November 3rd, 2008

Chapter Three

Lunch hour is usually a bit more valuable when you have a body. Actually, I’m surprised that they even offered me one. Must be a law somewhere that says that they have to give me one.

I doubt that anyone here actually takes their break anyway. These are the hardcore, no-life programmers. They’ve probably got their bodies set up on an IV drip and only go offline to make sure that they don’t become wraiths.

I was once one of them. Though I didn’t have the option for an IV drip – back in my day, that would have been way too weird, even for a programmer. Instead I just skipped all of my meals, much to the horror of some of my friends. I swear, my boss thought I was annerexic. Ah, good times, good times.

Of course, I have yet to actually meet any of the other programmers. I sort of doubt that I ever will, actually. This is obviously a very clandenstine operation – all I’ve done since I got here four hours ago is sign NDA after NDA.

Of course, it probably would have taken less time if it wasn’t for the fact that I, annoyingly, went through every single detail... and then questioned that damned AI (oh yes, apparently he’s my supervisor. An A fucking I is my supervisor!) about ever minuet detail. I almost got a reaction out of him... Almost.

Come to think of it, I might have been given a lunch break simply because that AI was about to snap. It can be surprisingly easy to bother some AIs. There are actually some people out there who spend their free time trying to get reactions out of various AIs. They even rate each AI’s intelligence level by how they react to their pestering. It’s actually rather fascinating. Ah, the things people do for entertainment.

One consequence of my delaying the signing of the NDAs is that I still have yet to figure out what I am exactly doing. I suspect that I’m going to be working on the framework of the æthrenet itself – the AI referenced to that in a very heavy handed fashion yesterday.

Speaking of yesterday, I ended up having to hack into the personelle files for Senses Squared in order to figure out where I was to work. It was a surprisingly challenging task – it took me about a minute longer than I expected. Not that I’m bragging, of course.

Did you know that those bastards had actually left a note for me in my file? They actually expected me to hack into their server. In fact, it was another bloody test. Honestly, if I’m sooo important, why do I need to keep (unknowingly) jumping through their hoops?

Surely, if they’re contacting me, they’re pretty damn desperate.

Ah well, at least the note was vaguely amusing. And complimented me a lot – a girl does like compliments, after all. And roses. Shame I wasn’t greeted with a boquet of red roses on my way in.

When the AI came back, he informed me that there was one more form to fill out. I asked how many pages there was to this form (the third one I filled out was 25 pages. Seriously. How ridiculous is that?) and he assured me that it was short. And that I’d like it.

He was right – I did like the form. It was a very lovely form informing me that, as long as I sign on the dotted line, Senses Squared was giving me a 500% raise. Nowhere near what a programmer of my calibre should be making, but, hey, it’s better than nothing, I guess. I might even be able to afford my apartment this month without dipping into my savings or indulging in my more... illegitimate operations.

After signing my name by the x, the AI had redirected me to what would be my working space for however long this project was going to take. Ooo, lovely, a cubicle. I finally moved up into an office, and what do they give me? A cubicle. Lame.

Then again, extra money!

But cubicles give me no privacy – I can feel the others in this room watching me. It’s vaguely disturbing – usually places like this have a rather high turnover rate.

While I survey my ne home away from home, the AI turns to leave. Prematurely, if you ask me. He’ll make a pretty poor companion, if you ask me.

“Hey, create-a-date, are you going to tell me what I’m working on?”

“All of the information that you’ll need has been provided to you already.” The bastard didn’t even turn around. Hell, he barely even slowed down.

“Oh, really? All I did was sign a mountain of NDAs.” Oh, great. Am I going to get a job in which they don’t even tell me what I’m doing? God, I hate this stuff. There’s a reason why I prefer meeting my employerers face to face for shady deals.

“Yes. And all you need to know about what you’re doing is that it’s highly classified.” The AI finally stopped moving, though he still hasn’t turned around.

“Oh, I don’t think so, sweet cheeks. You’re giving me details, or I’m going to walk.” The AI snorted and his shoulders shook a bit. Oooo, that bastard.

“I’m afraid that that is not possible, my dear. As I said previously, you never had a choice.” And, with that, that absolute bastard decompiled again. What a show off – all that decompling is just an attempt to show me how important he is. Whoopdishit, you’ve got a constant backup running. That’s not surprising – he’s probably a rather valuable prototype for their next line in customizable dates (male, female and exotic are to be released to the public in three months!). I swear, I’ll go and hire him once he’s been released just for the sheer pleasure I’ll get from mocking him.

The bastard.

Well, I guess it’s time to set up my cubicle. Hopefully this time I won’t be called away for some dire emergency on the streets. God, if that happens, I’ll bloody well scream. I swear it.

Not that I’m willing to set up a perfect system in a public cubicle – knowing my luck, some other employee of Senses Squared will steal it, attempt to patent it (sorry, already did that!) and then sell it on the streets. It’s a cruel world, sotware engineering is.

The guy in the next cubicle has a rather obvious spy program following my every move. It’s rather aggravating, and why is it so shoddy? Did they stick me in the I-got-this-job-because-my-daddy-is-important wing? Ugh, that would suck big time. Ah well, may as well crush that spy bot – there’s no way I’m going to put up with that sort of shit.

So after my rather gleeful total destruction of the lame program, I go back to putting the finishing touches on my workstation. All done, I think. I’d call up whatever programs, code and information that has been left for me, but the guy has set another spybot on me. Crushing it again, I shake my head and decided to start with the file named READ ME FIRST. Seems like a logical place to start.

As soon as the file opens, there’s yet another spybot on my butt. Actually, it appears to be focusing ON my butt. God, what kind of pervert/weirdo is controlling this thing? Fed up with my neighboor’s stupidity, I don’t bother to crush the bot this time – I send a program back at him, one that will do far more damage than his stupid spy bot.

November 2nd, 2008

Table of Contents

November 4th, 2008