MIA
Global Dynamix headquartersis exactly what I expected and yet somehow worse.
The building dominates an entire block of Midtown East, a seventy-story monument to corporate ego sheathed in black glass and brushed steel. The lobby alone could swallow the entire top floor of my flat back in London—soaring ceilings, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and a massive holographic display cycling through images of Vanguard saving people set to swelling orchestral music. It’s like walking into a temple dedicated to a god who also happens to have excellent optics.
It’s bloody cheesy, and I hate it immediately, which probably means I’m in the right headspace. I shan’t be wooed.
Naturally, this being Global Dynamix, they seemed to have replaced half of their workforce with robots. There’s one sitting at the reception desk. Well, perhaps sitting isn’t the right term, because it seems to be built into the desk. It has shoulders, though, a neck, and then a round screen for a face.
Creepy.
I go over, and before I open my mouth, the robot speaks.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Global Dynamix. How may I be of assistance?” it says in a feminine voice, because god forbid the bloody tech bros stray from gender constructs.
“Mia Baxter, Vantage Magazine,” I tell the robot. “I have a ten o’clock with the media relations team.”
I feel absolutely silly speaking to it. Europe didn’t quite embrace the robot and AI revolution as broadly as America did, probably because we didn’t have companies like Global Dynamix and Titan Industries working with the government and ushering in the tech in order to meet the Neo-Reactionary Movement of replacing jobs with machines. As such, we have been spared the influx of this uncanny crap.
“Of course, Ms. Baxter. They’re expecting you,” the robot receptionist says in a voice that’s starting to sound vaguely familiar. I bet some actress sold her soul for this.
Then, there’s a clicking sound, and a visitor’s pass is printed from the black box beside her. A robotic arm shoots out from the desk, grabs the pass, uses a stapler of sorts to attach a lanyard, and then holds it out for me. “Please put on the badge and proceed to the security checkpoint. Someone will escort you up.”
I take it gingerly from its hand and say thank you. I want it to remember I was nice, just in case there’s a robot uprising.
The security checkpoint is airport-level thorough and a couple gloves short of a finger up the arse, with biometric scans, a bag search, and a full-body scanner that probably sees through to my skeleton. I smile pleasantly through all of it while cataloging everything: guard rotations, camera placements, the subtle hum of random tech, the watchful eyes of people in suits hovering in corners. Bayo would have a field day in here. I make mental notes to relay later, and I don’t dare touch my earrings. I can’t afford any suspicion when I’m watched so closely.
A young man in a swanky suit appears at my elbow. “Ms. Baxter? I’m Tyler. I’ll be taking you up to forty-seven.”
Tyler has the eager, slightly desperate energy of someone whose entire job is making sure journalists don’t wander off and find something interesting. At least he’s not a robot this time. He chatters the whole elevator ride—the building’s LEED certification, the on-site gym, the rooftop garden where employees can decompress. Total snoozefest. I nod along politely and watch the floor numbers climb, my reflection ghostly in the polished doors.
Floor forty-seven is a sprawling, open-plan space that screams “we’re innovative and also watching your every move!” Glass-walled conference rooms, standing desks, people in expensive athleisure tapping away at floating holographic displays. Tyler deposits me in one of the conference rooms—the one with the best view of the city, naturally—and promisesthe teamwill be with me shortly.
I sit. I wait. I do not touch the complimentary sparkling water. Who knows what experimental nanobots are in there.
The team, when they finally arrive, consists of two people: a woman in her forties with her red hair pulled back and a tablet clutched like a weapon, and a man about my age with the kind of blandly handsome face that suggests he was hired specifically to be her non-threatening foil. The woman introduces herself as Rachel Simmons, Director of Media Relations. The man is just Jason, from comms.
“We’re so thrilled to have you here,” Rachel says, taking the seat across from me. Her smile is a masterclass in professional insincerity, and she does not sound thrilled in the least. “Vantage has such a stellar reputation for thoughtful, nuanced journalism.”
In other words, we’ve read your work and we’re watching you.
“Thanks so much,” I say, matching her energy. “I’m looking forward to getting started.”
“Vanguard should be joining us momentarily. He had an early morning engagement. You know how it is.” She laughs like this is an inside joke we’re all sharing. “Before we begin, I just want to go over a few ground rules.”
Of course there are ground rules.
“Vanguard is happy to discuss his abilities, his work with Global Dynamix, and his hopes for the future. However, certain topics are off-limits for security reasons. Anything classified, anything related to ongoing operations, anything that might compromise national safety.”
I raise my finger slightly. “Ongoing operations? You mean like governmental or military? Why would he be involved in those?”
Her smile tightens. “I never said he was. I’m talking about Global Dynamix.” She taps her tablet. “I’ll be here throughout the interview to help guide the conversation. Jason will be handling any technical questions about our programs.”
“Sure.” I pull out my own tablet, my recorder, and arrange them on the table like the good journalist I’m pretending to be. “I appreciate the access. I know you don’t give many in-depth interviews.”
“We don’t. But Dr. Van Veen was very impressed with your proposal.” Rachel’s cold eyes sharpen for just a moment. “She felt you might bring a fresh perspective.”
I file that away for later. What exactlydoesVan Veen want from this?
