The Genesis Code

by Lisa von Biela

  “Well, how do you think it went?”

  “I’m not sure. The technical interview went well, or so they say. Then—”

  A saucepan on the range beside Sheila boiled over, splashing its contents onto the stovetop.

  “God damn it!” She quickly shut the gas burner off, then turned back to Mark, all tightness and sharp angles. “All right, so what happened? How can you have no idea how it went?”

  Mark sighed. She wouldn’t give up until he spilled it all anyway. “Well, for the tech interview I met with Reyes, the vice president I’d be working for. That part seemed to go OK. Then I met with the head of HR.”

  “That should have been the easy part, right?”

  “Not exactly. They look for more than technical competence. The HR guy, Cline, was harder to read.” He chose to not mention the extra time he took after his layoff to help Sheila may have hurt his chances. “Here’s the compensation plan.”

  Mark sat down at the small maple kitchen table and opened the folder Cline had given him. Sheila came over and sat, then stared at it as if she were afraid to touch it.

  “Before we read this, remember what they’re asking for in return. All my focus, all my energy. We have to be ready for that.”

  Sheila looked at him, her brown eyes shining with repressed tears. “If I had a choice, it wouldn’t be this way. But we need to get back on our feet, and put money aside. You saw my father. You know what a drain that was. And I don’t think he got the best care he could have. I want better than that if I—”

  Mark reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “I understand, Sheila. Of course I do. I just want to make sure you understand this isn’t a matter of a little overtime here and there. It would seriously affect how much time we have together in the near term.”

  Mark started flipping through the pages and reading parts of it aloud. “All of this assumes you meet their performance standards. At the end of your first year, your salary is raised to $150,000 minimum. Depends on your job title. And you get a company car, all expenses paid, including gas.”

  “Wow,” Sheila breathed. “Then what?”

  “Second year, $200,000 minimum salary, and they give you a mortgage allowance. Whoa, it’s big enough to cover what we’re paying now. Imagine that salary without a house payment!” Despite himself, Mark felt the draw of the bait. He could see how OneMarket lured people in.

  “Oh my God.” Sheila held her hands over her mouth like a little girl stunned by an extravagant gift. “Third year, $250,000 salary, a second new car, all paid for, the first car replaced—and they increase the mortgage allowance. This is even more than I’d expected after my research.”

  “So you say you’ll know in a couple of days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, at least we won’t have to wait too long to find out—even though it’ll feel like forever.” Sheila’s fingers lingered on the brochure as she changed the subject. “Frank called today. Wanted to know when I was coming back.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I asked for a couple more weeks. I’m not quite ready to go back.”

  “You know it’ll be good for you to get back on a normal routine.”

  Sheila looked up at him with a weak half-smile. “I’m sure you’re right. It’s just hard to take that first step back.”

  “I know. It’ll take time, but I think it’s important for you to take that first step soon. I won’t be around much with the hours I’ll be keeping if I get this job. Are you sure you’re going to be OK with that?”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be that way forever. With that salary, we should be able to get back on track in a few years. I can handle that, if it means getting this sort of peace of mind. They’ve just got to offer you the job. I won’t be able to rest until they call.” Sheila stood and kissed him, then returned to the stove.

  Mark watched her silently as she started to clean up the spill. Her shoulders had relaxed; she moved with a fluid energy he hadn’t seen in months. As if she already expected the job to be offered—and for him to succeed at it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sheila was just clearing the breakfast dishes from the kitchen table when the phone rang. She flinched and set them back down awkwardly, as if she feared she’d drop them, then stared wide-eyed at Mark for a cue.

  The two days since the interview had been relatively uneventful, yet had passed with a knife-edge of tension just beneath the surface. Mark had purposely avoided the topic of OneMarket entirely, but it lurked in the background of every conversation. He’d had enough of the tension, and secretly hoped this call would end it with a nice “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  A wrong number earlier had put Sheila into a tense silence, and had jangled Mark’s nerves so badly he’d barely been able to choke down his toast and eggs.

  Mark clutched his coffee cup tighter, and tried to act as if the call wasn’t out of the ordinary, despite his bone-white knuckles. “You get it. Could be your sister.” He sounded more terse than he’d intended.

