An Alaskan serial adventure in IT...

The old kid gave a sad glance at his favorite action shoes. “Cross-trainer” is what the label at the store said. Mom called them sneakers, but that was a long time ago. Palin Warwick didn’t care what they were called, all he knew is his feet gushed with joy when they were on. Comfy and sleek, sky blue with a big silver “N” on the side, they weighed nothing and empowered him with imaginary fleet steps. They weren’t goretex, but that didn’t matter–it hardly rained in Juneau.

He wasn’t athletic, although “athletic heart” was the term the traveling health insurance guy had used when removing the blood pressure cuff. Palin, the pseudo-doctor accurately guessed, was coasting through his thirties on reserves left over from playing sports as a kid. “Pressure a little too high. Keep an eye on that. Otherwise a model employee, I’m sure.”

Any normal Monday he’d wear his action shoes with a black t-shirt and clean jeans. But today was not normal. Today there would be fancy people in the office—-people who thought the way someone dressed had something to do with the quality of their character. Palin agreed.

But it wasn’t a normal Monday. “The Board is coming! The Board is coming!” No one yelled while running down cubicle-lined hallways waving their arms in the air. But they might as well have been. Juneau, the capital of Alaska, was also the business and political terminus, and the GACIS Board of Directors, having flown in from all around, was on their way to meet with members of the legislature.

An email had come out early last week warning Palin and the other 4th-floor nerds that the Board will “get a tour and flawless demo of the robot, if you please.” The language reeked of Lord Stone’s prim British accent, even though the email came from his assistant Mandy. The only thing Mandy-ish about the email was the quote at the bottom below the emoticons: “All that we are is the result of what we have thought. -Buddha.”

Palin’s boss, Lord Stone, was far from a British Lord. Which came first? Palin wondered, the nickname or the accent. It was a question of subjectivity and Palin agreed not to think too hard on it.

Despite Stone’s propensity toward the dramatic, he was Palin’s boss and Lord over all the GACIS Managed Technology Services Division. And so, as a good middle manager, when asked to “step up the appearance game, will ya lads?” Palin Warwick obliged.

He pushed the action shoes aside and reached for a pair of black leather Clarks.

GACIS headquarters was a cluster of buildings layered atop what used to be called Telephone Hill. A fitting location for Alaska’s statewide telecommunications conglomerate, it was the site of Juneau’s first telephone exchange, 142 years prior.

Palin walked up the hill and through double glass front doors, wiping dusty Clarks on the broad entry rug colored blue and gold with the state seal. GACIS wasn’t a state agency, technically, and the use of the seal was more a sign of homage than misappropriation.

The entry hall widened to surround a glass dome. Like a life-size snow globe, the dome encased a scene out of history: an ancient miner’s cabin surrounded by scraggly spruce trees. Not an homage—this, Palin knew, was contractual.

Shortly before GACIS acquired the land and permits, Juneau tried to convert the hilltop into affordable housing. Public outcry ruined the endeavor, but not before the trees and homes were razed and the foundations poured for a series of affordable apartment buildings. A loophole in state property and contract law, and help from the Governor’s new Department of Agriculture, gave an opening, and true to form, GACIS slipped in. Fresh off its largest merger to date, the company invested millions into the site and community.

The only restriction: preserving the small house.

Palin’s shoes squeaked on the polished concrete floor as he walked past the dome. A plaque on the outside, stamped bronze, read: “Here lies the Edward Webster House, the oldest residence in Juneau, 1882. The song still sings today and reminds us of the past.”

He skirted the past and swiped his fingerband across a security panel set in faux wood paneling. Light glinted in the facial recognition camera and elevator doors slid open. He stepped in and AI Jen whispered through his earband: “Welcome, Palin Warwick, employee ID# 8675309. Managed Technology Services. Floor 4.”

His fingerband vibrated on the way up, and he tapped to accept. Jen started describing a “priority” inbox bulletin. She was saying something about a new coffee maker when the doors slid open and a wave of chattering voices washed her out.

