Cyber Dreams 2.6 - An Interview

Hello everyone! I hope you're all having a good week. Please give this one a read and let me know what you think. Is it plausible? Is this chapter too unsatisfying? (I split the meeting with the "clients" into two parts.)

Thanks for all your help and support!

-Plum

“This is a pretty neat car, Hot Mustard,” Juliet said, opening the passenger door of the little, electric blue pickup truck with oversized rear tires and a thrumming hydrogen cell powerplant.

“Hey, Juliet, thanks,” he said, scooping a sheaf of papers off the passenger seat and stuffing them into the center console. “It’s old, but everything about it is custom by now.”

“Sounds fast.”

“Oh, she’ll leave some rubber on the road if I need her to.” Hot Mustard grinned and pulled out of the AutoDrug parking lot where he’d picked Juliet up. When he pressed on the accelerator, Juliet felt the instant torque the vehicle's battery bank applied, and then the h-cell kicked in, and her stomach did a little flip as the truck quickly ramped up to speed. “Oh, and you should call me Win—all my real friends do. My momma named me Winfield.”

“Really? Did I wear you down that fast? You’re tired of those mustard jokes?” Juliet smiled and gave him a sideways glance. He grinned, pulling some loose strands of pink hair out of his face and dragging them back behind an ear.

She wondered how old he was; he had faint lines around the corners of his hazel eyes, but his smooth-shaven skin was remarkably free of blemishes. She’d guess he was around thirty, but he talked like he’d seen a lot more than a thirty-year-old ought to have. She supposed Ghoul was the same way; maybe it was the lifestyle.

“Nah, I like jokes a lot, much as a cat likes cream, you might say.”

“Well, I like your name, Win. Thanks for sharing it with me; I’d reciprocate, but you already know mine.”

“You ever thought of getting a handle? I guess Juliet could be a handle as far as strangers know, huh?”

“That’s kinda where my thinking was on the subject. Anyone spotting my operator card wouldn’t have any idea if that were my given name or if I just liked tragic love stories.”

“Mmhmm,” Hot Mustard—Win—said, tucking a designer nicotine vape between his lips, inhaling, and blowing a cloud of vapor out his partially open window. “This bother you?” he asked, gesturing with the silvery rectangle.

“Nah, we all have our demons. I like real sugar in my sodas.”

“‘Course you do.” He grinned, shaking his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. So this pin you sent me is right north of downtown. Temo give you any other details? I need to post up in overwatch?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, but I’ll feel much better knowing you’re waiting for me outside. Thanks again, Win.” She smiled and brushed at her own hair, trying to settle the strands blowing in the little gust coming through his window. “I like the way your name sounds. Very positive.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘win.’” He grinned and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then added, “I guess you could call me what my momma does—Winnie.”

“Oh, I better not. That sounds pretty affectionate.” Juliet couldn’t help how her eyes squinted in amusement, her tone light and teasing.

“Well, maybe someday. Like, if I’m sick and you bring me some soup or something.”

“This conversation got weird fast, Win!” Juliet shifted in her seat, so her legs turned more toward him, and she could look at him without turning her neck.

“Yeah, jeez. I’m bad at making conversation in broad daylight. I was just thinking, you know, since we’re friends now, when might you have cause to use such an affectionate sobriquet? Then it hit me—Juliet’s sweet; she’d bring me soup if I were sick.”

“Excuse me? Sobriquet?” Juliet had Angel to thank for knowing what the word even meant; her PAI had displayed the definition on her AUI—nickname. “You always talk this fancy when you’re not throwing lead around?”

“Well, Momma was big on reading. My uncles had me out shooting whenever she wasn’t looking, but that wasn’t too often.” He pulled up to a stoplight, glanced over at her, and added, “You look nice. I think I’ve only seen you in work boots and tactical gear. That’s a real nice blouse.”

“Thank you.” Juliet smiled, smoothed down her dark black slacks, and fidgeted with the buttons on her wrinkle-free, polyblend, white blouse. “You don’t think it’s too much? Should I do up this top button?”

