I don’t know how long I’ve been living here.
In fact, I don’t even know where “here” is. If I were to write down every piece of information I know about this place, they would all fit on a single page. The list of questions I have about my new home though would easily fill a thick notebook. But writing them down would be a complete waste of time, because no one would bother to answer. Moreover, I’ve been strongly cautioned against asking questions. The only exceptions are questions we are allowed to ask in class, but these are not the kind of questions I have in mind. So I don’t ask questions anymore. I’ve even almost stopped pondering about possible answers. Everything has an expiration date. Even curiosity.
Memories, on the other hand, remain fresh and vivid. More vivid than they have ever been. And this is no wonder, since they are my only link between “here” and the real world. Between this strange existence and real life. Memories, clothes and dumbbells. Everything else was left behind. Things, places, sounds, concepts . . . And people.
Even in jail you are allowed to have visitors. Even in a prison cell you are permitted to write to your family. But not here. Forget visits—here we are not allowed to speak about those who matter to us. We are very strongly recommended not to utter a word about our friends and families. And this is just one of many, many things we are prohibited to do or strongly cautioned against. For instance, we are recommended not to think about our past. They know they can’t prevent us to from venturing in our memories wherever we like. And yet, they strongly advise us against doing so. Why? Who knows. They must have their reasons.
We’re strongly advised against discussing literature, politics, sociology, arts, medicine, movies and—for some flabbergasting reason—agriculture.
But you have to give it to them—they are rather lenient about minor violations. It’s tough to say what they would do in case of a major one, since we haven’t had one to date yet. And truth be told, despite all the similarities, this is not a prison. Prison, no matter how luxurious, is not a place where one goes as a prisoner on his own. But I came here voluntarily. And I can leave anytime I want. Except I will never find my way back. I won’t even know where to look. These guys make secret government agencies seem like amateurs. But even if by some miracle I find my way back I would never enter this building again. They won’t let me. This bridge can be burned only once.
And so I stay put and study. Study . . .
I am Five, I am Five, I am Five . . .
They say that every reporter wants to write a book. Baloney. Maybe this is true for veterans with thousands of stories under their belt. But when you are a fresh journalism grad all you want is a job. A job that would allow you to write good stories, make some real impact and pay your bills.
That was my plan—to get a job and to make the best out of it. But we all know what happens occasionally to the best-laid plans of mice and men. In my case, no one interfered with my desire to get employed. I successfully did it myself with some help from a couple of soon-to-be-graduated friends.
It was Jeremy’s idea: instead of selling ourselves to corporate buyers we should build a company of our own. A company that would do a different kind of journalism. It didn’t take him long to convince me. I had always dreamt of writing stories I want, not just getting assigned to cover some random news. We teamed up with Kim, a tech genius who somehow ended up getting a degree in journalism and the company was born. Journalism Done Right was our motto, and the only goal we didn’t have in our business plan was taking over the world. Nevertheless, some of our ideas came pretty close to that objective.
Jeremy was in charge of the business, Kim’s job was to make the tech part work smoothly on a very limited budget and I was our editor-in-chief. My job was to write mind-blowing original content, and in my spare time edit submissions from yet-to-be-found external contributors. Jeremy promised to get the money and much to our surprise he did. The investor he had found got sold on our bold vision, believed in government and business transparency, was fed up with mass media and was willing to invest enough to keep us going for six to nine months depending on how quickly we would burn through our cash. We thought that was more than enough to get started.
Six months had enough events to fill six years, but felt more like six weeks. All the late nights, the calls, the stories, the first thousand readers, the first references to our stories in serious—okay semi-serious—papers . . . all of that seemed like a movie. And we were the stars.
I was having the time of my life writing stories, digging up facts and connecting with the growing number of contributing volunteers. We came up with a couple of novel things that made occasional reporting for us an attractive proposition for students interested in journalism, and submissions were flowing in. Many of them where not at the right level, but some were pretty good. The strategy was working. None of our stories was a groundbreaking expose, but we had enough of them to start being noticed. As result, we made some friends and—thanks to my focus on covering questionable moves in business and government alike—some enemies.