Fancy shoes and suits and pantsuits smelling of cologne and perfume and toxic optimism crowded the 2nd floor lobby. Today the GACIS Education Division was hosting its annual School Administrator Inservice, and first on their agenda: a tour of the building. Palin hadn’t forgotten, but he had been in denial.

“Damn you Jen,” he muttered.

“Priority rerouting from four to two initiated.” Her ping came after the fact, and was followed immediately by: “priority rerouting complete.”

“Oh good, they found you.” Gerry, Director of the Education Division, at the head of the tour group, flashed big white teeth and blocked the doors open. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of our MTS Team Leads. There are—” he counted on fingers “—six of y’all?”

Palin nodded.

“Six leads of the Managed Technology Services Division,” Gerry announced. “Any problem you have? They fix it. They work up on the 4th floor, and statewide, what—” he waved Palin out of the elevator “—another twenty or thirty?”

Palin gave an amicable shrug.

Gerry leaned in and whispered, “say, a bit of Inservice on the new coffee maker after you’ve got it setup would be great.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but waved the tour group on.

Inservice was a fancy word schools used to describe adults spending time learning stuff. Palin wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to work in a field where learning new things every day wasn’t, as grandpa used to say, part-and-parcel.

“Each Lead runs a dynamic matrix-style team”—Gerry’s voice faded as his tour strolled down the hallway—“that may, depending on project, include any number of specialists. Oh, and on your left is the executive lounge. Notice the new coffee maker, part of the FY36…”

It used to be Palin traveled enough he could schedule trips while fancy people like The Board and The Statewide School Administrators Council were visiting the office. On trips, especially to rural Alaska, he avoided any of that pomp and circumstance. On trips he rode in float planes and on the back of Sam’s uncle’s cousin’s snow machine. On trips he made decisions on his own, and wore sensible shoes. But over the years, as GACIS grew, there were fewer trips and more and more fancy people in the office.

“New ticket,” Jen announced in his ear. “Priority: High. Assigned by: R.Stone. Acceptance criteria: new coffee maker integrated on the network and fully functional.”

Palin read the manual and the problem became clear. It was like his own private Inservice.

He didn’t wonder what possessed them to buy a coffee maker that would only make coffee if it could transmit vital brew statistics to the mothership in the cloud. It wasn’t their fault, he knew. They were pawns in a game, caught between brilliant marketing and desire for excellent coffee, where shnazzy features gave just enough placation to offset any annoyance caused by the steady stream of personalized affiliate engagement opportunities.

The manual, a multifold pamphlet titled “You and your brand new Brwando Coffee Maker,” spelled all this out not only in mostly-English words, but stick-figure iconography. It told Palin where on the unit to look (under the Brwando brand logo) for the slowly pulsing yellow wifi icon. Yellow, the manual confirmed, meant no network connection.

He left the manual on the counter and slipped past the elevator, heading toward the stairwell. Along the way, he instructed Jen:

“Stage a config file commit for the Education firewall to add a row in the isolated tunnels table for their new… Brwando”—he enunciated the brand name—“coffee maker. You should see it broadcasting in the area of the Education Division Executive Staff Lounge.” He thought for a minute, then added, “and let’s do a short-term packet capture just to see what’s going where. Have the config send NetOps the report daily for five days then a weekly summary for the next two months.”

He could have delegated the ticket to anyone on his team. It was the type of task an intern could do. Palin had been an intern once… once. Fresh out of high school, way back in 2020. He had been mostly clueless back then, and free of responsibility. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Over the years he graduated from intern to office monkey and then tech support lackey. He learned the first rule of tech: RTFM. And every day, incrementally, the responsibility added up. It added up until now, fifteen years later, he managed a team. And even though any one of them could have fixed the coffee maker, it was Palin who Lord Stone assigned the ticket.

His team was given projects, but as Team Lead, Palin learned, his job was to run interference. And so he spent his days running around dealing with all the little things, so his team could focus on their particular roles.

