“Good morning, Jayson. Ready to go?”
“All set.”
“Great! Let’s meet the man in charge.”
Cal led Jayson through the back door to the path he’d followed around the point with Samaira the evening before, this time heading north toward the cluster of buildings.
“Not a bad commute,” said Cal. “Five minutes on a bad day.”
“With a car like yours, I’m surprised you don’t drive anyway.”
Cal laughed.
“I have to admit that was a bit of a flex. I rented it to pick you up yesterday. Besides, it doesn’t really go with the whole green image.”
“I guess not.”
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection the day before. The gas-guzzling, eight-cylinder muscle car should have set off alarms.
“We’ve got a fleet of electric cars, if you need to leave the facility,” said Cal. “And there’re golf carts on-site in case it’s raining, or you need to haul some gear to the fields.”
Jayson nodded his approval of the arrangement as though a consideration for acceptance of any forthcoming offer.
It wasn’t until they reached a large, windowless warehouse by the docks that he noticed something missing.
“The aircraft carrier is gone.”
“Yeah. The fusion team concluded a big test yesterday.”
“I saw the party last night in the cafeteria. Do you know what they were celebrating?”
Cal stopped, looked around, and leaned in close—as if about to reveal some forbidden secret.
“I can’t say too much about it, but I can tell you a viable fusion reactor is now always two years away.”
“Very funny,” replied Jayson, rolling his eyes. “I had a feeling my joke would age poorly.”
Cal didn’t offer any more details, gesturing instead to the other buildings.
“The bigger one is home to the Center’s administrative offices. It’s where most of the full-time sustainability researchers work. Next to that is the guest researcher facility for the stuff that isn’t directly related to the Center’s goals, but has earned Mr. Kamaras’s support, nonetheless.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Medicine, cultural studies, linguistics—all sorts of things.”
“So he gives out grants and provides facilities?”
“He has something more valuable than that. I know you’re not na?ve, Jayson, and you understand what makes Hitz-It unique are the AI algorithms that analyze and commercialize user data.”
“Yeah. I get that I’m the product for sale whenever I use a free app.”
“Well,” continued Cal, “we can use those algorithms for more altruistic purposes. When combined with our quantum computing capability, we can make better antibiotics, better cancer treatments, and better language translators to improve understanding among cultures.”
Jayson nodded along.
“Giving back,” he said. “I like it.”
“Exactly.”
“And those smaller buildings?”
“The closest one is Fusion A—it’s mostly offices and meeting rooms for the fusion team. The other one is Fusion B. It houses the test chamber and control room.”
A team of workers in orange vests and hard hats milled about Fusion B. One guided a crane hook into position above the roof with a series of hand signals.
“What are they doing?”
“Disassembling it. It’s a modular design, so we can take it apart and move it when necessary.”
“Wow. Pretty cool.”
“The next test is going to be quite a bit bigger, and the Navy is a little touchy about the whole ‘blowing up Pearl Harbor’ thing ever since the Second World War.”
Jayson laughed, though he felt uneasy as he pictured a massive fireball vaporizing the Center.
“Is that a risk?”
“No. Of course not,” said Cal, shaking his head. “But we’re relocating to a more isolated secondary location on the southeast corner of the island just to make the neighbors feel more at ease.”
Like those at the residence, the grounds surrounding the research facilities were tidy, but not heavily manicured. A central courtyard provided seating in the shade of a few acacia trees, surrounded by wooden pergolas covered in vines and flowers. They entered the larger of the two buildings via automatic sliding doors adjacent to the courtyard. Cal offered the receptionist a smile.
“Monica, you are radiant this morning.”
“Good morning, Cal,” she replied with mock embarrassment.
“This is Jayson Reilly. He’s here to meet Richard.”
“Dr. Vandergroot is running a little late this morning. Perhaps you could start Mr. Reilly on a tour?”
“No problem,” said Cal, gesturing to a set of double doors. “We’ll start with the main floor labs.”
Jayson gave the receptionist a nod as he followed Cal into a wide, brightly lit corridor lined with windows into the laboratories on either side.
“This side of the main floor is dedicated to materials and fabrication techniques,” said Cal. “Everything from eco-friendly plastics to new materials for roads and skyscrapers.”
Jayson recognized the woman in a lab coat and safety glasses peering into a test cell. Luping—from dinner the night before.
“That’s Dr. Zhang. She’s conducting a compression test on a new type of concrete. It’s embedded with metal-coated carbon fiber for strength and energy storage.”
“Like a battery?”
“Exactly. She’s expanding on research at Chalmers University of Technology in Sweden, trying to increase the energy density. One day, buildings like the one we’re in now will serve as giant batteries, storing energy from power-generating windows for when it’s dark outside.”
“Or you could store power from the grid when peak demand is lower,” said Jayson.
“Yes, exactly. Leveling out energy production from conventional sources.”
They continued down the hall as Cal described the equipment and activities in each lab. When they rounded a corner, passing through a set of doors into another section, Jayson’s nostrils flared at the sweet, musty scent of compost and soil.