A few times Jeremy asked me to go easy on a specific company or a politician. Every time I reminded him about our motto and—more importantly—about our roles. The “I don’t tell you what deals to make, you don’t tell me what stories to publish” argument always worked. Kim never took part in these discussions—he was busy enough working his tech magic. “Go get 'em, tiger,” was the most he would say, though I had a feeling that he would be just as supportive if I replaced the story in question with celeb dating gossip. We weren’t making any money worth speaking of, but being a young startup we weren’t supposed to—or so we thought. We even got our share of the spotlight, when a tech magazine mentioned us in an article about “audacious young entrepreneurs rewriting the rules of journalism.” They got Jeremy’s last name wrong, but it still felt like five minutes of unexpected, yet well-deserved fame.
It was nearly perfect while it lasted. Regretfully, it didn’t last long.
When one day Jeremy told us that we had almost ran out of money, we didn't think of it as much of a problem.
“Talk to the guy,” Kim said nonchalantly.
“Already did,” replied Jeremy. “He balked.”
“What? Why? Did he really expect us to do more?”
“It's not about us. A couple of his other startups went belly-up, so he just lost appetite for new investments.”
“Well, talk to another guy then,” said Kim.
“Did that too. I’ve been talking to them for a few weeks now. No one is interested, even those who have heard about us. The climate has changed. Plus, we were lucky to find him in the first place.”
“So what's your plan B?” I asked. “Start looking for a job?
“That would be my plan C,” said Jeremy. “I think we can do better.”
And better we did. A week later Jeremy informed us that we had a corporate buyer.
We were stunned. A real acquisition offer was something we weren’t expecting to get until a few years down the road. The buyer was real too—a well-known paper with a long history and even longer list of industry awards. I was surprised they knew we existed and even more surprised by the fact they were interested in buying us. Although our companies certainly were in different leagues, we just as certainly didn’t see eye to eye on some key issues I covered.
But once we heard the terms our excitement evaporated. No one was going to pay us millions for journalism done right. After paying off all the bills and giving our original investor his part, each of us was getting some—rather insignificant—stock and a job. That was it. We were promised a certain degree of journalistic freedom, but that was just a nice way of saying that our company would become a small part of some department in the bowels of the paper’s headquarters.
I was hardly happy about that prospect. This was not the outcome I had in mind while pulling all-nighters for months. Kim wasn’t thrilled about the deal either, but he quickly agreed to it, leaving me outnumbered two to one. I stated that I didn’t care for corporate checks, mentioned a promising story on the shady deals in the state Senate I had been working on and tried convincing two young audacious entrepreneurs to reject the offer. The young entrepreneurs inquired if I had a viable alternative to propose. I didn’t.
We sold.
When I showed up at my new work, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Not only it was my first real job, not counting a couple of college internships, but I also wasn’t sure how people would react to a hotshot who waltzed in without a job interview. By the end of the day I discovered that even if people had any reservations about me they kept their concerns to themselves. I got an assignment, a desk and an invitation for lunch. The craziness of my startup days was quickly fading away, replaced by the solid, respectable daily routine of an employed journalist.
There was one piece of unfinished business though. That story about the state Senate. I had worked on it for a long time, it had some juicy details that no one else had written about, and the ongoing election season was making the timing simply perfect. Plus, people just had to know about the kind of deals taking place. It was just too good to let go.
My new boss sounded very open to the idea and told me to send him the materials. I did.
A week passed.
When I reminded him about the story he apologized and promised to go over the summary I had sent.
Another week passed.
This time I didn’t take “let me look into this” for an answer, and kept pressing until he told me that the story was good, but it was not in line with the paper’s official position and thus had no chance of being published. I pressed some more and was told that Stevens would never approve it. Now we were talking. Stevens was the paper’s editorial page editor and based on what I had heard about him was the man behind every important editorial decision. He also happened to be the man with whom Jeremy had negotiated the acquisition. Now it was time to show him that he had made a good investment.
I stopped trying to convince my boss, left him in a state of confusion and went to see Stevens. I knew that the right thing to do was to ask for an appointment, but two weeks of pointless waiting took a toll on my patience.
