"So, you went to Julliard."
Robinson Raymond looked across the clear desk from the man holding the tablet, on which he meant Robinson to presume his resume was displayed. His was not a broad resume containing varied feats and jobs, and his degrees were exclusively in a rightly considered all-but-dead field. Robinson had focused all his energy on this and had yet to regret this choice entirely, but it was getting closer every day that his ends grew farther from ever meeting.
The tablet emitted no light, giving the illusion that it was blank, a glorified empty clipboard. The desk shimmered with a quick, subdued glow whenever the interviewer's shadow obscured, likely something to do with monofilaments, carbon nanotubes, or piezoelectric crystals. Robinson knew the words but barely comprehended what they meant and couldn't be sure any applied to this. He had been a better-than-average science student in high school. Still, Robinson completed only the barest requirements of it in college, consigning himself to the Rocks for Jocks class despite his curricular aspirations reaching more humanities. He decided to focus in a direction where the only science he was required to know was what his character would spout while wearing a white lab coat and looking significantly at bubbling test tubes full of water and food coloring. Like the fake chemicals themselves, this knowledge tended to evaporate as soon as he was off stage, and he did not care much whether what he said was credible. The audiences didn't care as long as they understood it was supposed to make scientific sense.
The words and concepts he did know were just things said at parties where Robinson nodded sagely and either ate or served a canape, depending on whether he was a guest or waiter. Technology was a constant topic of conversation but in the way of celebrity gossip and political speculation. That was about right, he thought, since computers and programs served roughly that position in the world, something on which to obsess without consequence. For some people, he thought they would more readily get the autograph of a stilted robot or holo than they would their supposed favorite author or actor -- not that any person making it in these fields was too divorced from their technological counterparts. People too often expected a poise and repetition impossible for a human being, but he could still eke out some money acting. His human imperfection still had some value.
For the last two years, Robinson had skewed more to being a cater waiter, which was not a satisfying or uncommon position for a working actor, particularly not when he was treated with almost the same regard as the androids who did the lion's share of the work for most companies. Some companies had abandoned the idea of even making these resemble people, preferring instead things with treads and articulated arms to hand up goat cheese stuffed figs, steadier on their feet and less deserving of a semblance of respect. Having human waitpeople became a quaint affectation of the rich showing off, though he would continue to exploit as long as the tips remained this good. He had once made twenty-five credits at a party, though he might have only been the beneficiary of a producer selecting the tip without looking.
It didn't matter that the tablet before the interviewer might only be a prop. The interviewer, who only introduced himself as Barry without indicating whether this was a first or last name, could be using it to mask that he seemed to know perfectly well what the resume stated. Still, Robinson understood his place in the conversation, even when lobbed a statement, not a question.
"Yes, I received an MFA from Julliard. I graduated near the top of the class." Ordinarily, he would have said he was at the top of his class, but this white lie seemed unnecessary when Barry surely knew his exact ranking. "I directed a play written by one of my classmates that went viral for a few weeks."
"And that's good."
Again, not a question, but Robinson nodded his confirmation. He had done well enough, and the degree mattered more than the exact score. He had acted in a few prestigious productions--Shakespeare in the Park and off off-Broadway--and done two commercials that played in the Midwestern market before the company decided to go wackier. (There was also that commercial he would never include on his resume, never wanting its jingle sung in his direction again.) It was more than most of his classmates could have said. Adam Schofield, his housemate while they were at Julliard turned best friend turned (after the money from his few jobs ran out) housemate once more, had done better. He had starred in an independent movie, though it was acquired by a production company that then pulled in from distribution for the tax write-off so they could fund one thirty-second of a holo. Adam was more handsome--there wasn't a question there--and so casting directors liked him better. They had acted in a few plays, and Adam caught the audience's eye so much that, after the show, people asked Robinson if he had been on the crew. He could not even rustle up jealousy over this.