Last week he was segregating the wireless network in a homeless shelter so the patrons could surf porn but the staff couldn’t. Lord Stone had written the contract as “wireless network design and implementation.” The week before he’d been next door at the State Office Building arguing with myopic trolls about VPN credentials, or as Lord Stone called it: “partner services workflow design.”

Today, his team’s focus was the statewide School Administrator’s Inservice. “Let’s make sure there’s not a hitch,” Lord Stone had messaged.

Around Alaska, there were more open positions for School Administrators than there were eligible School Administrators. A decade prior, GACIS leadership, seeing the market opportunity, launched School Administration as a for-profit statewide service. Similar to Palin’s team, the GACIS School Administrators occasionally traveled the state, but primarily worked from desks, in meetings all day every day, via VidCon™. (Contractually, GACIS employees were required to use the product name, VidCon™, instead of the more generic term: video conferencing.)

Palin couldn’t imagine any hell greater than being stuck in meetings all day. He was wondering how they ever got any work done when Greg grabbed his arm, a panicked look on his face.

“We. Uh. Need to discuss the agenda.” Greg’s job title included the word Coordinator and this week he was coordinating the entire Inservice. He held out a tablet, the document on display said “Agenda” at the top. “See,” he pointed a shaky finger. “This. Then after that, we have you here at 3:00pm. But, we might need to bump you. The VidCon™ might go long.”

“Might?”

“Well… it’s gone, see?” He waved Palin into conference room 2c. “Jill moved the big screen to make room for breakfast.”

The big screen was indeed gone. Typically it would be found in the corner, but this morning it was gone. Not surprising, since the screen was mounted to a stand with wheels.

“Well it is porta—”

“Jill took it,” Greg interrupted in a conspiratorial whisper.

She did a good job, Palin noticed. Not only was the big screen on its rolling wheels gone, but so was its multimedia hub, the remote controls, and all the cables. It was as if she’d done it on purpose.

“Is she going to put it back?” Palin asked.

“Who?”

“Jill.”

“Do we need it?”

“For your VidCon™ today?”

“Yea.”

“Who are you conferencing with?”

“Well,” Greg referred to the agenda on the tablet. “A classroom, in… Kaktovik. Students and a teacher, it says.”

“Do you want to see them?”

“The students?”

Palin nodded.

“Yea. Definitely. So, I should have her put it back?”

“Yea,” Palin said over his shoulder as he left the conference room. “Definitely.”

Jill was the Education Division’s Office Manager. Nothing was outside of her domain. If a fridge needed cleaning: Jill. A million copies made? Jill. Dead mouse in the mouse trap? Jill. Someone to substitute as a driving instructor? Jill. VidCon™ big screen unit hard-wired into place but you’d like a little more space for breakfast? Jill’s your gal.

Palin didn’t worry about the big screen. Jill was a self-starter, a go-getter. Plus, the VidCon™ unit had a handy laminated user-guide attached, and Jill knew how to RTFM.

Palin’s fingerband vibrated. He tapped to accept.

“Marty is on the line for you,” Jen announced. “He says they’re coming early.”

“Shit, OK,” Palin pushed through the stairwell door.

“Hey Palin,” Marty sounded tired.

“Hey. How’s Mr. Robot?”

“A lot of dropped packets. They’re coming early.”

“When?”

“Not sure. Soon?”

“OK,” Palin pulled himself up two steps at a time. “NetOps help out on Friday?”

“Yea. Well, no, not really. Said the network was fine. No dropped packets from core ethernet to the boardroom access point so it must be SARRAD™.”

“But it worked in your lab?”

“Wired, yea.”

“Wired?”

“Yea.”

“Wireless?”

“Well—”

“Isn’t that the whole point?” Palin interrupted.

“It was on the list but they shipped it early. Your boss said—“

“Let me guess. We can take it from here, lads?”

“That’s right.”

“Riiiight,” Palin shook his head. “Okay then. Well. I’m headed up there now. Does it connect at all?”

“Yea. But lots of buffering.”