Stevens was in and even agreed to see me. Gray-haired, young-looking and soft-spoken, he sat in his chair with what would’ve been a perfect poker face had it not been for an almost invisible smile. When I explained the reason for my visit, the smile gave way to a puzzled expression.
“Haven’t you already received an answer from Chelsky?” he asked.
I confirmed.
“Then you already know that there isn’t much for us to discuss,” he said in the same soft-spoken manner. “It’s a no go. Thanks for stopping by.”
And he turned back to his desk.
I tried to stay calm, thought of a proper response, realized that what I was about to say would end my employment on the spot, took an unnoticeable deep breath and cleared my throat.
Stevens turned back, and asked with a note of surprise in his soft voice, “Yes?”
I presented my case the best I could. He listened without interrupting.
“Is that all?” he asked when I finished.
I nodded.
‘It’s a no go,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard a word I said.
“It’s an important matter,” I said. “And people need to know the truth about it.”
“Truth about important matters is the last thing most people want to know,” he replied, for the first time showing signs of irritation. “That’s why we write about celebrity divorces.”
“I thought our job was to inform the public and let people decide what matters to them.”
“Our job is to educate the public, not to inform it. We help people form opinions. Some stories help with this mission, some don’t.”
“I see. Is this why—”
“Mr. West,” he raised his palm and the tone of his voice became slightly sharper. “Has it ever occurred to you why we purchased your company?”
I shrugged.
“To get our reader base? To get us? Our ideas?”
“Ideas,” he sounded amused. “You don’t have ideas. You have ideals.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Ideals are impractical ideas. And that’s exactly what your former editorial board had.”
“I was our editorial board—” I began and stopped.
He smiled.
“Nice talking to you, Mr. West.”
He started turning to his desk again, then stopped halfway and turned back.
“Oh, and a word of advice. You see, you’re so fond of truth sharing because you haven’t come across a real truth yet. But if you stick around in this business, which is likely, and if you become successful in it, which is not, one day you will come across a truth that will make your bones chill. And trust me, sharing it with others would be the last thing you’d want to do about it. Actually, the only thing you’d want would be to forget about it. But it won’t go away. It’ll stick in your mind and you’ll live with it for the rest of your days. That’s how some of us live. So don’t rush to broadcast facts just because they happen to be true. Truth is a highly overrated commodity. Have a nice day, Mr. West.”
He looked at a fly that was buzzing around the room and added thoughtfully, “I wish I could just pay it to go away.”
By the time I got back to my desk I already knew what I was going to do. There was more than one way to share a story.
When Jeremy heard about my plan he told me I was out of my mind.
“They'll fire you,” he said. “And it will be your own fault.”
"On what grounds? It’s my story. I had worked on it long before I got here. And it’s not like I’m selling it to a competitor—I’m simply posting on my personal blog.”
“It doesn't matter. You are an employee of this company now.”
“Well, screw this company then,” I said, finally fully expressing my freshly formed attitude toward my new employer.
Jeremy shook his head.
“They’ll screw you first.”
My article—or rather my blog post—went live the same evening, accompanied by a few emails to people I knew would be interested in the story.
Next day it was picked by a couple of news sites and even got mentioned by a local TV station. But on that day I didn’t pay much attention to the noise surrounding it. I was busy being fired.
I was informed about the termination of my employment by my boss five minutes after I had shown up for work. The state of confusion I had left him in on the previous day was gone. He seemed focused and determined and while it wasn’t clear whether he was in support of the decision, the message he delivered was crisp and clear. The only vague part was the reason for the termination, but I didn’t bother to ask. I just wanted it to be over with.
When I got out of his office and went to collect my belongings I almost ran into Stevens. He was walking down the hall talking to a deputy editor. At the sight of me he smiled and continued walking.
“Sounds like some people are interested in the truth about important matters after all,” I said loudly.
Stevens stopped, half turned to me and replied with a polite smile, “I’m glad you have discovered that, Mr. West. You may be up for more discoveries. For example, you may find out that people in this industry take one’s loyalty to his paper hilariously seriously.”
The stare of the deputy editor told me that Stevens’s grim prediction was not completely groundless.
The days and weeks that followed confirmed that it was dead accurate.