“Here’s where you’d be contributing your expertise. We’ve been experimenting with yields and nutritional content of various grains, vegetables, fruits, and so on. So far, it’s all been in controlled conditions, and we need to translate our results to the real world.”
“Some aspects of sustainable agriculture involve controlled, indoor environments,” said Jayson, eager to show off his expertise. “It’s not realistic to get the best out of every crop outdoors, nor is it necessary.”
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“Sure. But we want to spread the benefit as far as possible—not just to the industrialized world where that sort of thing is possible.”
“Can we go in and take a closer look?”
Cal checked his phone and shook his head.
“Later. Looks like Dr. Vandergroot is ready for you.”
They took the elevator to the third floor administrative offices where Dr. Richard Vandergroot occupied a corner suite with sweeping views of Pearl Harbor and Honolulu. Jayson could see the physicist talking on the phone through the glass door of his inner office.
“I’ve got to go,” said Cal, tapping his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one.
“No worries. I’ve got this.”
Cal left him alone in the outer office to wait for Dr. Vandergroot. He sat down and took out his phone to hit Samaira.
Going into my interview When is yours?
1hr Break a leg
The call stretched on for several minutes, and Jayson was in the middle of an article recommended by Hitz-It when Dr. Vandergroot finally emerged from his office.
“Mr. Reilly?”
“Yes. Jayson. Nice to meet you, Dr. Vandergroot.”
He rose for the requisite handshake, surprised by his interviewer’s height. Though over six feet himself, Jayson felt short standing in front of the lanky Managing Director.
“Please forgive the delay. Come in and have a seat.”
Jayson followed him inside and settled into a chair.
“What do you think of our little operation so far?”
“Impressive,” said Jayson.
He cringed, wishing he’d come up with a better answer. Richard glanced at his open laptop as if studying some notes.
“Hmm. Canadian, I see.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jayson, although it wasn’t a question.
“From Brantford, Ontario. Home of Wayne Gretzky.”
He looked up with a smile. Jayson laughed.
“Our most famous export, I guess.”
The result of thorough research, or was the Managing Director a hockey fan?
“Not a huge place, but still pretty urban, right?”
“About a hundred thousand people.”
“Wow. How does a kid from a city that size end up studying agriculture?”
A fair question, if not a relevant one. Usually, rural kids left farm life behind for the city, not the other way around.
“My father is a schoolteacher at an elementary school outside of town—kindergarten through grade eight, actually. That’s where I went to school and met most of my friends. During summer breaks, I used to earn a few extra bucks helping on their farms.”
“And you got seduced by the simple life?”
Jayson narrowed his eyes. He felt an insinuation in the question—an accusation, even.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it simple. There’s more tech packed into a tractor these days than in any car I’ve seen. You need to be a computer geek to be a farmer anymore.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I once helped a guy side-load a modified operating system into a half-million-dollar combine harvester so he could bypass the subscription services.”
Richard chuckled.
“That’s an amusing visual. A manure-covered hick with coke-bottle glasses pecking away at a keyboard like some kind of hacker.”
“I guess.”
He raised an eyebrow. Not a particularly funny joke. Richard turned to his computer screen for a moment before continuing.
“Jayson Reilly.”
He left the name hanging as he leaned forward and narrowed an eye.
“That’s an Irish name, but you don’t look Irish.”
Jayson sat up and gulped. Of course, he’d heard things like that before, but never in a professional setting. He decided not to respond.
“I mean, you weren’t born as Jayson Reilly, right?” added Richard.
“I didn’t have a name before I was adopted. Not that I know of, at least.”
“Adopted. I thought so. Native, right?”
“That’s right.”
Jayson wrinkled his brow. Considering the astounding diversity he’d encountered so far, he found it hard to believe it could be an issue.
“What tribe?”
“Huh?”
“Your ancestry. What tribe?”
“Cree—on my father’s side.”
“And your mother?”
“Not sure.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
Jayson gripped his armrest and took a deep breath. The line of questioning felt a little too personal for comfort.
“I’m sorry, but I kind of expected this to be about my work.”
“Your work speaks for itself,” said Richard. “I’m just trying to get to know more about you as a person.”
“I guess I’m not sure how it’s relevant to the job.”
“Sustainability is a hallmark of native culture. You might even say it’s in your blood.”
Was that supposed to be a compliment? Jayson blinked a few times, saying nothing as he waited for another question. It didn’t come. Instead, his interviewer propped his elbows on the desk and tented his fingers.
“I don’t remember anything before my adoption,” said Jayson, breaking the awkward silence. “Everything about me starts with my family—the Reilly family.”
“I don’t believe that. We’re the sum of our experiences and the DNA of everyone who came before us.”
Jayson nodded and folded his arms across his chest, determined not to respond. This time, Richard broke the silence.
“My parents moved to the United States from the Netherlands in 1962, and I’ve been back there with my family a few times. I feel connected to my history there—and I want my kids to have the same experience.”
A connection to his European past. Was he really so obtuse?
“Sounds nice.”
“What about you, Jayson? Do you feel a connection to your history?”
