The Rise of Rachel Price T-Girl Pt. 44

Before delving into his programming work, Tyler noticed an email notification on the bottom bar of his screen. This was odd; as an intern, he rarely received personal emails. Yet, there it was. He read it again.

The message was an invitation to come up to the security section on the 14th floor at 9:00. It was signed Ms. Kunale. Strangely, Tyler recognized the name; Ms. Kunale was known to lack a first name, which for an informal company like CircuitWorks, was unusual. It served as a reminder that she was in charge of cybersecurity. Rumor had it she had worked for the NSA or the military or both. She was said to specialize in physical penetration testing, infiltrating secure, off-internet sites, and hacking into military bases and civilian systems. Word was she had broken someone's arm and been discharged. She was essentially a spy, some speculated. Tyler grew apprehensive--had he fallen for a foolish phishing email or something? It was said Ms. Kunale dispatched such emails to test people, as Tyler had been warned by the amiable but patronizing IT guy who had installed his computer.

It was fifteen minutes to nine. Tyler contemplated doing some coding before heading up but decided against it and left his seat. He walked to the elevator, tugging at his beard.

Tyler stepped out onto the upper management floor of the vast software corporation, feeling as though he had entered a new domain. Even the clean modern furniture and potted plants exuded an undeniable authority. The atmosphere radiated sophistication, with glass walls providing views of busy workspaces where influential figures collaborated. As he made his way towards Ms. Kunale's office, a mixture of nerves and excitement flowed through him.

Kunale was one of the few executives with a secretary. Tyler didn't need to say anything; the efficient-looking blonde woman sent Tyler right in. The door bore the head of security's name in bold lettering, 'Jamila Kunale,' immediately invoking a sense of respect.

'So she does have a first name' Tyler thought.

Upon entering the office, his attention was instantly captured by the commanding presence of Kunale, a composed and accomplished African American executive. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, she sat at her desk and looked up. She had high cheekbones, and if Tyler had to describe them to his father, he would have referenced Grace Jones' 'Nightclubbing' album. Tyler's dad's only redeeming feature was an impeccable collection of 80's vinyl records and a matching turntable. The office itself seemed to mirror Kunale's meticulous approach, with tasteful artwork gracing the walls and a sophisticated blend of technology and classic design in the furnishings. There were no plants and no family photos.

Kunale looked over and assessed Tyler with a single glance. Her commander had said she had excellent situational awareness. Tyler was young and thin, with scraggly hair and beard. He wore baggy clothing and exuded an anorexic vibe. He wasn't very tall or notable, but he had deep eyes. He certainly wasn't middle-class enough to actually have an eating disorder. He had triggered some alarms when he joined. The father was an alcoholic with a number of violent convictions. Jamila had looked closer; Tyler didn't drink. He had plunged into a sea of code at an early age. The order, logic, and sanity of code counteracted his home life. He followed the rules, did everything by the book. Jamila kind of liked that but also wanted to subvert it just to see what happened. She understood him; Tyler didn't have fun, because he was worried about who might emerge when he did.

Amidst the carefully curated decor, Tyler noticed a collection of photographs discreetly placed in a corner of Ms. Kunale's desk. Among them were images that hinted at a different aspect of her life -- ones where she stood in combat uniform. These snapshots of her in formidable military gear added a layer of depth to her already impressive persona, revealing a side of her that spoke to discipline, courage, and resilience.

As Tyler was about to engaged in conversation with Ms. Kunale, his curiosity about those photographs lingered in the background when he noticed someone else in the room. He looked like Maxwell Stonefield. Tyler had never met the CEO before, and it took a second for him to make sure he wasn't about to make a mistake.

Maxwell Stonefield, the middle-aged CEO of CircuitWorks, sat looking curiously at Tyler.

"Good morning, Tyler... is it? How's it going?" Maxwell said.

"Err... Fine," Tyler said, wondering whether he should shake hands or not.

"Have a seat, Brown. Don't worry; you're not in trouble," Ms. Knunale added, pointing to a seat. Tyler sat down; the soft Italian leather was warm from the previous occupant.

"Have you heard of Benjamin Sterling?" Maxwell asked, speaking rapidly like an accelerated YouTube video. When excited, his words came out like a fire hose of information. His assumption that Tyler knew everything he did and jumping straight into things was well known, even to an intern.

