by Robert Culp
Jimmy wasn’t kidding about the pseudo food. I didn’t believe it was possible to ruin krill, soy or plankton. The new “chef” at The Ranch has proven me wrong. It’s supposed to be tasteless aside from the artificial flavoring. The base, whatever it was, must have spoiled. Between us, Jimmy and I empty a bottle of hot sauce in order to make it almost palatable. But there’s something to be said for suffering through a meal with one’s closest friend. He’s not cheap by any means, but feeding two people real food just isn’t in his budget—or mine, for that matter. But like I keep telling him, I’m not here for the menu. I’m here because my best friend invited me.
The Zombie Sentinels is a singularly unremarkable movie. The only thing that makes it bearable is watching it with Jimmy, my dearest friend. I consider using the time to make out with him. But I can pick up those vibes in his persona that he’s not exactly in favor of it. That’s what makes our relationship really work: There are few physical expectations between us.
My perCom buzzes three times. I silence each call without looking at the unit. I stare down other patrons. If I were having a conversation I’d understand and probably agree with the scorn. I’m not. Anybody can receive a message. You’d have to be pretty foul to answer anything other than a text message in a public forum where others are trying to hear what’s happening in the attraction.
“Didn’t you tell your other boyfriend you were on a date with the man of his mama’s dreams?” Jimmy whispers.
“Jimmy, that is disturbing on so many levels. And your hand continues to creep from my shoulder; does it have a destination?”
“Oh that? Silly me, I forgot I had neurologically isolated that wrist. I’ll give it such a talking to later.” Instead he uncoils his arm from around me and our fingers interleave on the common armrest. I can’t fault him; if I do say so myself, I’m a hottie. And I should be. I’ve worked hard enough for it. Mummy added a lot, and Da did his fair share too. Granted, most of his contribution was from his ancestors, but it’s still from him. And each of them taught me to take what I was given and improve on it. Considering I’m 5 feet 7 inches, 33B-24-34 and tip the scales at just under 110 pounds, I like to think I’ve done just a bit of that.
After the movie, Jimmy walks me back to the comfortable squalor that is my apartment. We stop at the door. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says. “If you had any of the good stuff you’d invite me in for a night cap.”
I feign personal injury. “Hey, you’ve made it further than most. The last guy that took me to a movie had to leave in the middle of it. Something about an emergency testicular reconstruction, if I remember correctly. The fellow before him I left at the train station.”
“You told me. But I remember you mentioning having given him a field tracheotomy with a folded paper napkin, or something similarly unladylike. Well, many adjectives will be used in the as yet unpublished biography of James Theophilus Beezler III, Esquire. But ungentlemanly will never be among them.”
“As it happens, I do have a half bottle of merlot. It’s not the best, but once you choke the first mouthful down, the rest follows rather easily.”
He laughs, “I’m sure that’s the case. Sadly, I believe both of us have early mornings. Good night my sweet Sonia.”
“Good night, Jimmy.” We exchange a lingering hug, a loving but sibling-ish kiss, and then he’s on his way home. I tap in the access code and press my thumb to the lock pad of my door. A ferocious feline yowl greets me as I open the door to my flat and hear four feline feet thud down the length of the apartment. “Oh, you poor baby, has nobody fed you in the past three hours?” Fuzzbutt tops the scales at eleven pounds easy. He’s missed many things but the word “meal” is conspicuously absent from the list. His yellow eyes bore into me from his black fur. Just to shut him up, I pour a scoop of kitty kibble into his bowl. He plops down and begins to crunch it with gusto. I watch him for a few minutes. I actually envy him a little; he has no worries. I, on the other hand, am not sure from where his next meal will come—well, his next bag of meals anyway.
I check my inbox:
• Granger: Mr. Hanson has sent a text. Apparently it is from his room at the starport hotel. Come by anytime from 1930 to 2200, room 112, I’ll look you over and evaluate your resume. (Sounds like someone expects me to be an associate mattress tester. No thanks.) Delete.