  Sheila glanced at him, her mouth a tight line, and approached the kitchen phone on the wall by the sink. She took a deep breath and answered on the third ring. “Hello?” After a pause, she turned and nodded at Mark. She was wringing the sash to her yellow terry robe with her free hand, her knuckles as white as his.

  His breakfast lay heavy and sour in his stomach. He feared the answer, whatever it was. If he didn’t get the job, their hopes of a quick financial turnaround would be dashed. And if he got the job, but couldn’t perform to OneMarket’s standards or couldn’t stand being in the employ of someone like Harris…same result, just a longer rope.

  “Yes, he’s here. I’ll put him on.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and held the receiver out to him. Her face left no doubt it was The Call.

  Mark released his death grip on the coffee cup and stood, nearly knocking his chair over in unaccustomed clumsiness. He took the receiver from Sheila then turned his back to her. Looking at her questioning eyes while he took the call would be just too distracting.

  “This is Mark.”

  “This is Fred Cline from OneMarket Services. Is it a good time to talk?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” Fine, indeed. Mark felt like there was a tight band squeezing the breath from his lungs.

  “We’ve discussed your qualifications, and we believe you’re a suitable candidate for the Technical Specialist position. You would be one of the key individuals responsible for maintenance and support of OMTrade, our proprietary twenty-four-seven global equity trading platform. I believe Mr. Reyes reviewed the details of the position with you.”

  “Yes, he did.” This can’t be happening.

  “Now, this position involves support of the most stringent uptime requirement in the industry: 99.999% calculated on an annual basis. The application can be down for only five minutes a year. ‘Five nines,’ as they say. Do you understand the implications?”

  “Yes.” Kiss my personal life good-bye—there’s your implication.

  “It’s very important that you do. The demands on you will be very heavy, some would say extreme. In return for the high fees we command in the marketplace, we have severe financial penalties built into our client contracts. Deviation from ‘five nines’ is very costly to us. Accordingly, demands on our Tech Specialists are equally high.”

  “Of course.” Keep Harris’ pockets lined at all costs.

  “Your starting salary will be $125,000, to be raised to $150,000 on the anniversary of your start date. Predicated upon satisfactory performance, of course. Do you have any questions for me, or for Mr. Reyes?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “All right. If you think of any further questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Meanwhile, we would appreciate hearing your decision within the week.”

  “I accept.” There, he’d said it. Somehow, he didn’t feel relieved at all.

  “Are you certain?” Cline sounded surprised. “We allow cons
ideration time for candidates to be truly sure they’re ready for the challenge.”

  “I’m certain.”

  “Very well. Then congratulations, Mark. I’ll send an email to you shortly with the information you need for your orientation session. Does a start date of next Monday work for you?”

  “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

  “Welcome aboard, Mark. We wish you the best in your career with OneMarket Services.”

  Mark hung up and turned to face Sheila. She was still rooted in the same place she’d been when she handed him the phone, still wringing her sash. Undoubtedly, she’d been staring at his back the entire time.

  “I got it. I start next Monday.” He tried to sound enthusiastic, to convince himself to warm to the idea. Sheila raised her arms into the air and whooped. “Congratulations! Let’s go to the Miramar tonight—I’ll make reservations. It’s been so long since we had something to celebrate!” She rushed over to Mark, flung her arms around him and kissed him over and over.

  Still stunned from the news, Mark’s first thought was to enjoy every day before next Monday. Like a convict preparing for his jail term.

  Sheila stepped over several dresses she’d tried on and tossed to the bedroom floor, then turned her back to Mark.

  “C’mon, zip me.” She smiled and looked back at him, her bangs falling over her eyes in an inviting way.

  “Sure.” Mark nearly winced at the prominence of her ribs as he zipped up her strappy little black velvet cocktail dress. He tried to remember the last time she’d worn it; he seemed to recall it fitting a little more snugly.

  She spun around, put on her pearl choker and matching earrings, then slipped on dangerous-looking black high-heeled sandals. She looked as excited as a teenager going to her first prom.

  Mark shrugged into his charcoal gray sport coat. “All right, let’s go.” He could already tell he was going to have to work hard to enjoy the evening.

  All the way to the restaurant, Sheila kept up a constant chatter of how proud she was of him, how well he would do at OneMarket, and how their finances would straighten out in short order. Mark wondered who she was trying to convince. He kept quiet, annoyed with her and disgusted with himself for being annoyed.

