Kaiju Preservation Society(7)
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. The second thing is that when we say we are away in the field, we mean that we are away. As in, away from civilization for months on end. As in, no internet. As in, very little communication with the outside world. Almost no news in or out. What you take with you is what you have. You live simply and rely on others and allow others to rely on you. If you can’t live without Netflix and Spotify and Twitter, this is not the job for you. You will be in the field. Acknowledge this, please.”
“Can I ask for a bit of clarification here?”
“Of course.”
“When we say ‘in the field,’ how in the field is that?” I asked. “Is it, ‘we are far away from the rest of the world but we still have walls’ in the field, or is it ‘we live in small tents and poop in holes we dig ourselves’ in the field?”
“Do you have a problem with pooping in a hole that you’ve dug yourself?”
“I’ve never done it, but I’m willing to learn.”
Avella smiled at this, I think; the mask made it more ambiguous than I’d like. “It’s possible you may have to poop in a hole from time to time. That said, our field base does have freestanding structures. And plumbing.”
“Okay,” I said. “I understand and acknowledge this, then.”
“The third thing is that what we do is confidential. Which means that you cannot speak to anyone outside of KPS about what you do or where you go. I need to strongly emphasize that security and secrecy are extremely important to what we do and how we operate, enough so that if you are discovered to have leaked any information to anyone—even loved ones—we can and will prosecute you to the fullest extent possible under the law. This is not an empty threat; we’ve done it before.”
“Does this mean I have to sign a nondisclosure agreement?”
“This is the NDA right now.”
“But I already know what you do.”
“You know we’re an animal rights organization.”
“Right.”
“It’s a little like saying the CIA is a data services company.”
“So you are spies! Or mercenaries.”
Avella shook her head. “Neither. We operate the way we do for the safety of the animals we care for. Bad things would happen if we didn’t.”
I thought about the stories I’d read about poachers and hunters killing endangered animals by reading the geolocation data off of pictures tourists had put online. I got it.
“One question,” I said. “I’m not going to be asked to break any laws, am I?”
“No,” Avella said. “I can promise that.”
“All right. I understand and accept, then.”
“Very good.” Avella got out a small sheet. “In that case, some very quick questions for you. First, do you have a valid passport?”
“Yes.” I had intended to go to Iceland over the summer, before the plague hit, and I lost my job, and had to spend all my time delivering food to shut-in Manhattanites.
“No major physical disabilities?” Avella looked up. “I should be clear you’re about to get a complete physical from Dr. Lee across the way, so this is just meant to cover things broadly.”
“No disabilities, and I’m healthy.”
“Any allergies?”
“None yet.”
“How do you handle heat and humidity?”
“I interned one summer in Washington, D.C., and didn’t die,” I said.
Avella started to ask the next question and then paused. “This next question is on what you think about science fiction and fantasy, but I read your master’s thesis, so we can skip this one. I assume you’d say you’re pretty comfortable with the genre.”
My master’s thesis had been on bioengineering in science fiction from Frankenstein through the Murderbot novellas. “Yes, although that’s kind of a random question.”
“It’s not,” Avella assured me. “Do you have a will or have otherwise made any estate planning?”
“Uh, no.”
She tutted at this and made a note. “Any dietary restrictions?”
“I tried being a vegan for a while, but I couldn’t live without cheese.”
“They have vegan cheese.”
“No, they don’t. They have shredded orange and white sadness that mocks cheese and everything it stands for.”
“Reasonable,” Avella said. “It would be difficult to be a vegan where you’re going anyway. Final question. Do you mind needles?”
“I’m not a huge fan, but I don’t have a phobia,” I said. “Why?”
“Because you’re about to meet a lot of them.”
* * *
“Let’s do this first and get it over with,” Dr. Lee said, before shoving a cotton swab through my nostril all the way back to my brain. This was actually the last part of my physical, which I was informed I had passed, but the first part of my vaccine regimen.
“Well, that’s fun,” I said, when it was done.
“If you think that’s fun, let’s not ever meet socially,” Dr. Lee said. She packed up the swab to be tested. “You don’t look like you’re infected, but of course no one ever looks infected at the beginning, so we’ll just be sure. And in the meantime, let’s get you shot up.” She reached into a cabinet and pulled down a tray holding a series of syringes.