fuonlyknew

Chapter One – The Project

JAMESON Z. CONRAD STOOD on a steel catwalk raised twenty feet above the production floor of his new $2 billion chip factory, wearing a white full-body bio-suit. He eschewed a face mask, although every busy worker below wore one. The polished floor reflected high-intensity overhead lights, which glinted off glass and chrome tools, creating visible spectra on the edges of the gleaming work tables. Low-slung robotic vehicles hummed above invisible sensors, carrying supplies to the production lines and whisking away finished chips to cold storage. Open barely two weeks, the state-of-the-art facility was humming. Jameson smiled like a priest gazing from the choir balcony at a newly constructed cathedral.

Standing a few millimeters above six feet, with broad shoulders that could not be fully hidden by his bulky garment, Jameson was in better shape at forty-six than he had been at twenty-five. A personal chef and two trainers made sure. A man who wanted to live forever needed to start the project early. With feet spread and arms akimbo, nobody in the expansive room could miss his presence. The workers tried to ignore him, not wanting the big boss to see them gawking, but suspecting he wanted the attention.

Jameson co-founded Botor Corporation when he and his two partners were juniors at MIT, working out of a Cambridge garage. The joke was that Botor was “robot” spelled backward by a dyslexic scientist. At the time it didn’t matter, as long as it was unique. Now, the colorful corporate logo adorned office parks and sports arenas. Botor Corp had a market capitalization of more than $2 trillion. The two other original founders took buy-outs a decade earlier and retired in their thirties, leaving Jameson to preside over his personal universe, working sixteen-hour days. That was fine with him.

“You have the update on EPBOT?” Jameson asked without turning his head from the ant-like activity on the production floor.

“Yes, Sir,” came the soft, submissive reply. Bobby Chaing, Jameson’s senior project manager, had arrived two minutes earlier and waited for his boss to notice. A skilled programmer and an expert in artificial intelligence systems, Bobby was a combination Chief of Staff and Chief Operating Officer in Jameson’s ever-expanding global empire. Officially, Bobby’s title was Senior Vice President, Special Projects. Everyone on the corporate org chart knew “special projects” meant the next cutting-edge development and the next huge product launch. In other words, the coolest of the cool stuff.

Despite being Jameson’s right hand and main scientific sounding board, Bobby knew he was expected to observe the hierarchical protocol by not using Jameson’s first name in public spaces. He was fully prepared with the report on the Experimental Prototype Building Of Tomorrow – their private nickname for Jameson’s long-time pet project. The unofficial moniker was stolen from Disney World. Jameson’s visit to EPCOT in Orlando was the spark of imagination that launched his tech career. He never forgot.

“I’m guessing it’s not good.” Jameson finally turned toward Bobby. In their clean suits, they resembled astronauts meeting on the surface of an alien world.

“It’s not bad,” Bobby quickly replied. He had driven from Botor’s Manhattan offices to the plant across the Hudson River to deliver this report in person. Jameson insisted that discussions about the project be oral, leaving no digital or paper record. The monthly update was not time-sensitive, but Jameson always wanted it immediately. Waiting for the next business day was never an option. “The data collection volume is still on the positive side of the curve.”

“But we’re reaching the saturation point, aren’t we?”

Bobby rocked his head left and right before answering. “Eventually, of course we will. But we’re not there yet.”

“What about the health of the cohort?”

“It’s good. The core is strong and cohesive.” Bobby paused, allowing Jameson an opportunity to jump in.

“But there is fraying around the edges, isn’t there?”

“The overall health of the community is down six percent from this time last year,” Bobby admitted. “But it’s still at eighty-four percent. Way above the projected minimum standard.”

“Sure.” Jameson turned back toward the shining, sterile production environment which churned out tiny bits of silicon, cobalt, platinum, and gold he would sell for fifty times their cost. With growing global tariffs squeezing out foreign chip-makers, he mentally patted himself on the back for building his plant in New Jersey. Without looking at Bobby, he gripped the steel railing supporting the catwalk and hung his head slightly. “We’re still above the curve, but it’s going to slip further. If they don’t turn it around quickly, and unless the unique data collection rate improves, we’re going to have to consider a full reboot at the end of the year.”

“It’s not that dire yet, Sir.” Bobby knew his tone was wrong. He sounded like he was pleading the cause rather than providing impartial analytics. “There’s no need to rush into drastic change. A full cohort swap might endanger the project.”

“Or it might be just what we need,” Jameson said flatly, still not making eye contact with Bobby. “The first few years were hard. You remember. But then the curve swung upward big time. We knew it would plateau eventually and we’d need to start over. I’m willing to risk another few years of a shallow curve in order to get a bigger boost later. We’ve got new products in the pipeline. If we’re not getting adequate data, then a change is required.”

“But it’s your achievement,” Bobby said, stroking the boss’s ego.

“Yes. It is. But I can’t get too attached. It’s not going to win me a Nobel Prize. I want you to start the preliminary process of recruiting a new cohort. Keep it quiet.”

“I agree,” Bobby said, “but before you make a final decision, we need to weigh the negative consequences.”

“I will. But fresh data is always a net positive. Even if there is collateral damage. Mom always said you have to break some eggs to make an omelet.”

Bobby didn’t respond. He knew the discussion was over. “I’ll get on it, Sir.” Bobby turned and walked toward the elevator that would take him down to the changing room. He hated wearing the clean suit.