEW
The waiting room was enough like any other waiting room in the human resources section of a well-funded research organisation, not to be worthy of special comment. It had the same quiet colours, expensive but tasteful detailing, and nothing too distracting. Had they wished to impress or distract or perhaps disturb, they might have deopaqued the outside wall to show off the view of the cityscape and the land and sea beyond. From the height of one and a half kilometres that surely must have had some psychological impact. However, the purpose of the interview was to begin the process of extended psych and educational profiling beyond what was standard for the population at large.
Of course there was no receptionist, so Piers was in the room alone, and had been for the last twelve minutes. His initial slight nervousness, had given way first to asking himself why he had even bothered to come, and then to a somewhat self-indulgent rather relaxed reverie.
A well modulated light contralto voice bade him enter by the door facing him. Still feeling relaxed, he strolled over to the rather tall greyish door and let himself in to the room beyond.
An apparently elderly balding man was seated behind a large deep chestnut desk in the spacious but not at all daunting room. That was unusual. Not the desk or the room, but that the rather pleasant looking man appeared to be elderly. It was not that age was that unusual, but it was unusual for anyone to show an age of more that thirty or so. Piers was aged only 32, but choose to look about 23, which was the apparent age most people choose. The unusualness of the man’s appearance was no doubt chosen for its psychological effect in his capacity as a psytech, but surely that most be a disadvantage in his private life. An old man was hardly likely to be attractive to women. Then Piers mentally kicked himself for his lack of insight, surely what seemed to be an actual person was in fact just a holo. It had been many decades since one could tell a holo from the real thing just by looking or listening.
The “man” got up from his “desk”, and moved around it with a slight smile. As he neared Piers, he extended his right hand in a leisurely way saying “Greetings, Piers, so glad you’re here. I’m Alfonse one of your hosts, or testers if you prefer.” Piers took the proffered hand; it was real. “Ho, Alfonse, glad to be here.” Gesturing towards a low table of the sort they used to call a coffee table in the days when coffee was apparently a popular beverage, the psytech said “Please sit down, we’ll be more comfortable here”. Piers took the nearer of the two chairs.
“I’d like you to tell us about yourself, please, this is the first stage of your assessment (Piers noted the us; his interviewer wasn’t being coy about the fact that there were not just the two of them present, but no doubt a batch of hidden observers, recorders and analytical devices which were all more important than the man himself.
“Well,” he wished he hadn’t started off that way, he knew better, maybe he was still a shade nervous after all, “I’m Piers as you know, and you already have my full ID profile, and access to a copy of my latest government standard basic psych test and other public or near-public data, so I’ll try to flesh out that basic info. I hope you’ll forgive me if I repeat some of what you already know, so as to give my account better coherency”. Definitely rambling on here; definitely as nervous as hell.
“Okay, that’s enough to give us a whole batch of current psych on you, Piers. Now tell me how you found out about us, why you applied, and why an architect is interested in our sort of work.”
“W…” he stopped himself in time, “er, I heard about the project from a new friend, who works for your group.”
“Ah, yes, that would be Remene,” the interviewer interpolated gently.
Piers hardly noticed the interruption and continued, “She told me that although it at first sight looked as though you’d only be interested in very high-powered mathos, physicists, comptechs or quantos, you in fact needed people with certain qualities that were much harder to pin down, to define. You know, it being a new sort of project, and you’d not had quite the success you’d hoped for with the sort of personnel that you expected to produce results. So you were looking at an interdisciplinary team, or more exactly a group of more or less disparate odds and sods who just might turn up some paydirt for you.” He really wished he hadn’t said odds and sods and paydirt; those two phrases were anything but current. That’s what comes of having been brought up by Granfa and Granmo after his parents had died when he was four – no wonder he was just a bit mixed up.
“As to why I, as an architect, am interested in your sort of project; there are two main reasons, and to be frank the first is that I’m more or less unemployed, or to be more exact, extremely underemployed – I’ve been doing the odd bit of specialist contract work that no one else really wants to do, and that’s hardly a professional career. There’s not much demand for basic building architects these days, unless you have the credits to buy your way into a BigName franchise and work within tight guidelines using expensive leased software for virtually everything. I care about architecture, but to me that’s not architecture. When I graduated I hoped to be working on spaceship design or orbital habitats, there being talk in those days of an imminent need to build the huge interstellar ships that would be needed to put some of humanity’s eggs in other stars' baskets. However, as you well know, our economic strategists decreed in their wisdom that we needed to develop new drive science and engine technology before interstellar ventures could even be considered feasible. And as far as I know the Engine Quest as they are calling it is not making the sort of progress they had hoped -- if they are making progress at all, that is.