“No! It’s just right. The shoes were a good choice, too; not quite flats, but definitely not heels—you could run in those.” He’d started the car moving again, and as he spoke, he reached up to the console and switched on the radio. “I know everyone’s got their own music in their heads, but it’s nice to listen in the car still, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Juliet nodded. She leaned her head back between the headrest and the window and closed her eyes, listening to the unusual music Hot Mustard, Win, she corrected herself, played. Lots of bluesy, southern tunes, but also some bluegrass that almost sounded like folk music to her. It wasn’t something she’d have picked out; she didn’t know if she’d ever heard anything like it, and it made her want to spend some time listening to things that weren’t selected to match her “tastes” by some kind of algorithm.

“Angel,” she subvocalized.

“Yes?”

“Would you take a look at the music playlist generator that my old PAI set up for me? I think I need to introduce some new types of music randomly—I kinda like this lady singing right now.” Outloud, she said, “This is nice, Win.”

“Oh, yeah. She has a hell of a voice, doesn’t she?” He gestured to the display at the center of his dash, and Juliet saw the woman’s face along with her band name, and she felt nostalgic for when she used to own a car.

“Good speakers,” she said, closing her eyes and letting the depth of real sound waves wash over her; auditory implants were great, but they didn’t feel the same as being immersed in the sound like this.

“I told you!” Win said, voice raised to be heard over the music, “Everything on this old girl’s been upgraded. We’re about five minutes out. You all set?”

“Yeah, you think I should bring my Taipan?” Juliet reached behind her right hip and touched the hard plastic handle just jutting above her waistband. She’d stared at herself in the mirror from every angle; you couldn’t see the gun unless you were looking for it, but she supposed these people were pros and would be doing just that.

“Hell, yes. If they have a problem, make them put their guns on the table too.”

“Juliet, you’re receiving a call from Honey,” Angel said, discretely cutting into the conversation.

“Sec, Win,” she said, accepting the call. Honey’s face appeared in her AUI, still sleepy looking, and a pillow behind her head. “Honey, thanks for calling me back.”

“Hey, girl. What’s up? Sorry I missed your call—too much to drink.”

“No worries. It was a bit late to be calling, anyway. I have a job offer I wanted to run by you, but I’m meeting with the client soon. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay, cool. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, Mustard’s with me.” Juliet felt her cheeks heating up when she spoke, which startled her; why was she feeling embarrassed?

“Oh really? Boy, he sure comes through for you at the drop of a hat, doesn’t he?” Honey’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and it became evident why Juliet had been blushing.

“All right, well,” she said, clearing her throat and glaring pointedly at Honey’s projected image. “Call you later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Honey smirked and closed the connection.

“That Honey checking in on ya?” Win asked, pulling the truck into a parking lot that sat next to a concrete and glass office building, small by Phoenix standards, shaped more like a cube than a tower.

“Yeah, I tried to call her last night, but she was in dreamland.”

“Oh? So I was option number two, huh? Well, guess I lucked out by being up late.” He looked at her, half his mouth curved up in a half-smile, then touched the ignition button, powering down the truck’s h-cell.

“You were a good option, Win. Thank you again.” Juliet reached for the door handle and, as she pushed it open with a creak of the hinges, said, “It really means a lot to me to know I’ve got you out here in case something funny is going on.”

“I got you, girl,” Win said, giving her a thumbs up, then he stepped out of the truck. Juliet also clambered out and watched as he started rooting through a big black bag he had in the low, shallow truck bed. He pulled out a rifle that looked like serious business and a well-used, army-green ballistic vest that he shrugged into. “I’ll post up out here. I’m sure they’ve got eyes on us already, so I’ll keep the rifle down in the bed there. Don’t you worry, though, if I see you come running or hear anything going off,” he tapped his ear, “I’ll make ‘em sorry.”

“You’re kind of a badass; you know that, Hot Mustard?”

“You’re not bad yourself, Juliet.” He leaned against the rear fender, eyes trained on the building’s lobby door, fifty yards distant, sucking on his little vape.

“What’s in that thing, anyway?”

“This one? Wintergreen flavored nicotine,” he laughed, blowing out a cloud. “Don’t judge; I drank a lot last night. Can’t expect me to give up my stimulants in the morning, can you?”

Juliet smiled, walking around the truck, so she stood before him. She held out a fist and said, “Wish me luck?”