The Semi-Autonomous Remote Robotic Accomplishment Device, SARRAD™, was a recent acquisition from a startup in Saudi Arabia. Someone from GACIS leadership dropped the prototype off with Product Development, who then added GACIS branding and handed it over to Marty in Quality Assurance & Testing. Lord Stone then insisted it be his division to complete Final Integration & Launch, and the Board concurred.

“OK,” Palin’s legs began burning. “I might have time before—”

“I believe in you, lads!” Lord Stone’s voice came through the earband. Jen failed to announce his joining the call.

“Just remember how far we’ve come,” Stone’s voice was blindly optimistic. “We’re not just a telco anymore. We’ve got reach. Mission! People depend on us!”

Palin wasn’t sure who Lord Stone meant—the Board or their customers.

And he didn’t need reminding just how far GACIS had come. He was old enough to remember sitting in uncle’s den in Bethel, waiting for the painfully slow satellite Internet to reconnect. Back then, a thick cloud was enough to cause dropped packets. And later, in high school, when GCI’s “Terra” project brought “blazing fast” Internet, they still experienced random buffering while watching YouTube videos.

Over time it got better, and soon, even in the villages, Internet became ubiquitous and the company responsible, taken for granted. As GACIS grew and acquired, their microwave towers dotted the tundra, projecting wifi from hilltop to hilltop. The thermosphere filled with a web of GACIS-branded low-earth-orbit satellites, providing 50 millisecond latency instead of the 600ms Palin had suffered through in uncle’s den. GACIS also became owner of all undersea cable running down waterways and into the arctic and pacific oceans, connecting Alaska globally through hubs in Aasiaat, Anadyr, Chiba, Shanghai, and San Jose (the link to Seattle had yet to be reconnected after Washington and Oregon’s recently-failed Cascadia secession).

Lord Stone was right: as GACIS grew, they ceased being simply a telecommunications provider. Palin remembered when nerds with GACIS nametags arrived at Gladys Young elementary school, imaging computers over the summer. And at the clinic, they set up shiny new medical equipment. They upgraded the credit card point-of-sale at the ACC grocery store, and during the COVID pandemic resolved the Bethel city council’s audio echo issues in Zoom.

He remembered how, over the years, visitors from GACIS came less and less nerdy. Some even came in suits. (If you wanted to ensure no one in an Alaskan village would trust you: wear a suit). Bethel wasn’t a village—not anymore—a town, more aptly. Or, a full on metropolis to the guys from Kwethuk and Napakiak and other surrounding villages. For them, basketball tournaments in Bethel meant such modern miracles as Taco Bell.

The 6th floor boardroom was walled in glass, giving a panorama of the surrounding mountains. SARRAD™ was waiting. It struck a majestic pose, standing tall on heavy rubberized tracks, the glittering water of Gastineau Channel reflecting in the unlit screen on its chest. The camera array on its head pointed upward, as if gazing at the tram landing atop Mount Roberts. Retractable arms that could take a variety of modular attachments, hung lifeless.

The technology was archaic relative to its private sector cousins down south, which meant it was affordable enough for the school and government customers GACIS served. The idea was to put them in villages where someone far away at a desk could connect and drive the thing around, accomplishing complex or menial tasks. It could also be programmed for autonomous repetition, like folding laundry or getting paper from a closet and loading a copy machine.

“OK I’m here, what do I—” Palin asked.

“Unplug it.” Marty answered.

Palin disconnected the power cable as the boardroom door swung open and five fancy people walked in. Their eyes lit up as they lay upon the robot, no doubt imagining all the money they’d save not having to fly certified mechanics and nurses around the state.

The screen on SARRAD™’s chest blinked a couple times and Marty’s face appeared. He was red-headed, freckled, and his mouth stood open as he concentrated on some off-camera screen. Marty was in one of the Anchorage offices, about 600 miles away.

They gathered around and bent over to peer at Marty. He said “hi.” They asked him how the weather was as if they were talking to a deaf great-grandmother in a nursing home. Marty answered with split attention. Palin could hear clicking through the earband—the sounds of frantic troubleshooting.

Lord Stone’s voice came through the earband, and over speakers in the room. “Why don’t we give ‘em a show, lads?”