But I can always get by on basic, just as any of us can if we can put up with the stigma of being a drone. Well, none, or virtually none of us want to be drones, so your team seemed worth a try, and from what Remene told me it looked as though my mix of professional and personal interests just might have a chance of interesting you enough for you to try me out. That’s the second reason; I mean, I thought there was a good chance I might fit in with your group.”
Piers paused for a little too long.
“Remind me, exactly how did your parents die?” Alfonse prompted, catching Piers completely off balance with the apparent non-sequitur.
Clearly the hidden watchers wanted more emotional data of some sort for the extended profile they were developing. No doubt Alfonse had a bonefone or some such tech, and was always in touch with the covert part of the assessment team.
“It was during one of the first super storms from the Warming, back in the days when people didn’t know what to expect, as we do today. It those days giant hailstones were virtually unheard of, and my parents were caught in the open without warning. The kilogram hailstones got them and about 800 others in the first minute or so – virtually no non-fatal injuries. At least it would have been so quick as to be almost painless; not like it would be being pummelled by a barrage of the golfball-sized stones of an ordinary storm. Naturally our buildings are now properly designed for that sort of treatment, giving better protection, and there are reinforced street shelters for anyone who’s in the open when they hear a hail or storm emergency warning on their mophones. But, of course, nowadays we accept 200,000 or so hail deaths a year.” He knew he had gone on too long in his answer, guessed that it wouldn’t really matter, since it was emotive content they were scanning for at the moment, not semantic.
“Yes,” said Alfonse sympathetically, “the Warming really did screw us over didn’t it?”
It was the sympathy that did it. Some sort of agreeable reply was clearly called for, but Piers felt an upwelling of emotion and was unable to say a word. The assessment team didn’t care; they got exactly what they wanted from the play of conflicting muscles on their interviewee’s face, as he struggled to inhibit the display of feeling.
“Piers, would you like to take a short break?” Alfonse asked evenly.
“No, it’s fine. Let’s keep going.”
“Okay, tell me what else you do besides architecture.”
“Well, nothing else at a professional level, but you know that already. However, as a dilettante, I’m intensely curious and rather excited about advances in science and tech of all sorts and keep up as best I can in the midst of this info explosion, but that’s common enough. Same goes for computech, especially the more recent quantum, zero-point and AI stuff. Physically, I exercise a bit harder than average maybe, but nothing exceptional, no team sports unless you call doubles tennis a team sport, I don’t. However, I am according to my psych profile a ‘team player’, but that of course refers to my professional life.” He didn’t really need to add that last bit, but like many others he was sensitive to any possible suspicion that he was part of the world’s two percent of psychopaths or even the five percent of those with psychopathic tendencies. Not that he really needed to worry; any psych profile that indicated any degree of psychopathy was branded with a red alert.
“And,” Piers continued, “I have a passion for the visual arts, especially ceramics, although I guess that might be called a tactile art too, if you approach it as I do, that is mostly as wheel pottery. And maybe a bit rarer these days, I love plants in a way that goes beyond the universal respect for the natural world, everything from weeds to trees, but of course some of the garden plants send me into raptures. Same way as clouds do, or many sorts of music for that matter.” He knew the last parts had been a bit over the top, but every year that passed seemed to bring the general acceptance of a greater degree of personal openness – he’d probably get away with it; it might even be a plus for him; who knew with these psych guys? “Oh, and I suppose for the sake of completeness I should add that I do a little meditation, far too little according to the pundits, as I’m interested in consciousness, and too be honest in relaxation too, since I’m sometimes inclined not to relax as much as I feel would be good for me, both physically and mentally.”
“So, let’s leave it there for now, Piers, shall we? We can have as many more interview sessions as we need, if you pan out, and if it’s still what you want,” Alfonse murmured, “We’ll go along the corridor for a cup of tea or something, and then I’ll hand you over to the tech boys to finish off the session. In a few days, I’ll be in touch to let you know how you went, but I can tell you already, that if we’d spotted any contraindications, I’d tell you right now. So you’re in with a chance.”
Piers noticed in passing that the psytech had used the obsolescent term pan out, so his own reference to pay dirt had obviously been understood, or maybe that bonefone had been busy again filling him in with a bit of ancient vocabulary.
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