While I had found some limited fame, I could not find a job. I received polite non-committal replies or no replies at all. Several people I knew promised to check with their managers about open position, but never got back to me.
The only two offers I received were completely unsolicited. One was to join a startup that had no funding and no plan, but had a lot of great ideas. Another was from a decent paper in Denver. The editor sent me a letter expressing his support for my actions and inviting me to join his team, should I consider relocation to Colorado. I had nothing against Denver, but leaving Boston just because I couldn’t find a local job didn’t feel right.
On top of the job situation, I didn’t even have the satisfaction of watching my story make some real difference. The scandal that rocked the state Senate a week after my post had been published, pushed all the older news into oblivion. So while I felt right about my decision, at times I wondered whether it was really worth it.
I spoke once with Kim, who was genuinely supportive, but hardly helpful. He told me that at first my rapid departure was surrounded by all kinds of wild rumors, but that a couple of weeks later no one was talking about it anymore. We joked about my plan C being to retire into a Buddhist monastery at the age of twenty-five, then Kim asked if I needed money. I vehemently denied that possibility and we said goodbye.
I lied. My bank account was in dire need of a funds injection and I had already entertained ideas of moving to Denver or applying for a job in a local pizzeria.
And then that email arrived. The email that turned my world upside down and made retirement to a monastery look like a sane plan C.
Dear Mr. West,
We would like to offer you an opportunity to participate in a sociological research project. Should you accept this offer your participation will be well rewarded. Due to the sensitive nature of our research we ask you to keep the details of our communications as well as the fact of this offer strictly confidential. Should you disclose this information to others, this offer will be permanently rescinded.
You will receive further information upon confirmation of your interest in this opportunity.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Experimental Science Institute
I reread the message for the third time. It didn't sound like spam. It could've been a scam but they were not asking for anything. The only information they would get out of my reply would be a confirmation of my email address. And, given the fact that my address had been posted on my site for everyone’s enjoyment, I wouldn’t be disclosing anything they didn’t already know.
Besides, the letter was too vague for a scam. If you want someone’s immediate attention you have to offer him a huge and juicy carrot, not some vague promise of an unspecified vegetable. The letter reeked of “whatever” attitude and was hardly designed to lure innocent victims.
In fact, it was the letter’s vagueness that was making me question its true intentions. It was simply too light on details for a legitimate job interview invitation. Unless, of course, it was exactly what it claimed to be—an invitation from an organization that wanted to disclose information about itself only on a need-to-know basis.
As I sat wondering about all this, it occurred to me that I had been overlooking an important piece of information. I checked the sender’s address. EXPSCI.ORG hardly looked like a domain name for a spammer, a scammer or any kind of evil entity for that matter. It was too boring. And when you deal with something boring you can be pretty sure you're dealing with something real.
Not fully trusting my gut reaction, I went to the site, only to discover a page that was even more boring than its address. The site appeared to be closed for unauthorized visitors, so all I could do was to stare at the organization’s logo. A black-and-white scientific-looking emblem with the letters ESI in the center was staring back at me, suggesting that I should either forget about the email or reply to it.
I chose the latter.
The answer came back fifteen minutes after I had sent my laconic “I am interested” response.
“Dear Mr. West,” said the second message. “Thank you for your interest in this opportunity. Certain aspects of our research require specific voice characteristics. In order to continue with the application process, please submit a one-minute voice sample using the content of your choice.”
Another alarm went off in my mind, but I quickly silenced it. My voice was hardly a secret, thanks to several podcasts posted on multiple sites in my startup days.
I sighed, went to the bookshelf, picked a random book, which turned out to be Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and diligently read a page from the middle into the microphone. As I was reading about the blue Caterpillar, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my application would be turned down due to an odd choice of the text to read. Whatever conclusion they would make, it would be inaccurate. Alice was a gift from an ex-girlfriend and it spoke more about Chelsea’s sense of humor than about my taste in books. But after I hit Send, I realized that the choice wasn’t as random as it seemed at first. The truth was, I had begun feeling a bit like Alice who was about to follow a white talking rodent down into a dark hole.
This time the answer came the next morning. It was informing me about my successful completion of the prequalification process and presenting me with the next step: a medical exam.