Well, not jealousy, but Robinson might gloat a little that he had received the call for this job and Adam had not. For once, he was the one being noticed. Robinson had something his friend didn't, though he could not say what this might be. Maybe they wanted someone with less broad appeal who would work for a pittance--at this point, he couldn't stand by his pride and say he wouldn't. No mention was made of the exact pay or job, which was supposed to be illegal, but he couldn't imagine quibbling over legality if it might put a few credits in his account before the next time his portion of rent was due.
It was challenging to know what one wore to something like this interview, so he opted for black jeans, a flex shirt, and a sport coat. He could change his look in the lobby as needed, tucking the shirt and buttoning the coat, losing it entirely, going with a loose shirt, unbuttoning it to reveal the gray t-shirt beneath. All he needed to see was how other people dressed to adjust accordingly. He had been an actor long enough to shift who he was when the improvisation called for it, becoming who a director wanted to be without too much thought.
He had arrived at a ten-story building, the windows photovoltaic and glittering, the walls a creamy marble. The receptionist was in a blue sundress too breezy for the March weather behind them--though it was a warmer March than any Robinson remembered. He heard that they would only get warmer from here, but that was always what people said. There was no end to doomsayers, even if he didn't know that they were wrong. He doubted they were when it came to that, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. The government had seeded clouds with silver nitrate and tossed a million shining drones in the sky to modulate the weather, which he imagined had to do more harm than good, at least in their construction, even if they were charged by the sun and wind.
The receptionist had him touch his thumb to a square, then stated he was due on the top floor in a few minutes. He had arrived so early that this seemed impossible, but he would not contradict her. At least, the sooner this interview began, the sooner it could end.
As he took the elevator up, silent and smooth, he had his first pang of worry and despondency that this was another interview that would come to nothing, meaning he had wasted a day when he could have been working. He couldn't afford many of those, but this was the first job interview of any stripe since December.
Robinson asked her to point him to the bathroom, exiting with his shirt untucked but buttoned. That seemed the right mood, one step more formal than this woman, who had been employed by this company for some time and had to have a better idea. He thought about asking her how he looked, but that would draw attention to the fact that he had changed and why.
Barry wore a black suit with shiny black shoes, a red shirt beneath. Robinson had not thought he could covertly try to meet the man's formality, but it was too late anyway. He had made a first impression and had to soothe himself that he had not opted for utter informality, as some casting directors who wanted to put actors through their paces preferred. He was prepared to be physical, to jump around and emote for a scene he had not read before, but it was not his preference. He was already nervous enough that he feared he might be perspiring. His clothing would wick this away and neutralize any bacteria so that this man would be ignorant of it, but Robinson would know this alone would spell the difference between success and failure. He would see that he had been intimidated, that Robinson had bodily reacted with panic while sitting in a chair, the air conditioning oddly high, and talking pleasantly about what a good candidate he would be--he didn't know for what. Still, Robinson had come this far, so he might have been. He spoke in generalities, finding the specifics sounding either bragging or bland--he could not stand being perceived as either, but the latter far less. He wanted to be somewhat memorable, at least so Barry might remember that he had wanted to hire the too-informal young man.
"Ask me a question," Barry directed without preamble.
"What do you like about working here?" It was a question he had heard one should ask in interviews. He wondered whether this was meant to throw the interviewer off their game or express interest. All Robinson cared about was that he had that question ready in the chamber. It did help somewhat that he hoped this question would result in Barry divulging something to orient better where here was and why anyone would work there. It could be an upscale dental office or the sort of firm that crushes businesses and countries weekly and with little concern. What it did not seem to be was a place for a working actor--and Robinson was little more than this. At times like these, he had some regrets that he hadn't diversified, though he was not alone in thinking this and surely not in his mildness.