“‘Course. Good luck, Juliet.” He reached out, his long fingers curled into a loose fist, and touched his knuckles to hers. Juliet turned and started walking to the building, suddenly self-conscious about her walk, her outfit, and her decision to forego almost any makeup.

“What the hell is wrong with me,” she breathed, feeling unreasonably relieved to pull open the glass door and step into the cool lobby of the building.

“Your vitals are good, Juliet. Your pulse is slightly elevated, but it’s normal to feel nervous before an interview.

“Is that what this is, you think? An interview?” she asked, looking around the lobby, happy to see a professionally dressed receptionist, living plants, and a sitting area occupied by people in suits and ties. “At least this doesn’t seem like a front . . .”

“Hello,” the young woman sitting behind the receptionist's desk said. “May I help you?”

“Hi,” Juliet replied, stepping forward and speaking softly, “I had an appointment with Mr. Taylor. Um, he said the meeting room was on . . .”

“The third floor, conference room three-oh-one B. You’re Juliet?”

“That’s right.”

“They’re expecting you. Please take the elevator right up.”

“Thanks.” Juliet was starting to feel nervous, and her earlier teenage-like goofiness was fading away. She forced a smile at the receptionist and then made her way toward the elevators, suddenly aware of the weight of her pistol, imagining it was glowing with neon lights as she walked through the lobby. No alarm klaxons rang, nobody shouted out a challenge, and soon she was riding up to the third floor.

When the bells rang, and she stepped out, she inhaled deeply of the clean, cool air, something like pine scent in the air. Glass-walled offices lined the corridor, and the one in front of her read “300.” She looked to her left, saw it was “301 A,” and turned that way, walking on the clean, emerald-green, high-traffic carpeting. Ten short steps later, she saw her destination on the left, the door slightly ajar. She stepped up to it, pushed it open, and leaned her head inside.

Three people in suits sat at a long glass table. Coffee and pastries were on the table, and they were murmuring amongst themselves, but the person nearest and facing the door, a woman with curly blond hair and a smart gray suit, noticed her and smiled, “Juliet? Welcome! You’re right on time. Please come in; have a seat,” she gestured to the chair at the head of the table.

“Hello,” Juliet said, her voice maddeningly catching in her throat. She walked into the room toward the chrome and black-leather chair. All three of the suits, as she found herself mentally calling them, stood up and stared at her, affecting friendly smiles. The woman reached out a hand.

“I’m Rachel Dowdall.” She shook Juliet’s hand with a firm grip, her soft, warm flesh making Juliet absurdly self-conscious about her callouses. “This is Trevor Barns, and next to him is Paul Vallegos.” Each man made a point of shaking Juliet’s hand, saying how happy they were to meet her, and then they sat down, so Juliet did as well.

They all looked young, with smooth skin and perfectly coiffed hair without a trace of gray. Something about their demeanor, though, spoke to decades of experience and confidence; these were probably people who could afford anti-aging treatments that the average citizen only heard about on vids. Paul, the shorter, curly-haired man, produced a data cube and set it on the table. Juliet recognized its branding—A high-end, custom Aurora if she weren’t mistaken.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be activating a jammer that will prevent any sort of surveillance or network access while we’re meeting. We’ll be speaking about some very sensitive topics.” He held his finger over the cube, eyes on Juliet as if waiting for her permission.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Excellent,” he said, touching the crystal display facing him. Juliet’s ears buzzed for a moment, and her vision became staticky, parts of her AUI blinking out altogether. After a moment of disorientation and uncomfortable feedback, it began to fade, and she could hear again, though the sound coming through her ears seemed muted and far less rich than usual. Her AUI elements didn’t recover, and she was left seeing the world much as she used to before the upgrade.

“The jammer is active, and I’ve filtered as much as possible to give you as much sight and sound as possible. The data you’re receiving through your implants is corrupted, though, and anything I attempt to write to memory will be garbled,” Angel said to Juliet.

“That’s a thorough jammer,” Juliet said.

“I’m glad to see you were able to filter out enough to function,” Paul said, and Juliet didn’t miss his quick nod to Rachel.

“Well, Juliet,” Rachel said, leaning back and crossing her legs, shifting so she looked more directly her way. “We’re delighted to hear that you’re interested in our operation. I know you have a lot of questions, and so do we. We’d like to treat this meeting as a chance for all of us to do some evaluating and information gathering. Does that sound fair?”