• FarGazer: Ms. Boudreaux left a voicemail: Thank you for your interest. As long as you’ve had Basic Engineering 201, you can start as a spacer apprenticed to one of our journeyman engineers. Come by the SAO anytime 0800 to 1630, Monday through Friday. (Maybe. But I want to be an engineer not someone’s wrench spinner. I’m doing that now. And I went way past 201.) I’ll keep it for future reference.
• Night Searcher: another voice mail: Hello Miss MacTaggert. We are filling three slots and an engineer is one of them. Please come by our launch in bay 114 and take a skills assessment examination anytime within the next 24 hours. The ship departs for Saxon this Sunday at 1700. (Score! They are looking to hire!)
I look at myself in the mirror. I see something I rarely see when it’s just me: a smile. Lass, ye may have struck pay dirt. Get some sack time, then go. My ancestry manages to peek through when I get excited. I go to bed, but I have trouble sleeping.
2 ARIA
The alarm sounds way too early, and turning it off is very satisfying. But, as I’m not going to the Maintenance Pit this morning, I’m not in any real hurry. I stretch lazily and look to my right. I’d like to doze back off, but Fuzzbutt is giving me that “Feed me” look. I pick him up and set him on my belly, absentmindedly scratching his sides and throat. He purrs contentedly for a few minutes, then reminds me that it’s breakfast time. He jumps from me and stomps off to the kitchen. I swing my feet to the floor. There’s an unread text message in my perCom. It’s from Morrie: Where are you and that coffee you mentioned? You have a busy day today. Don’t be late. Delete.
I surprise myself a bit this morning. Ever since I’ve been working for Morrie, I’ve never had to make wardrobe decisions before breakfast. Now I find myself in front of my closet in complete brain-lock trying to decide between coveralls and presentable clothes. I consider wearing what I wore to the movie last night, but I can still smell the popcorn Jimmy spilled on me. I opt for another blouse/skirt ensemble. Hair? I put it up in something simple, efficient but still attractive. Maybe it will give the right subliminal signal.
After a quick breakfast, I grab my notebook and head to bay 114. For a small notebook, it contains a lot of information, most of it reference material. I put it together in school. It’s true that I could use my perCom to hold the same information, but the notebook has a ten-inch screen while the perCom’s is only three. Besides, it holds most of the more esoteric equations and transferring from notebook to perCom is inconvenient. I use it more for procedures and check lists than anything else. The small craft bays are anything but easy to find. One fourteen is a little hidden, and the route labyrinthine, especially as I have to circumvent Morrie and my old post. And I’d rather Jimmy not see me here all dolled up either. He gave me the contact so he has probably guessed I’m leaving. But I don’t want to rub it in his face. There’s bay 114. My perCom beeps. It’s Morrie. Ignore. His face I will rub it in. When the time is right, I will rub hard. I’ll leave scars I’ll rub his face in it so hard. It’s a good time to silence the unit as well.
There’s a Ship’s Boat here with an access hatch for the forward landing gear open. The first person I see is a mechanic working on the landing strut for the Balder class ship’s launch. He’s trying to start his welding rig, and isn’t having a lot of success with it. I tap him on the shoulder. “Hi, I’m Sonia MacTaggert. I’m looking for Aria. She invited me to take a skills assessment test for an Engineer job.”
He pushes his mask up and looks at me. He’s not a happy man. His face is lined with irritation and drenched in frustration. “Up the ramp and aft,” he growls, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. To further communicate
his irritation, he hurls his mask in the same direction.
Before heading up the ramp, I take a chance. “Those machines can be difficult. Would you mind if I give it a look?” I get that “Are you serious?” look. I’m used to it. “I am here for the Engineer’s job. I know a few things about machinery.”
That makes his mind up. He’s happy for the break. “Be my guest.” He stands to the side, sipping from a cup of what I guess is coffee—cold, judging by the way he throws it to the side. I reach for a pair of safety goggles as these rigs can spit from time to time. And it just won’t do to go to an interview with electrical burns to the eyeballs. Looking it over, I don’t see anything obvious. If I apply power, this relay should close.