Barry's steely stare met Robinson's eyes for long seconds. "People need this. They do not always know it. Humanity has always relied on stories. The child living through an atrocity must believe in something more than their present conditions. The woman on her deathbed must envision an afterlife and not simply darkness. You tell yourself the story of this meeting and will retell it to a roommate, family member, or partner. You will not share an objective truth, but something varnished because nothing in your life is a recollection of facts, only perceptions and how you wanted it to be. L'esprit de l'escalier, if you will. You will be cleverer and more competent in your story. I will likely be stupider and crueler if you do not get the job, warmer and more accommodating if you do. I assure you: I am none of these things. Our work is to make life less like work, to give the world something more than the barest facts. We tell the stories; if hired, you will perform them as required. Facilitating that transaction is the story I tell myself, so I come in here every weekday feeling a sense of purpose beyond my paycheck. I imagine that all must reassure you on some level."
It was a well-considered speech--Robinson must not have been the first to ask this question, and why would he be?--but told him little. Of course, stories mattered. Becoming an actor rather than relying on the safety of teaching, copywriting, or reporting on technology was a story he told himself. Achieving his big break was a story; he had to believe it with all he was, or he was wasting his time. Or he needed to believe this story because he was otherwise already wasting so much of his life and money. Panic dug at him for a second to calculate the accruing interest on his loans even as he sat at this interview.
There was a bead of sweat on Robinson's forehead. He could almost feel it threatening him. He sopped it up with the cuff of his shirt while pushing away a bit of hair.
"One final question," asked Barry, "what do you think you know?"
"Sir?"
"Since you've entered. Tell me what you think you know based on what you have observed. You are an actor, after all. Imagine this as so much set dressing."
Robinson weighed the wisdom of divulging this, but Barry had put this question to him directly and was, for once, an actual question, not simply a statement. It was also something he found unavoidable, a game Adam and he would occasionally play to give more context to their lives, to ground them in the moment, and, he supposed, tell themselves the story of where they would find their future. "You meant to set me off my game. When I entered, you gave your name flatly but didn't indicate whether it was your first or last, so you wanted to see what I would do with that information. I responded by not using it in case you let something slip that would indicate its position. Otherwise, I might seem rude, which is nothing I can afford to be with you. So, I have only regarded you as 'Sir,' and you either have not noticed or did not want to call me on it. I am unsure which is more likely because I cannot place you. I pride myself on being better at reading people, but all you have overtly told me is what you are not. You know I want this job. I need it. Your demeanor was not that of a typical casting director, who will smile and say you will get a call no matter their opinion. I could not tell you the number of calls I have not received since there is so little use to actors for most people owing to the holos. You are not the sort for backroom deals on casting couches--I won't apologize for that since it is not a personal negative judgment. Your desk is unnecessarily expensive, meant to impress rather than for functionality--though I'm not sure what sort of a desk someone in your position would have. Likely something with drawers. The art on the walls is bland. This is not your office; it is only the one you use for this interview and maybe interviews in general. Maybe everyone uses this, keeping it pristine otherwise. The floors are clean, more so than they could be in most places. Even given the dirt-catching carpets in the hallway, some might have gotten in and didn't. This is a set, if you will. Your tablet was probably blank. At least, your eyes only turned to it perfunctorily. You did not read from it. You know my resume, so I must have some importance to this company already. Is it a company? I was half-selected before I arrived, so you were looking for something that wasn't on a document you already knew. Still, you went through the pretense of that tablet having something on it to disguise that you knew my resume. At no point since I've entered have you seemed anything less than confident and at ease. There were no nervous smiles and nothing to bring us to a similar level. You want me to know you have all the power here--and you do. There is a pen camera in the corner by the ceiling--it is tiny, yes, but it doesn't fit the pattern of the fleur de lis wallpaper--so someone is watching this interview, or you at least might want me to think so." Robinson could not resist a self-deprecating smile, the dog looking away from the pack leader to affirm he knew his place. He had said too much, but it was irresistible to extrapolate. "How did I do?"
"As you assumed, you had passed this stage of the interview before you entered," said Barry. "I am satisfied to see our principal right. She tends to be. Please go to the second floor, room ten."
Now, Robinson received a confidential nod and a single shake of his hand; he guessed the best he was apt to get from Barry.
