Chapter 4: The Nature of the Work

Chapter 4: The Nature of the Work

The walk to Director Bishop’s office was the longest of Greg’s life. Each step down the hushed, empty corridor felt like a footfall on his own coffin lid. The bland, beige walls seemed to watch him, the overhead fluorescent lights humming a low, judgmental drone. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of pure terror. He clutched the summons notification on his phone like a death warrant, his thumb smudging the screen. He was a witness. He was an accomplice. And now, he was being called to account.

Her office was at the very end of the hall, a single, unmarked dark wood door that seemed to absorb the light around it. He raised a trembling hand and knocked.

“Enter,” a calm voice commanded instantly.

The door swung open with a soft, expensive click. Bishop’s office was the antithesis of the cluttered, chaotic pods where the curators worked. It was minimalist to the point of being monastic. A single large desk of dark, polished steel stood in the center of the room. Behind it, a floor-to-ceiling digital map of the world glowed faintly, thousands of tiny points of light pulsing across its surface, each one a past or potential project site. There were no personal photos, no clutter, no wilting ferns. The only object on her desk besides a sleek monitor was a chunk of fossilized rock, dark and dense, pitted with the imprint of some long-extinct fern. It seemed to drink the light, a small point of ancient gravity in the sterile room.

Bishop was standing by the map, her back to him. She didn't turn around. “Close the door, Mr. Miller.”

Greg did as he was told, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot. The oppressive silence of the room descended on him.

“I trust your viewing of Project 734 was… informative,” she said, her voice placid. She finally turned, her wiry frame silhouetted against the glowing continents. Her grey eyes were flat, analytical. There was no malice in them, which was somehow worse than if there had been.

Greg’s own voice was a dry croak. “You… you killed him.”

A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips, the kind one might make at a student who just can’t grasp a simple concept. “Killed him? No. That’s such a limited, human-centric term. We reallocated him. Mr. Slater was a blunt instrument in a job that requires surgical precision. He was a proponent of a monoculture that was starving our benefactor.”

She gestured towards the chair in front of her desk. It wasn’t an offer; it was an order. Greg sank into it, his legs feeling like jelly.

Bishop moved to her desk and sat, her posture perfect, her hands resting calmly on the steel surface. “For fifteen years, the men who ran this agency fed it the equivalent of processed flour and sugar. Transients, drifters, the socially isolated. Easy to source, logistically simple, as Mr. Slater was so fond of saying. And they nearly ruined everything.”

She leaned forward, her gaze intense. “This planet is not a rock with some life clinging to its surface, Greg. It is a single, complex organism. A living entity with a consciousness. We call it the Telluric Maw.”

The name hung in the air between them, imbued now with a terrible weight. The name from the audio feed.

“The Maw is the source of all biodiversity,” she continued, her voice taking on a low, fervent hum, the passion of a zealot. “It is the engine of evolution. Its hunger is what drives the creation of new life. In return for its gift, it requires sustenance. And like any complex organism, it requires a varied diet to thrive. The old regime, with their monotonous selections, created the ecological equivalent of scurvy. Blights, coral bleaching, sudden species die-off in the Amazon… those weren’t random environmental disasters. They were symptoms of malnutrition. The Maw was starving.”

Greg stared at her, his mind struggling to reconcile the corporate jargon of the DEI memo with the cosmic horror she was describing. “Diversity… the memo…”

“You looked at the memo and saw human resources bureaucracy,” Bishop said, a flicker of something like pity in her eyes. “You should have seen a recipe book. A menu for planetary salvation. Holistic representation isn't about fairness, it’s about flavor profiles.”

She saw the revulsion on his face and pressed on, her voice hardening. “Do not be naive. Love. Fear. Despair. Hope. Arrogance.” She tapped a finger on the desk, punctuating each word. “These are not just abstract concepts. They are complex biochemical and bioelectric signatures. They are nutrients. The love within a bonded family unit creates a cascade of hormones and neurological energy that is like a feast. The defiant terror of a man like Dan Slater? A rare spice. Potent. You saw the growth it produced. The crimson bloom. That is a sign of a well-sated Maw.”

Greg felt the last of his nausea curdle into a cold, hard dread. She was completely, utterly insane. And she was in charge.

“My job… what you want me to do…” he stammered.

“Your job is more important than ever,” she said, her tone shifting back to that of a director addressing a subordinate. “You are an expert in logistics. In data analysis. Your work is to ensure the offerings are… plated correctly. You will curate the finest, most potent experiences for the Maw. You will help me save this world from the failings of short-sighted men.”

She swiveled her monitor toward him. On the screen, a file was open. It was a family portrait, taken in a park during autumn. A father with a kind, open face had his arm around a smiling mother. A boy of about ten was perched on his shoulders, while a slightly older girl with braces laughed beside them. They were radiant with a simple, uncomplicated happiness.

Below the photo was the file name. PROJECT ID: 912-APPALACHIAN. TARGET: THE NIGHTINGALE FAMILY.

“A family of four,” Bishop said, her voice as matter-of-fact as if she were ordering office supplies. “Father, mother, daughter, son. They are leaving tomorrow for a week-long camping trip in a secluded section of the Pisgah National Forest. A perfect sourcing opportunity. High in bonded-unit nutrients. A powerful offering.”

Greg stared at their smiling faces. The little boy on his father’s shoulders. The girl’s happy, metallic grin. They weren’t a catalyst. They weren’t a nutrient. They were people.

“No,” he whispered, the word escaping him before he could stop it.

Bishop’s expression did not change. “That was not a request. This is a demonstration of your understanding. Of your commitment to the true nature of our work. Mr. Slater failed his test. I have higher hopes for you.”

She turned the monitor back toward herself and typed a few commands. A countdown timer appeared in the corner of the Nightingale family’s file.

48:00:00

“You have forty-eight hours, Mr. Miller,” she said, her voice dropping to a cool, final whisper. “Plan their restoration. Find the optimal site in the park, coordinate the field team, ensure every logistical detail is perfect for the offering. Prove you understand the importance of the work.” Her eyes, cold and ancient as the fossil on her desk, locked onto his. “Or you and I will have a very different conversation about what kind of nutrient desperation provides.”