An introductory sequence

(some orignal formatting lost!)

Paddling Knee Deep (working title)

1.

a1 Sam arrives at work

Leaning on the handrails of the crowded ferry, Sam finally stopped musing over his last night’s work on the Lincoln. He’d been so preoccupied that the breakfast news had washed over him barely noticed. Almost like the water in Baia Nova. Day on day little change was visible in the ever- rising waters. But every so often there was a storm, a big wave, more encroachment. The Bay continued to overwhelm the suburbs. From time to time some forgotten industrial waste tips or other sources of garbage – or worse - released toxins, dyes, effluents. His attention had been caught by a florid yellow plume that the ferry was passing through, and for a few moments he reflected on the state of the world.

When he stepped off, he was a few minutes late, later than he’d intended, not late in the sense that anyone minded. The hydrofoil had been held up by another security alert. Public services and spaces felt under permanent threat. Especially transport systems, since that set of disgruntled teenagers had used nanowires to slice up school buses. A few days later a helicopter had been brought down. Transport became seen as the target – despite the nerve gas sweeping of a playground, the incineration of a casino. One time, barely a month went by without at least one atrocity. These days, barely a week went by without Sam getting caught up in some sec-alert.

The ‘foil had eventually got going again, and made up most of its lost time by sweeping down the bay close to the speed limit and too close to the crumbling shorelines. No doubt helping their decay into the waters by a fraction. Standing on the deck, breathing in fresh air, had cleared his head of much of the fogginess that a late night had left.

The heat had not yet kicked in, though the air was humid and oppressive. A short walk from the shorefront escalators to the office complex. Bearable. Cool air inside the building. The lift greeted him by name, took him to the eighth floor without needing to ask. The steel-effect door, as usual, took an interminable time to open. It did for everyone.

Wearily, Sam Serge walked into the offices. He muttered “hi” to a few coworkers as he checked around to see which hotdesk was beckoning him. A familiar corner - this would be his base for the duration. The desk was minimally decked out, with a bonzai to balance the keyboards, holoprojectors, notepads. As Sam approached, the projectors began their work. Welcome, Sam.

There was a window there, at least, framed by more stainless-steel effect materials. He could look over the plaza. Already it was thronging with kids on their skateboards, skyboards, starboards, even a few on their feet. He could squint up at the ravaged sky. Bright even behind polarised glass. There was a glimmer of the bay a few blocks away. Used to be something that people used to pay for, now something they’d pay to get away from. Course, it wasn’t quite the same bay.

He let the chair mould itself to his posterior. A low whizz, and gentle shift in pressure. Then he slumped into it, deciding as always to forget his ergonomic posture. He lacked the enthusiasm to tweak the chair’s bog-standard customisation. Time for that later. First, he needed to energise himself. Coffee could come later. What was needed was some achievement. Soon. Or some evocation of past achievements. Hotdesks just don’t carry the baggage of awards and disc covers, that’s the trouble. And I’m too modest to do more than carry the holos around, he thought.

Week Twelve, he reflected, stretching forward and waving his hands, to draw blinds over the window. (Elsewhere in the room, light levels were automatically adapted to the change.) Seven weeks of increasingly baroque efforts to soul the Lincoln. He knew in his bones now that he was on the wrong track. But he couldn’t prove it. As so often, creative practice was well ahead of science and engineering. No absolute, logical, proofs. No theoretical model to fall back on, just rules of thumb, intuition, and the mutterings of a community of practice.

Unless I can persuade Ben to trust my gut feelings. Sam didn’t want to have to go through tech audit. To set out the tedious permutations required to justify abandoning a line of work without proof that originally postulated rates of return couldn’t be met. Even in labours of corporate love, like this. Tech audit was required by major stakeholders, and was becoming the norm for family businesses. Rituals to keep lawyers at bay. And the permutations had to be grounded in the right logic. One which would not cast a dark cloud over his decision to pursue this line of attack in the first place. And since I helped set the guidelines, it ill behoves me to bend them too far. Even if I did write most of the tricks in the book – precisely to stop newcomers pulling wool over our eyes.