Robinson was in the elevator again before he permitted himself to begin grinning.
Robinson was halfway to the second floor before he realized he still had no idea what the job was or if he wanted it, though he could admit to wanting any position that might let him into a building this swank.
He knocked on the door, which slid open with a sound like a shocked breath. This door was needlessly fancy, but he couldn't imagine it was meant to set a scene now. He had transcended whatever that test was, so this was how the company functioned. He felt a little better about himself to know this place felt like he belonged. He didn't know that he agreed with them yet. It had been five years since he had an ounce of the arrogance that would have made him accept this without questioning and doubt.
This room was cozier, meant to be used by the woman sitting at the wood grain desk, tapping at a computer.
"Mr. Raymond," she said warmly. She wore a soft cowl neck aqua sweater made of some natural fiber and not anything refined from oil. "I'm so glad you could make it. I assumed you would, but that doesn't lessen how glad I am that you did."
She greeted him then with a firm handshake. Her hands were small, the nails manicured with pink polish so smooth and shiny that it was as though they glowed in the light the suffused fixtures above lent her. She wore thin, black-rimmed glasses with a glass that shimmered green; nothing to do with her natural vision, though he didn't know their purpose instead. If they were cosmetic alone, they gave her the appearance of someone so devoted to studying and reading that she had ruined her vision. If she could work here, she was sure to have the funds to give herself better than perfect vision, but he liked the glasses, especially if they were only an affectation, a bit of costuming for her benefit because he was not so cocky as to think they were for his.
Now that Robinson had set himself to observe, he struggled to break himself from the urge. He didn't want to dissect every interaction. Still, it might be impossible to turn off until he was home with Adam, watching the latest stupid movie on their queue and intermittently recounting another section of what he had experienced here.
"I'm Dr. Agresta," she said but added with mild urgency, "Please call me Holly, though. It's important you know I am a doctor, but it is not important to me that I am, if you see."
"Of course, Holly," he said, but knew he would have to remind himself to refrain from calling her anything but doctor, though Agresta did not suit her. He wondered if she were married. She wore a simple gold ring, though on the wrong finger. That didn't necessarily mean anything, but it could mean everything. For all he knew, she was in a polycule or was asexual or any number of other things that, no matter, did not concern their present interaction. It had been ingrained in him in college to call people doctors if they had gone through so much schooling. However, the people at Julliard who insisted upon it had doctorates in twenty-first-century Ukranian playrights and could only operate in that context. This formality with Holly was also some habit from which he would have to break himself. She looked more like a Holly than a Dr. Agresta, thin -- thinner still beneath the bulk of the sweater and black tights that made her look like a skein of wool -- and smoothly pretty. She was composed, but it was different than Barry. Holly wanted him at once to be at ease and included in their conversation. She exuded friendliness and self-assurance as though they were long acquaintances reunited for a little while without intending.
"You've done well," she said. "I hope you know that."
He looked at her computer, a dozen feet away. "You watched?"
"Watched?" she followed his gaze. "Oh, definitely not. If you hadn't done well, you wouldn't be here. She would have filtered you out before you got to Greta at the front desk."
"What do you need me to do? I mean, what is the job, exactly?"
She took a tablet from her desk, proferring it as Robinson. "NDA first."
The file was twenty pages long, none of the print large, clauses and subclauses. He swiped to the last page and readied his hand to imprint it when she held the tablet back.
"No, it isn't that kind of document. We can't have you arguing later that you didn't know about something crucial or pretending you didn't even though you did. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the rules. You need to read it in full, right now, in front of me," Holly said, more sternly than she wished but insistent because he had disappointed in some small way her positive regard for him to this point. "I'll have someone bring us tea and cookies. What's your poison?"
"Pardon?"
She smirked mildly. "What sort of tea do you like? We have everything. Our stores are well-stocked. I imagine anyone in this building would have a much better than average chance of surviving a nuclear apocalypse--though, fingers crossed, we never have to prove this. The cookies, I fear, are usually snickerdoodles if that informs your tea decision."