“Not really. I mean, I think about it sometimes. About who my ancestors might have been, and how they lived.”
He hoped the short version would satisfy his interviewer so they could move on.
“But no connection?”
“No. Not really.”
He breathed a sigh of relief when Richard turned his attention back to the computer screen to check his notes for the next line of questioning.
“So. Cree, you said. What makes you think that?”
Jesus Christ. Jayson raised a hand to his face before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes.
“It’s what my parents told me. Based on where I was born, it seemed most likely.”
“Where was that?”
“Fort Albany, Ontario. Up north on James Bay.”
“Wow. I bet you’d be having quite a different life if you’d stayed there.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
Though aware his answers were becoming terse under the bizarre line of questioning, he couldn’t help it.
“How did you end up getting rescued by the Reilly family?”
“My mother just kind of disappeared, and my father…”
He hesitated.
“…he died when I was a baby.”
“That’s terrible. How did he die?”
Jayson had the unnerving sense that Richard already knew. Whatever the case, he wasn’t going to answer. He shrugged and shook his head.
“Your mother disappeared, you said?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Native as well? Cree?”
“I have no way of knowing. Her name isn’t even on my birth certificate.”
“So there’s a significant piece of your history that’s missing? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on it, I guess.”
“Do you ever feel guilty about the lack of connection with your culture?”
Fuck you. Jayson bit his lip.
“No.”
“I can’t imagine not having that grounding,” said Richard, shaking his head. “I think I’d feel lost without it.”
“It’s great you have that luxury.”
Shit. It came out more aggressive than he’d hoped.
“Really? How are we that different? What luxury do I have that you don’t?”
Jayson took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He couldn’t let it go without the response it deserved. A profanity-laced tirade, however, wouldn’t do much to help an interview that was already going poorly.
“Let me explain some history to you, Dr. Vandergroot. For generations, my ancestors had their culture physically and psychologically tortured out of them by the Catholic Church, with the full knowledge of the Canadian government.”
Richard leaned in, putting his hand to his chin as he listened.
“They claimed it would integrate natives into Canadian society, but they never let us in. They left us stuck between cultures, without an identity, to rot on isolated, poverty-stricken reservations. I’m not connected to the culture of my ancestors because it’s been wiped away like it never existed.”
Richard sat back in his chair as if physically impacted by the reply. He raised a finger to his lips and nodded.
“Did your father have any substance abuse problems?”
Jayson’s eyes widened in disbelief. What the fuck?
“I have no way of knowing,” he said, shaking his head.
“What about you? Do you have any substance abuse problems? It’s not uncommon with your people.”
“You know what?” he said, shooting to his feet. “Go fuck yourself. I don’t need you or your bullshit job.”
Jayson turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. In the hallway, he briefly forgot which direction to turn for the elevator. He felt his head spinning, and wanted nothing more than to get out of the building and into the open air as quickly as possible. Slamming the elevator call button with the side of his fist, he cursed at the door until it slid open.
Though only a few floors down, the ride seemed interminable. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, swearing under his breath. On the ground floor, he burst from the elevator, sidestepping a pair of startled Center employees waiting for its arrival.
As he fumed his way back to the residence, Jayson tried to comprehend the bizarre interview with Dr. Vandergroot. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the tired substance abuse trope. At fourteen, he left the isolated safety of his small school for high school in the city, where he and his friends found themselves among throngs of unfamiliar students.
As though the surroundings weren’t intimidating enough on their own, they faced the predictable taunts of privileged city kids calling them hicks, and making animal sounds at them in the halls. Bafflingly to Jayson, their new tormentors had singled him out with his own unique nickname.
“Hey, Chug!” they’d call out with self-congratulatory amusement while tapping their hands to their lips in a mock war cry.
He endured their taunts for weeks, assuming the bullies would eventually get bored. Instead, it became an ingrained, reflexive behavior spreading among the students as they increasingly referred to him by the derogatory nickname. When he finally asked what it meant, one of the boys raised an invisible bottle to his mouth and replied, “Chug, chug, chug.”
Despite his anger, Jayson stood there frozen as onlookers erupted in laughter. He still thought about the incident occasionally, imagining he’d had the courage to punch the asshole in the face.
Before that eye-opening encounter in the hallway, Jayson had never felt different from those around him. He’d been living under the na?ve assumption that superficial differences, irrelevant to that point in his life, would always be so. Like a soldier with PTSD, he became hyper-vigilant, examining every interaction for a potential slight. He even found himself resentful of his parents for ignoring his race and failing to prepare him for reality.
Still, he found some comfort in the hopeful belief that people like his old high school bullies ended up at dead-end jobs where their ignorance would have a limited impact on society. Some, like the Managing Director of the Center for Sustainability Research, had evidently done well for themselves. He took out his phone to say goodbye to Samaira.
This place isn’t for me Nice meeting you
He waited a few seconds, unsure if he wanted an immediate response. Nothing. Probably in her interview. Opening his browser to a discount travel site, he searched for a cheap ticket home—anything leaving in the next few hours—so he could escape his embarrassment and forget he’d ever been to the Center.