I trace what I think should happen in the machine with my finger. But the light isn’t coming on. I spin the unit around. “Have you checked the secondary input capacitors? I see the indicators for the primaries out here of course, but aren’t there six internal ones behind this panel? I don’t think you’re getting power downstream like you should. If one or more are out…”
He looks at it from where he stands, weighing my advice. He has one hand on his hip. With the other he scratches his head. “You may be right. I’ll snatch it off and check them.” He holds out a rag. I hand him the goggles and use his proffered rag to wipe the grease and dust from my hands. Walking into the shuttle, I turn to my right, towards the rear. There’s a man sitting at a desk.
“Good morning Miss MacTaggert, won’t you come in? Please call me Malcolm.” He sees my surprised expression at his calling me by name. “I heard you talking to Jack. If you’ll have a seat there and activate that holoCom it will guide you through the examination process.”
“Is this by chance an open book test?” I ask, holding up my notebook.
He smiles in what is clearly meant to be a disarming fashion, “Miss MacTaggert, life is an open book test.” This man could be a toothpaste model, or a poster boy for the local cosmetic orthodontist.
I sit down, get comfortable, and start the test. I work through it, referring to my notes as needed. Either I remember more from school than I thought, or they aren’t looking for much of an engineer. But the questions are all over the place: a little theory, some mid-level math problems, a little problem solving. All in all, there’s nothing really difficult. But they are probably looking for a generalist, not a department head or anything. My head snaps up. I smell coffee. Malcolm catches my predatory gaze. This girl is on the hunt.
“I just put it on. Cream or sugar?” he asks.
“Black please, thank you.” I hadn’t even heard him leave the room.
I hear the welder’s starting whine as it spools up along with a barely muted string of profanity. If I was right, I hope he doesn’t hold it against me. I suppress a grin when I hear the mechanic growl: “I hope those bozos hire her. Pretty and smart. It will be a welcome change.” I glance up at Malcolm. He is trying to remain impassive, pretending not to have heard. I can only grin at the obvious façade. He gets up from his desk and heads forward, returning with two steaming cups of coffee. He sets one in front of me without a word.
When I finish the test, I look around for Malcolm. He’s still at his desk, leafing through a magazine with page after page of glossy airbrushed beauties. “Any idea when they’ll be making hiring decisions?” I ask.
Malcolm quickly hides his magazine and starts to answer when a beautiful woman walks into the compartment. He defers to her. “This way please, my dear,” she says to me. “You may bring your coffee with you if you wish.”
I leave it. If this is the interview I don’t want to spill it. Or slurp it. Or spew it at the wrong question. She leads me forward into a small office that is adjacent to the launch’s cockpit. “Please call me, Aria, I am Chief of Operations for Night Searcher.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Aria. I’m Sonia MacTaggert.” I put my hand out. She shakes it. Odd, you don’t often meet a person in the service who doesn’t use a surname, no matter how hard it is to pronounce. But another beauty of the merchant forces is that very few ranks get used. There is a desk in the room. But rather than move behind it, she sits at one of the two chairs in front of it, indicating the other for me. The chairs swivel and we face each other.
“These are impressive scores. More so considering your lackluster resume.” Ouch! There are a handful of knuckles in that compliment. She lays the clipboard on the desk and, folding her hands, continues: “I have four or five questions for you.”
I settle in; I’m ready. I know this chair has a back. I saw it. I put my hand on it when I sat down. But perched on the leading edge of the chair, I can’t feel it. The interview is where I typically blow it. I really hope I can break that pattern—especially after that very flattering gut punch.
Aria begins her questions: “One: Would you consider a starting wage of one thousand two hundred credits per week?”
I remember all the interview tips from college. If you want to try for a higher salary, repeat the amount and be quiet for a four count. I fail horribly. “Twelve hundred per week?” I blurt out. I couldn’t help it. It came out with a hint of surprise to it. That’s at least three times what I was making at the yards. “Yes, ma’am, that will do just fine.”
“Two: Is there anything preventing you from long voyages? Family concerns? Husband? Children? Employment contracts or indenture agreements still in effect?”
