Chapter 1: The DEI Memo

Chapter 1: The DEI Memo

The stale, refrigerated air of the office hit Greg Miller like a physical blow. After a week of breathing the pine-scented breeze of the Oregon coast—a much-needed vacation—the windowless sterility of his workspace felt more like a tomb than ever. The only light came from the humming monitors and the cold, fluorescent panels overhead. A wilting plastic fern on the corner of his desk, a sad attempt at corporate morale, seemed to mock him.

He hadn’t even finished setting down his messenger bag before Dan, his pod-mate, swiveled his chair around with a dramatic sigh. Dan was ten years Greg’s senior, with a thinning comb-over and a permanent scowl etched around his mouth. He represented the old guard of the Interior Department’s most obscure sub-agency: cynical, resistant to change, and proud of it.

“Welcome back to the circus,” Dan grumbled, his voice a low conspiracy. “You didn’t miss much. Just the complete and total implosion of everything we do, courtesy of our new high-and-mighty Director.”

Greg slid into his chair, the worn mesh groaning in protest. “Bishop? I thought she wasn’t taking over until the first.”

“Oh, she took over alright. Took over, tore it all down, and is rebuilding it in her own woke image,” Dan spat, gesturing wildly at his screen. “Check your inbox. You got the ‘Declaration of Transformation’ too. It’s a masterpiece of corporate bullcrap. I think they used a whole thesaurus just for the word ‘synergy.’”

Greg navigated through a mountain of unread emails until he found it. The subject line was deceptively bland: MEMORANDUM: Agency Restructuring and Strategic Realignment. The sender was Cheryl Bishop, Director. He opened the attached PDF.

It was dense, filled with the kind of language designed to obscure meaning rather than clarify it. But as Greg’s eyes scanned the text, a cold knot began to form in his stomach. He was a data guy, a logistics expert. He saw past the fluff to the mechanics underneath.

“...to ensure greater demographic parity and holistic representation across all Restoration Projects...”

“...a paradigm shift from outcome-based efficiency metrics to a process-oriented approach emphasizing diversity in project sourcing...”

“‘Demographic parity’?” Greg murmured, scrolling faster. “What does that even mean for us? We’re a conservation agency. We restore degraded ecosystems.”

“Exactly!” Dan jabbed a finger in the air. “I’ve been running my projects the same way for fifteen years. I find a suitable site, I source a suitable… catalyst… and boom, project successful. It’s a science. Now? Now she wants us to worry about the goddamn census bureau. It’s insane.”

The word catalyst was their sanitized term. Greg hated it. On his screen, minimized in a corner, was the profile he’d been prepping before his vacation. A smiling family of three—the Thompsons—posed in front of a waterfall. Beneath their happy faces were biological markers, GPS coordinates, and a countdown timer. A Restoration Project. A catalyst. His work had always been morally grey, but he’d justified it with the mission: radical environmental repair. Sacrificing a few for the many. He’d joined believing he was saving the planet.

The memo continued. Their job titles, ‘Project Planners,’ were being phased out. They were now ‘Restoration Curators, Grade II.’ A clear demotion. Worse, a new layer of oversight was being implemented.

“...the creation of a Project Quality Control (PQC) division. These new roles will act as independent watchdogs, embedded within curation teams to ensure full compliance with the new diversity directives and to provide real-time ethical oversight...”

“Watchdogs,” Greg said aloud, the word tasting like ash. “They’re going to be looking over our shoulder on every project.”

“It’s a witch hunt,” Dan scoffed, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. “She’s looking for a reason to purge anyone from the old administration. Mark my words.” He leaned back, crossing his arms with a defiant smirk. “Let her try. My projects have the highest success rate in the department. The numbers don’t lie.”

As if summoned by his hubris, a presence filled the space behind them. The low hum of the servers seemed to dip. Greg felt the change in air pressure before he saw her.

Cheryl Bishop was not what he expected. The official agency photo had shown a woman in a severe pantsuit. In person, she was wiry and taut, moving with a predator’s silence. She wore a dark, practical pantsuit, yes, but she carried herself like the lifelong Park Ranger she had once been. Her grey eyes, sharp and utterly devoid of sentiment, swept over their workstations before landing on Dan.

“Mr. Slater,” she said. Her voice was calm, low, yet it cut through the office drone like a razor.

Dan flinched, scrambling to sit up straighter. “Director Bishop. Welcome.”

She ignored the greeting, her gaze fixed on his monitor. On it was Dan’s own project queue. A list of names, all distressingly similar in profile: single, male, transient, the kind of people who wouldn’t be missed. The kind of people Dan had been selecting for years.

“Your portfolio is… homogenous,” Bishop stated. It was not an accusation, but a simple, damning fact.

Dan’s bravado kicked back in. “It’s efficient, Director. These… sources… are low-impact, logistically simple. They meet all the necessary criteria.”

“The old criteria,” Bishop corrected, taking a soft step closer. Greg felt an irrational urge to shrink into his chair. “The criteria that have left the biome undernourished and imbalanced. You’ve been feeding it a diet of bread and water when it requires a feast.”

Feeding it? The phrase sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. It was a strange, almost organic way to describe their work.

“I don’t follow,” Dan said, his voice tight with defiance.

Bishop’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something ancient and cold in their depths. “Our work is not about simplicity, Mr. Slater. It is about sanctity. It is about providing a varied, robust, and diverse offering. The earth is hungry. It has more sophisticated tastes than you have been giving it credit for.” She paused, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. “The memo was not a suggestion. It is now policy. Adapt.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps making no sound on the industrial carpet. She didn’t look at Greg. She didn’t need to. The message had been delivered to the entire section.

Dan let out a shaky breath, a mixture of anger and fear warring on his face. He quickly settled on anger.

“Offering? Sophisticated tastes?” he muttered, turning back to Greg with a sneer. “She’s a lunatic. An eco-terrorist in a pantsuit. I’m not changing a thing. I have a project scheduled for the Bighorns next month. Prime catalyst. Classic profile. I’m running it my way. Let’s see what her ‘watchdogs’ have to say when my sector shows the highest biomass regeneration rates. Again.”

He clicked dismissively on his screen, pulling up the file for his next target, his arrogance a shield against the director’s chilling words.

Greg looked from Dan’s defiant face to his own monitor, where the smiling Thompson family waited. He felt the sterile walls of the office closing in. Bishop’s words echoed in his mind—The earth is hungry. It wasn’t a metaphor. He felt it in his bones. This wasn’t a corporate restructuring. It was a change in ritual. And Dan had just publicly declared himself a heretic.