In Tyler Brown's eyes, the CEO of CircuitWorks, Maxwell Stonefield, embodied a familiar brand of business-suited executive. Maxwell had an overbite better suited to an otter, and a face that seemed to be resisting implosion under his randomly black curly hair. Maxwell's presence did command attention, partly due to his nose, which hinted at a distinct lack of subtle pleasures. The tousled mop of hair atop his head hinted at a busy mind in constant motion. According to rumor, Stonefield had gotten the money from his dad to set the company up.

Dressed in a sharp, charcoal-gray tailored suit, Maxwell epitomized a no-nonsense approach to his role. His attire exuded power and authority, with a perfectly knotted silk tie and a crisp, white dress shirt that accentuated his robust frame. A sturdy leather belt clasped his trousers, and polished black dress shoes completed the ensemble, underscoring his commitment to professionalism and attention to detail.

Maxwell's wardrobe was as efficient as his leadership style, offering a no-frills, business-first impression. The only exception was the Rolex watch which was a gift from his farther. He wore his attire like a uniform, a reflection of his dedication to the job and his unyielding focus on achieving results. Whether closing deals or leading meetings, Maxwell Stonefield's attire mirrored his commitment to getting the job done, no matter the challenge.

As Tyler flicked his eyes over to Maxwell, he saw a CEO eager to leave a lasting mark, following in the footsteps of those who had shaped the industry before him.

Tyler shrugged. "Have I heard of Benjamin Sterling? Sure, everyone has," he said. "Even my mom has heard of him."

Benjamin Sterling was the tech entrepreneur's tech entrepreneur. He had dropped out of college to start his first business, a bitcoin trading app, which had made millions of dollars before he was 21. He sold it to Microsoft and walked away with nearly half a billion dollars. He was jumping around Silicon Valley investing in one company after another. Aside from funding Hyperion, being rich, and being on the front of Wired Magazine twice, Tyler didn't know that much.

"More importantly, have you used Hyperion?" Jamila asked.

A few years ago, Sterling had invested in a company he called Hyperion. They were working in the field of AI. Last year, they had released a chatbot called Hyperion-Alpha, which made ChatGPT look like a babbling idiot. The entire valley was besotted with how it worked. Tyler followed that kind of stuff. Large language models were his thing. He had an open version of ChatGPT working on an old gaming computer. Hyperion was the go-to company for most of the Silicon Valley elite job seekers these days.

"Have you used it to write code?" Maxwell asked. "Forget that. So what is it, in your own words?"

"A large language model, obviously," Tyler said. "Makes ChatGPT look like a toddler. For a start, it can count."

Maxwell looked at Jamila and nodded.

"How does it work?" Maxwell asked.

"No one knows," Tyler said, relaxing for a second. "Well, most people are sure it's not a regressive model..."

Jamila leaned forward, her brown eyes steady and her tone measured. "Good," she said, the word carrying a sense of assurance. As her gaze held his, he felt the weight of her experience and authority in every word she spoke. "We have a special assignment for you," she continued, her voice a blend of confidence and intrigue. Tyler's curiosity piqued further at her words, his attention fixed on her every movement.

A pause hung in the air before she spoke again, her words measured and deliberate. "Would you be okay with an assignment you could tell no one about?" The question lingered, punctuating the air with a sense of gravity. Tyler's mind raced with possibilities, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty filling his thoughts. He knew that whatever she was about to propose, it was bound to be both intriguing and challenging.

"Is it illegal?" Tyler's eyebrows furrowed as he leaned forward, seeking clarity in the conversation.

"No," Maxwell said with a reassuring smile, his tone steady, and his demeanor composed.

"Yeah, I guess so," Tyler said.

"Okay, the following conversation is strictly confidential. Nothing goes beyond these walls," Jamila interjected, her expression thoughtful as she leaned back in her chair, a touch of intrigue in her eyes. "Hyperion is hiring. We want you to go for an interview. Nothing more. Just see what they show you. Keep your eyes open and report back."

The weight of the request settled on Tyler's mind, and he considered the implications. "You want me to spy on them?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.