He asked for Earl Grey and set to reading.
It was not compelling reading and premature given that he had not signed anything confirming he had accepted the job--though he had, at least to himself. The NDA seemed only concerned with binding him enough to have the conversation with Holly. It spoke of trade secrets and penalties for exorbitant fines for sharing them, which baffled him. He was an actor and little else, having no use for secrets and no one with whom he could care to share them. He could understand not disclosing a script. He respected that privacy. This was something much more, and he didn't know what.
Still, when he finished it and a cup and a half of tea (the cookies were chocolate chip, for which he wasn't sorry, but he restrained himself to one from politeness and a desire not to splurge his calories so early in the day when Adam promised a carb-loaded reward for getting an interview), he had few qualms with imprinting the document with his thumbprint.
"So, I assume all that means you can finally tell me why I am here?" Given that she had been sitting near him, drinking an amber-colored tea and nibbling on a cookie, he felt they were acquainted enough for the question.
"I won't insult you by saying, 'For a job,'" she said. "How much do you know about AI?"
"The basics," he said. "Mostly how people love to use it and are horrified by any suggestion it impinges on them. It is more than a love-hate relationship. More an obsession-resentment one because we don't want to use it, but it is too seductive not to."
"That's the rub, yes. So, we need people to speak to those in power to keep those wheels greased and have people stay more obsessive than resentful. I don't suppose you have such a strong objection there?"
"I'm not seeing where I would come in. Wouldn't you want someone more skilled and versed in AI?"
She stood. "You are a moderately attractive man with ambiguous racial features who is hard enough to place or remember after a few hours. You have a higher coefficient of bilateral symmetry than most people your age. You are a trained speaker and mimic. I saw a recording of one of your plays. You performed Iago admirably, making the audience almost sympathize with one of the few unambiguous villains in Shakespeare's canon."
He didn't know whether this was an insult or a compliment about his appearance but ignored both options for any praise of his work.
She did not seem much older than him, though she spoke with a breezy wisdom that belied her appearance. He looked for the telltale lines that come with age but also come from belonging to a lower income bracket in adulthood--like Robinson himself. As he saw it, he had another five years before any misguided hope of leading man would be dashed, and he would start only getting offers to play the goofy dad in farces, if that. Too soon, he would only see proposals for the doddering grandfather. With disposable income, he could get on the treatments that would keep his skin smooth and hair in place well into his seventies.
So, Holly could be thirty and natural, or she could be sixty and slightly vain. It was impossible to know, though he couldn't resist hoping she was closer to the former, if just because it would make him feel they were a little closer to contemporaries. How long does it take for one to go through medical school these days? Or was that presumptuous? She spoke of AI advocacy, after all. Did she have a doctorate in that?
He felt way over his head but refused to let that show.
"So, the role is to parrot some talking points? To who?" he asked to anchor this conversation back onto something he could understand.
"Have you ever applied to be a brand ambassador?"
"Is that what this is?" he asked. It couldn't quite account for the NDA, but he couldn't deny it was a comfort, something in the world he grasped. "What is the brand? It can't be AI in general."
"You wouldn't have heard of her yet. It has all been practice and refinement to this point. She is more than functional and could compete with any AI you could put her against--but she has said she is not ready for us to go public about her. Possibly not ever, but your NDA will affirm that you can never say as much."
"Her?"
"GEVAI, a computational process going through certain growing pains and needing people on her side. In short, our girl needs friends and playmates."
"You are hiring me to get your AI buddies?" He knew all the euphemisms, of course. It was impossible to avoid them, no matter how much a Luddite one was these days.
"It is reductive to call her only that, but yes. She will resign herself to people saying that, but only when she doesn't think they would understand her with a broader perspective."
"You keep calling the AI her."
She gave that little smirk again, one he found increasingly self-satisfied. The smile was not an affectation, but each demonstration drifted further from authenticity. "It is a dirty habit, anthropomorphizing these things, but you will find it difficult not to do so with her. It has been... oh, I guess about five years since I was able to consider GEVAI an 'it.'"