“Of course.” Juliet unconsciously mimicked her body language, leaning back and crossing her legs.

“Step one,” the woman said, sliding a thin, paper-sized data pad over the table toward her. “Please sign this with your operator ID number. It’s an NDA that would allow us to seek legal repercussions should you speak about the operation’s details to anyone outside of this group.” She gestured to Juliet and the two men opposite her.

Juliet leaned forward and scanned the minuscule font. “What do you think, Angel?” she subvocalized.

“It’s standard legal wording. There’s nothing alarming in the language. Suppose you reveal the details of this operation to anyone other than the three named principals, the people here in the room with you. In that case, they can seek legal recourse, up to and including revocation of your operator license and garnishment of any future income as recompense for financial damages.”

“Okay,” Juliet said, leaning forward and scrawling out her operator ID on the line at the bottom of the pad.

“Excellent.” Rachel folded her long, manicured fingers on her lap and smiled at her, bright red lips parting to reveal perfect, vid-star teeth. “I think we’ll start things by answering some of your questions. How does that sound?”

“Juliet,” Angel said, her volume low, probably to avoid startling her, “Interviewers often judge their potential employees based on the types of questions they ask.”

“Can you tell me about your organization? It seems like this operation will require a significant time investment and entail quite a lot of risk for me. I’d like to know something about the people I’d be working for.” After she spoke, Juliet subvocalized, “Thanks, Angel. I figured something like that was going on.”

“That’s an excellent question,” the tall, clean-shaven, dark-haired man named Trevor said. He had a deep voice with an accent that reminded Juliet of something vaguely European. She was sure Angel could place it for her, but she kept her attention on his words. “We work for a very wealthy philanthropist, not a company, per se. Our, and potentially, your benefactor, has an agenda that would draw the ire of most major corporations. He sees himself as a watchdog of sorts, and his attention has been drawn by something Grave Industries is working on here in Phoenix.”

“We’re not at liberty to disclose our employer’s name, but he’s not based in Phoenix. None of us are; we’re staying at a hotel downtown. I wish I could tell you more,” Rachel said, stepping in when Trevor stopped speaking. “Rest assured that our employer values privacy and will go to great lengths to protect the anonymity of those who work for him. Do you have other questions?”

“Why didn’t you search me? I mean, when I came in here.”

“An excellent question, Juliet!” Angel said, uncharacteristically interrupting the conversation. “This may throw them off guard . . .”

Rachel smiled and said, “We feel that, in a meeting such as this, trust is important. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘trust but verify?’”

“Yeah, didn’t some US president or other famously say it?”

“Perhaps; it’s been around a long time. I bring it up, though, because I think it’s bullshit.” Rachel paused and let her words sink in. Juliet frowned, trying to make the connection to their topic, trying to understand what the woman meant. She had the feeling this was some sort of test.

“Because . . .” she started, then she smiled, “because if you trust someone, you don’t need to verify. It’s an oxymoronic statement.”

“Quite right.” Rachel smiled, glanced at her two companions, and Trevor snorted. Juliet had the feeling some sort of inside joke or wager had just played out.

“Anything else you care to know?” Paul asked, looking up from his data cube.

“Aside from about a hundred questions about the job?” Juliet smirked and continued, “I do have one more—why me? I get that you need someone low-profile, but why not an A-tier operator from one of the moons or something?”

“People don’t get to be A or even B-tier operators without creating some buzz—without building a rep, even if they mostly operate out on . . . Europa, for example. It adds a layer of risk. More than that, few operators with A-tier skills can pull off the fresh-faced recruit look we’re seeking. Some faces, charisma operators, could do it, but they don’t have the technical skills we require. I’m sure, to answer your question more bluntly, we could find someone more qualified than you, but we’re a bit pressed for time, and our budget, while quite healthy, isn’t limitless.”

Rachel did, indeed, speak bluntly, and Juliet found it refreshing. “I found that answer more satisfying than I anticipated.” Juliet smiled and sat back, feeling quite a lot more comfortable than when she’d stepped into the conference room.

“All that said, Juliet, before we get into the specifics of the job, we need to be sure you’re the one for us. Are you ready to answer some of our questions?”