"No, this is a perfectly normal intelligence-gathering mechanism," Jamila explained calmly, her words carrying an air of pragmatism. "And there's nothing wrong or illegal about it. All the big companies do it to each other, and we will compensate you generously, naturally."

"Can you define 'generously'?" Tyler inquired, his interest now fully piqued.

"How about a thousand dollars?" Maxwell replied with a casual grin, as if the offer were simply a casual suggestion.

"Okay, when do we start?" Tyler's enthusiasm was palpable, his curiosity overshadowing any initial doubts.

"There is a catch," Jamila added, a hint of caution in her tone that Tyler couldn't ignore.

"What is it?" Tyler prompted, leaning in as he sought to uncover the full scope of the task ahead.

"Sterling's core dev group is composed almost entirely of women," Maxwell stated matter-of-factly, an observation that introduced a strange layer of complexity to the assignment. "We discovered that after the first person we sent."

Tyler had heard of this but wasn't sure about it. There were stories about a group of Amazonian women programmers. The rumor was that Hyperion was the product of Sterling and his team of self-taught women programmers. Tyler had dismissed the rumor as highly unlikely. He read strange things online; people in the office genuinely believed that they had blown up a real nuclear bomb for the making of the Oppenheimer movie. The reality was they had really blown up a lot of normal explosive and not done it by CGI. So Tyler assumed there was some fragment of truth at the bottom of a well of exotic misunderstanding.

"So why aren't you sending a woman?" Tyler asked. There was something he wasn't getting.

Jamila rolled her eyes. "Believe me, we tried. I couldn't get past the door. The first woman didn't get past the initial screening. Then the next one got to an interview after we helped her. Then she flubbed the initial screening interview, and they did a hard pass."

"And that was it," Maxwell said. "We don't have many options. The Venn diagram of people who know large language models and women working for the company is now empty. So we have to think outside the box. We need a woman who can understand a large language model and can pass a coding interview, just like you did a couple of months ago."

"But I'm not a woman," Tyler pointed out.

Jamila shrugged. "That's the key part. You see, Hyperion cannot, by law, discriminate. The men we sent got shuffled off to internal Dev work in a group called System Five. We learned enough to understand they have a special group they call System Seven. All women, but..."

"In their latest job ad," Maxwell interrupted, "they write 'we invite all women to consider applying, even if they don't feel they meet every criterion.' They said women, and that includes trans-women."

"Okay, now I'm lost," Tyler said.

Maxwell slowed down as if explaining to a child. "You go along. You dress as a woman, and you tell them you are a trans-woman. If they refuse a trans-woman, Sterling's whole woke agenda would come falling down around his ears. He makes out like he's this super progressive guy with his all-women group. Really, he's no different. So they would have to let you try out for the group. Then you gather all the info you can and come back."

"So, let me get this right. You don't want me to get the job?" Tyler asked.

Jamila leaned forward. "No. The objective isn't to get the job. The objective is to get an interview. It's to see their setup, evaluate their capabilities, get numbers if you can, look around, get names, and collect clues to add to the larger picture. We want names, identities, and more information we can work with."

"But I have to pass myself off as a woman?" Tyler said.

Jamila shrugged. "We want you to pass yourself off as a trans-woman, so no one is expecting perfection here. Just enough to get through the front door for an hour. I can get you sorted out."

Now it was Tyler's turn to lean forward. "You want me to walk around in public, dressed as a woman?"

Maxwell shrugged. "Sure."

Jamila jumped in, "Just for the interview. We'll dress you up, drive you there, drop you off, you do the interview, and then we'll pick you up, change, and go home. No one will find out."

"So what do you say?" Maxwell said, moving closer.

"I'm not really that keen," Tyler said, stroking his chin. "I guess they're not going to fall for it with the beard."

"That would have to go, yeah," Maxwell said.

"I'll have to think about it." Tyler said.

Maxwell looked to Jamila. "He's saying no, isn't he?" He turned to Tyler. "Dave, you don't mind me calling you that, do you, Dave? Look, Hyperion is the future. Large AI is sweeping over the industry. He's got a working self-driving car, you know that? If your company isn't thinking about how to use AI, then your company is dead in the water. Everything we do here could be wiped out in a couple of years... Hyperion is doing something way beyond the current generation. So if we don't do something, we are going to be roadkill. Everyone from me down to the cleaner will lose their job. You get me?"