Yet another alarm went off. I didn’t feel right about sharing my health information with some secretive organization I knew nothing about. A medical exam? Who the hell do they think they are? And who exactly is going to perform it? Some unknown guy in a black mask conveniently hiding behind EXPSCI.ORG?
But when I looked up the name of the company that I was supposed to contact to schedule the exam, I had to silence the new alarm just as well. It was a large provider, located in the middle of Boston. It seemed completely legitimate, moreover, it appeared to be in the business of performing exams for many large clients. ESI could still misuse my data, but at least I was not about to be seen by Dr. Moreau.
I called, scheduled an appointment with a receptionist who sounded very professional, and hung up, feeling even more like Alice.
Two days later I showed up at the medical office, fasted, suspicious and curious. Once again, my suspicions were squashed by the sleep-inducing mundaneness of the procedure. There was nothing fishy about the office. The medical history questionnaire was ten pages long and excruciatingly boring to fill out. The exam was the most thorough medical examination I ever had to go through. The people performing it certainly knew what they were doing, and were moderately chatty and polite.
By the time I was done the only thing I was interested in was getting out of that place. But as it turned out, they were not quite done with me.
“Here are some papers for you to fill out,” said the doctor who performed the last part of the exam.
He handed me a thick sealed envelope.
“Use the room two doors down the hall on the right. Take all the time you need, just keep in mind that we close at five. There’s a second envelope inside this one. When you finish, put the papers inside it, seal it well and give it to the receptionist on your way out.”
“Um, okay, I guess,” I said. “What exactly is it?”
“Additional information you need to provide to our client.”
“And why is it sealed?”
“Because it’s between you and them.”
I suddenly realized that for the first time I was speaking with someone who had first-hand knowledge about ESI.
“What do you know about them? What exactly do they do?”
“They send us people like yourself and pay us to examine their health. That’s what all our clients do,” he replied drily.
“Right, but what business are they in? What do they need me for?”
The doctor got up.
“They pay us little extra not to ask any questions,” he said, heading for the door. “Thanks for coming in.”
I looked at the envelope in my hand. Apparently, I was about to become more informed about ESI than the man who had just left the room.
Five minutes later my conclusion proved to be wrong. The purpose of this exercise was not to give me more information about ESI—it was to give them more information about me. But at least, judging by the double-envelope trick, they were not rushing to share that information with others.
The envelope contained a questionnaire that was five times thicker than the one I had filled out before the exam. The only thing that made the process of going through it less mundane was the peculiarity of its questions.
While the morning questionnaire had been focused on my medical history, this one seemed to be designed to gather all the data necessary for building my complete psychological profile. The first two pages were a fairly standard non-disclosure agreement. Or rather, that agreement would have been standard, had it not been for the unusually harsh language it used to describe possible consequences of violating the terms. Not surprisingly, I was being asked to keep silent about my affiliation with ESI, content of any communications with them and even the fact of signing that NDA.
Harsh as it was, the document didn’t seem suspicious, so I signed it and moved on.
First questions were fairly innocent. History of traumatic experiences. Phobias. Anxiety. Depression. Any other psychological disorders. Any psychiatric drugs taken. Ever.
I meticulously answered no, none, never while wondering what I was getting myself into.
After a couple of sections about my behavior in groups, the questions got little stranger. Now they were asking about childhood phobias. Have you ever been afraid of the dark? At what age? How would you rate your fear on a scale from 1 to 10? What exactly were you afraid of? Have you discussed your fear of the dark with others? Have you ever attempted screaming in the dark in order to overcome your fear? How often do you have nightmares? How realistic are they? Do you remember them well once you wake up? Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night because of a nightmare? Do you have any recurring dreams?
Once we were done with phobias and dreams, the questionnaire started interrogating me about my history of violence. It demanded to know whether I liked starting fights, participating in them or simply watching them. It inquired whether I had ever—intentionally or unintentionally—harmed others, and if yes, in what manner. It was concerned about my possible appreciation of violent movies and computer games. Just like with phobias, the questions went back to the childhood days and kept getting stranger and stranger on the way.
Next, we moved on to discuss my encounters with death, be it people or animals. Apparently, asking me about