The Interviewer
“Sit down, won't you?” Diord said, gesturing to a chair across the desk from his own. It was far less comfortable, and put an applicant in the uncomfortable position of being a few inches lower than his own height. He could have used the servos in his back spacer to increase his height at will, but that required power better used for other endeavors.
He wasn't sure how he'd ended up on the hiring committee in the first place – his people skills were among the worst of his kind, and humans were so...limited. Talking to one even for a small period of time at a mandatory social function was bad enough. Having to sit through an entire interview process, replete with social awkwardness, was far worse.
“Th...thank you.” The young woman in front of him stammered before taking her seat, and he smiled slightly. That appeared to relax her, at least judging by her internal temperature, and she had no reason to know that he wasn't smiling for her. One of his co-workers, Tob, did a spot-on impression of a nervous human, complete with the shaky voice and twitchy limbs so many of them displayed. He'd seen it at least a dozen times, but found himself mildly amused whenever Tob chose to do it again.
“Now,” he said brusquely, “let's get down to business.” Diord had to keep the interview moving, or the woman in front of him – Lydia Johnson, said his access memory – would focus only on the fact that she was sitting across from a pinnacle of modern robotics technology, complete with a shell-steel frame, independently actuating du-eyes, and a form so like and yet unlike that of a human that most of their kind couldn't resist staring. There was no point in pretending he was anything other than he was – a fine specimen of robot kind, one that humans found at once fascinating and repulsive. Both suited him, so long as none of them tried to touch him with their soiled, greasy limbs.
“Yes,” Lydia replied, putting on a show of confidence, entirely feigned, “of course.”
“You went to the Lamford School of Business, correct? And you have the documentation with you to prove it?” He asked abruptly, glad that the uncomfortable pleasantries were out of the way.
“I...” she hesitated, “no, it's at home, but I did graduate. Top of my class, four years ago.”
“Of course,” he said shortly. Her degree was on file, but that did not mean she should assume as much. That was a point against her. “Now, what makes you qualified for the position of Government Liasion to the Free Territories? Your degree is hardly enough.”
She paled, but didn't squirm in her seat. Excellent.
“I grew up in the Territories, sir, and I know how the people there think. The way the administration is currently handling them will not prove useful. If you push the Freed too far, they'll fight back, no matter the odds.”
Mathematical predictions had borne out her assessment, and despite the crude emotional ground on which it was built, she had struck at the center of the matter. The Free Territories were one of the few left on the planet that could not accept the role of machines as humanity's equals – or betters – and were a constant thorn in the side of World Government. Discussions with the Territories had finally been arranged, but required a delicate touch, someone who would be able to smooth over any differences that arose before the negotiations took place and encourage the Freed not to walk away from the table. Research had led Diord to believe that Lydia possessed all of the qualities he was looking for.
“Interesting. And you feel this experience alone is enough to warrant a job? One that others of your kind are also vying for, many with far more prestigious qualifications?”
She bristled at his words, and he could see her internal temperature spike. When she spoke, however, her tone was low and curt. Good.
“You know my qualifications better than I do, sir – I would never have gotten an interview otherwise. I'm guessing this is a test, a way to see if I'm willing to stand up to you, stand up to the nonsense you dish out, since that's what I'll be expected to take from the Freed. I have four brothers, sir, and they spent the bulk of our childhood tormenting me. I can deal with pressure, I can deal with pain, and I can deal with the men of the Freed. Just give me the chance.”
Diord had to admit he was impressed. He knew she possessed the basic aptitudes for the position, but how they would be displayed was another matter. She was focused and direct, and he began to suspect her initial nervousness might have been something engineered as well, something done on purpose to deceive him. He nodded.
“You are right, of course – I knew all about you before you stepped through the door, but protocol demanded I meet with you directly. You are hired, Lydia Johnson, and after this meeting is concluded, you will proceed to personnel for several administrative matters.” She extended a hand, but he merely nodded. Touch was not necessary.
“Thank you, sir.”
He nodded again. “Good enough. Our meeting is ended. Proceed as directed, and welcome aboard.”
Lydia smiled as she stood, her body flush with a heat-rush of excitement. It would take the better part of a day for her memories to be extracted and her personality matrix to be downloaded into the mainframe, and then Diord could add it to his own. The President didn't care for such methods, but had seen the wisdom in sacrificing a few humans for the greater good of the species – the Freed would destroy the world if left to their own devices.
Humans were so limited.
- D
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