Samuel Deel stands at parade rest outside of an office with Marjory Dunning’s name and title, Coordinator General, on the door. Deel’s smug indefference makes it plain; he isn’t worried about a reprimand. It won’t come to anything.
To kill time, he begins performing ocular pat downs on the nerds in the Time Management Pit – “Pit” because it’s a sunken floor with rails around it. The walls are split into a hundred different displays, each screen showing either scenes from historical events or the faces of Historians in the midst of debriefing. The “nerds” are the labcoated technowizards roaming the floor. They carry smartboards and flag inconsistencies as they see them.
To his right and to his left are rows of offices for the higher ups.
“Higher up,” he huffs. “Literally.”
The people milling between the offices are mostly clerical personnel relaying confidential information. When they stand still, they aren’t exactly invisible in their smartsuits, but their presence is certainly muted.
The woman passing between them is not. She wears a proper uniform. She’s confident. By her eyes, she’s lost. She scans the signage on the doors, but she isn’t seeing the name she wants.
She’s just one door away now.
“New recruit?” Deel asks as she somewhat cautiously approaches his door.
“Something like that.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Deel empathizes.
“Is it?” she asks with a smirk.
Deel flushes, “I didn’t mean-”
“Sam,” Marjory warns, her door suddenly wide open.
Deel freezes, hackles raising.
“Ma’am,” he begins and turns.
“Stow it,” she orders. To Janet James, the lady in the uniform, Marjory says, “Please, Come in.”
Cortland Franks steps through the door and out of the way, pushing Deel toward the stairs.
“Come on, kid,” Franks says.