“Nothing, ma’am. I’m free to travel wherever and whenever I wish. In fact, I’m looking forward to seeing other planets, other civilizations, other cultures.”
“Three: Would you define yourself as heterosexual, a lesbian or somewhere between the two?”
Spit! Hangnails! Stinky feet! And I thought things were going so well. I wish I’d brought the coffee now. I’d throw it at her. I can feel the color flooding into my face and the brogue into my voice. “What impact does my sexual orientation have on my engineering abilities? I’m an engineer, not a courtesan. I thought you were hiring engineers. Are you really wanting concubines?” I fight the tears, but they are trying so hard to fall. I gather my things, preparing to leave.
“Sexual orientation means a lot, but it will not keep me from hiring you. For the moment I will classify you as ‘asexual.’ Four: do you prefer working alone, or with a partner?”
Like it matters anymore. “I can work on my own or as a team. Sure, it’s beneficial to have another pair of eyes and hands sometimes, but there are also advantages to knowing what’s already been considered and discarded with no arguments.” It’s a hack answer. I can’t think straight. I’m still fuming over the sex question. I practically spit my answer at her.
She leans back and looks at me over her steepled fingers. I reach for my notebook. I’ve blown it big time. I lost my cool on one of the questions. That’s never a good thing. Well, the coffee was good. I guess it’s true: If you want to get ahead, you have to give some. The silence is uncomfortable, borderline unbearable. I wonder if Morrie is too pissed to take me back? I start to stand then Aria speaks.
“Five: Can you return here no later than 1700 on Sunday so we can get you settled in and begin your orientation?”
I can’t speak. I had completely forgotten she said four or five questions. I just look at her. My mouth is hanging open. I can feel it. “Miss MacTaggert?” she waves her hand in front of my face. My trance breaks. “Is there a problem?”
“I, uh, NO.” Dial it back a bit Sonia that was way loud. “I mean ‘no, no problem.’ I got the job?”
She chuckles. “Yes, Sonia, you have the job, if you want it. You will work with our engines. I presume you still want to ship out with Night Searcher? And rest assured, there is no swimsuit phase of this interview.” We both chuckle, the tension fades. “Now, have you any questions of me?”
“Just a few things. I forgot to thank you for your compliment on my scores. And I’m also sorry if I came off like a bitch. As a pretty woman yourself, I’m sure you know, it’s hard to be taken serio
usly as anything other than a sex toy. I thought I was done when you asked about my sex life. For the record though, I’m a flaming heterosexual, if it makes a difference that is. Well, ‘smoldering’ might be a better description. That is…let’s just say I’m no longer in the wrapper but still shiny and leave it at that. 1700 Sunday? I’ll be here. One, okay two, questions: Belongings-wise, what is my limit? Fifty kilograms? Also I’d like to do some research on your engines. Can you tell me which ones you have? And thanks again for the opportunity.”
“Rest assured, offense was neither intended nor taken. As to your belongings, they must fit in one of those.” She points to a container that I figure must hold four cubic meters, a collapsible fat footlocker. “Anything else you will have to pay to transport. Either cash up front or payroll deduction is acceptable. No vehicles, household goods, pets, etc. The Transit drives are Sinnair E545s, so they are uronium crystal powered. The maneuver drives are Daystar 9Q250s. The specifications of each are, of course, classified. You may peruse those manuals at length when you come aboard, but not until then. If you wish to be quartered earlier, come back any time after zero nine hundred tomorrow.” Aria hands me a footlocker in its collapsed configuration. It’s not much in size and fits easily under my arm, but it will grow to hold a considerable amount.
That’s it? I’ve been hired? “Excellent. I have some belongings I’ll need to either sell or store which is my problem not yours, so tomorrow afternoon is fine. I’ll see you then, and thank you again!” I head down the ramp. It takes deliberate, conscious effort not to skip. The spacer is still working on the landing strut. I give him a thumbs-up and a wave. He returns both gestures. He smiles at me, I beam back at him.