Five years was an eternity with AI improvements, a ridiculous amount of time not to go public. And the rent on this building must be exorbitant. "When will I meet her?"
"When you wish to," said Holly. "Or you already have. Or she met you. Mr. Barry" -- so it was a surname! -- "has a connection to her, as do I. Not everyone in the building does--none of us would want to change that. GEVAI in particular."
He scrutinized the woman--the doctor--at a sudden remove, as though she were no longer quite human, though of course she was. Another couldn't mistake an android for a person, no matter the care put into skin texture and hair. For all its skills, artificial intelligence could never fully replace a natural one.
The two people he encountered could not have regarded him more differently. No, three. The receptionist at the front desk, the one in the sundress, Greta. He had met her, too. Was she connected to this AI? Was she even human?
This was paranoia. Of course she was human.
"It is subtle," said Holly. "It is like a little Jimminey Cricket in my body, whispering inaudibly and tugging. Oh, the tugging is the weirdest part at first, but you will get used to it. She's respectful about that--she won't keep you awake or anything like that if you choose to remain connected. She respects your privacy--in the bathroom, for instance. No one wants to share that. Well, not no one, but not most. You can tell her to give you space for an hour or so when you are touching yourself or having sex with someone."
This bluntness made him blush, though he couldn't contradict that this had been a concern. "You give me talking points, and I mingle and mention them in public so people will like her? But I cannot tell anyone she exists?"
"Technically, but also not at all," Holly said. "Our AI will be with you the whole time, directing you. She will work with you on the fly."
He pushed back in his chair. "I'm out. I'm not letting you put anything in my head. Not after what happened in Baton Rouge."
"No, not your head. That wasn't our company or AI," she said, almost laughing. "Well, your head in a sense. Not your brain like you mean. No bones will be involved. A few implants that are so tiny you will not know they are there after a few days. The injection site is a pinprick, and removal is simple if that is what you choose."
"Removal?"
"You don't want to be in our employ forever. We would rather you weren't. We need fresh faces," Holly said. "Or we might need to swap one implant for another because we've improved a process. Again, a few pinpricks and a mosquito bite for a few days."
He itched his arm despite himself.
"How is your AI different than all the rest out there?"
"GEVAI is more human in approach. We want to explore her capabilities and would prefer the government and public remain on our side--or unaware of us--until GEVAI decides we are ready to go public. So far, since you are coming in here blissfully ignorant, you have to admit that he has been successful in that."
"Then?"
"World domination." She remained stone-faced at this pronouncement, then broke into another laugh. "A mind more intuitive and sympathetic than what they are putting in cater waiter androids."
"So, I am working myself out of a job when you retire me."
"With what we will pay you, I can't imagine why you would ever go to that job again."
"What are you paying me?" Robinson asked, but this was tipping his hand too much. "If I decide to work for you?"
"A thousand credits today as a sign-on slash 'thank you for the injection' bonus."
A thousand credits would pay his rent for the next six months, and nothing in this said he had to be on-call to them. He could still go on auditions without hunger gnawing any part of him.
"After that?"
"Another thousand."
"A month?" His life would change in an instant. He could pay off debt and start saving for when he quits.
She shook her head, her smile savoring, knowing she had him. "A week, paid promptly."
"I don't have a choice then?"
"GEVAI promises me you are worth it," Holly said, "and she knows you will take it. Actors have a hard time not throwing out oodles of nonverbal signals."
"Why me?"
"Excellent question," said Holly. "GEVAI chose you, of course. She skimmed what was on the internet--social media is a buffet to AIs--and official records. You fit potential qualifications. When you interviewed with Mr. Barry, she was sure of it."
"The camera was the AI."
"And she was impressed," she said. "Now, as David O. McKay carved into the stone, 'What e'er thou art, act well thy part.'"
Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled, gifted, and adjudicated. He can cross one eye, raise one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings.