Tyler wondered if he was deliberately using the wrong name. It was tempting; he had his own ideas about how Hyperion worked. Talking to the tech people there would be a way to get some hints.

Jamila jumped in, "Look, you don't have to decide now. Think it over. I'm sure we could bump it up to two thousand. Let's have lunch, let things settle. See you later, okay?"

Jamila pointed at her watch, and Maxwell caught the gesture.

"We have a few more people to interview. Thanks for coming down."

With that, Tyler found himself walking toward the elevator. His phone rang.

"Tyler, is that you?" Mom's voice sounded strained over the phone.

"Hi, Mom," Tyler said reluctantly. He diverted his path to the staircase. "I thought we agreed nothing unless it was an emergency while I'm at work. I left you breakfast, did you eat it?"

"Err....yeah... yeah, sure I did, Son. Tyler, it's your dad." Mom's voice came down in Tyler's ear, and it had an odd tone.

Tyler's dad hadn't come home last night. He did that sometimes, fell asleep on a bench or with drinking friends.

"What has he done now?" Tyler said.

"He's kinda in jail," Mom said.

"I'm not bailing him out again," Tyler said firmly. "I told you last time. That was it. My college money is for college. End of conversation."

"No, Tyler, listen... we need money for a lawyer," Mom said, and this was enough to stop Tyler in his tracks.

"What has he done, this time?" Tyler said.

Silence.

"Just tell me what he's done, Ma," Tyler urged. His voice reverberated against the hard concrete walls and metal handrail.

There was a pause. "Your dad. Last night, he got into a fight. The other guy... the other guy died."

Tyler gripped the concrete wall. "Oh, fuck no." Tyler's stomach tightened like a ball of molten iron dropped in San Francisco Bay.

"They are charging him with murder," Mom said. "Look, he swears he didn't do it. The public defender they found, he's like your age, Tyler. We need money to get someone who knows what they're doing."

"Damn it, and Sis isn't going to do a thing, is she?" Tyler said.

"She won't speak..." Mom began. "Look, we need like three grand. I thought you could ask your boss for a loan or something."

Tyler wondered why everyone thought his college fund was the family bank. In truth, he had less than a thousand saved up. Jamila's lunch invite came through on Tyler's phone.

"Okay, Mom," Tyler said. "I'm at work. Okay? Leave it with me; I'll see what I can do. I'm not promising anything, got me? I'm not promising."

Tyler went to his desk and sat down casually. He opened up a web browser and accessed Hyperion-Alpha.

"HI, TYLER," Hyperion wrote.

"HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO," Tyler began.

"I'M GOOD WITH THOSE," Hyperion wrote back at an inhuman rate.

"A PROGRAMMER IS ASKED TO ATTEND AN INTERVIEW AT A COMPUTER COMPANY TO SPY ON THEM. TO DO THIS, HE HAS TO DRESS AS A WOMAN AND PASS HIMSELF OFF AS TRANS. SHOULD HE DO IT?" Tyler typed.

There was a pause, a pause longer than any he had previously experienced.

"SURE, I CAN THINK OF FIFTEEN REASONS TO DO SO AND ONLY TWO NOT TO," Hyperion said.

Tyler interrupted the output and typed, "IF THE PROGRAMMER DEMANDED $300 FOR IT, WOULD THE HOST COMPANY DIRECTOR REJECT IT?"

"THIS IS A DIFFICULT PROBLEM," Hyperion began, back to its usual inhuman speed. "THERE ARE MANY FACTORS INVOLVED TO BE CONSIDERED. CERTAINLY, A TENTATIVE DEMAND FOR $300 MIGHT BE REJECTED, BUT THE HYPOTHETICAL PROGRAMMER WOULD NOT BE IN TROUBLE; INDEED, THE MANAGERS MIGHT GAIN MORE RESPECT FOR THE PROGRAMMER ASKING FOR THIS AMOUNT. THEY MIGHT NEGOTIATE DOWN TO $2500 IF $3000 IS NEEDED THE PROGRAMMER SHOULD ASK FOR MORE SUCH AS $3500. DOES THIS HELP"

"YES, THANKS" Tyler said - he was always polite to Hyperion.

Tyler stroked his ragged beard.