  At the restaurant, a black-tied maître d’ led them to their booth. The Miramar held special memories for them. Mark had proposed to Sheila there and they’d returned for special occasions over the years.

  Their booth had tall, polished walnut sides, inset with blood-red stained glass. The dark wood, subdued light, and tall, flickering candles on the table made it feel as if they were alone. Mark wanted to savor the mood. He wondered how long it would be before they’d be able to relax together again once he became entrenched at his new job.

  Sheila spread her hands out on the white linen tablecloth, glanced around the dimly lit restaurant approvingly, and declared, “I love this place. And tonight, I feel…” She took a deep breath. “I feel like anything’s possible.” She looked at Mark, the warm glow of the candlelight reflecting in her eyes. “I haven’t felt this good or excited about much in months.”

  “Well, I’m glad.” Mark took a sip of water. How could he begrudge her happiness—he felt like a heel for his thoughts in the car.

  Sheila frowned. “You don’t sound glad. You’ve been quiet all day since OneMarket called. Aren’t you excited?”

  He wished he could feel excited. All he felt right now was dread. He enjoyed their life and the things they liked to do together. They’d spent a lot of time apart over the past few months so Sheila could be with her father, and he’d been hoping to reconnect with her now that the ordeal was over. Any hope of that was gone now. And he’d have to stomach working for Harris.

  Now Sheila didn’t seem able or willing to grasp how much things would change while he worked for OneMarket—if all went well. Five nines wasn’t just a description of their service level; it was likely a description of his working life for the foreseeable future.

  To Mark’s relief, the waiter interrupted the conversation and saved him from answering Sheila for the moment. After presenting them with menus and a wine list, he described the evening’s specials, then floated away soundlessly.

  “Everything looks good, as always,” said Sheila as she scrutinized her menu.

  Mark made an affirmative grunt. Actually, his breakfast still seemed to weigh on him, dulling his appetite, even though they had skipped lunch.

  The waiter returned several minutes later to take their orders. Once he left, Sheila picked up where she’d left off.

  “So why don’t you sound excited?”

  Mark forced a smile. “I’m just a little nervous, is all. It’s a big step.”

  “Well, it’s an impressive step, and I’m proud of you.” Sheila leaned forward, squeezed his hand and smiled. “Let’s relax and have a wonderful dinner tonight.”

  The waiter brought their bottle of Cabernet, deftly uncorked it and poured. Sheila lifted her glass. “Congratulations!”

  Mark lifted his glass, pasted on a smile, and drank.

  When their entrées arrived, Sheila dove into her Scampi Alfredo as if she hadn’t eaten in months, carefully slurping the sauce-coated fettuccini into her mouth. Mark picked at his blackened salmon, the intense spices not even registering on his taste buds.

  “Isn’t yours good?” asked Sheila, her plate devoid of the tiniest trace of her meal.

  “It’s fine. You must have been hungry.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Sheila put on a slightly sheepish look.

  Mark finished his dinner, tasting none of it, but masquerading his misgivings just enough to stave off Sheila’s questions. All evening, he noticed how carefree she looked, as if a huge weight of worry had been taken from her shoulders. He was grateful for that, for now. There’d be time enough for them to adjust to his job in the months to come. He sipped his wine and suggested they order something decadent for dessert as he tried to absorb some of Sheila’s buoyant optimism.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Race you back to camp!” Sheila surged past Mark on the mountain bike trail. The sharp, tangy scent of the pine trees wafted through the crisp mountain air and tickled her nose. The maple trees displayed touches of scarlet and yellow in kaleidoscopic splendor as she sped along. It was likely their last camping trip that year to the mountains near their Acacia Park home. The nights would soon carry snow at that altitude.

  But for this weekend, the weather was gorgeous and Sheila felt a current of energy she hadn’t experienced in months. Mark would start his new job on Monday, and the Hartmans were back at camp, preparing dinner and the campfire. And after the ride they’d just had, Sheila was pleasantly hungry.

  She glanced back. Mark was gaining on her. Her lack of exercise the last few months was affecting her stamina, but this was a matter of honor. She notched up the gear shift and pumped harder, determined to beat him back to the camp. It wasn’t that much farther.

  “Coming through!” Mark laughed and passed her in a cloud of trail dust.

  “Damn you!”

  A few minutes later, they pulled into camp, laughing and panting from their race. Sheila’s legs felt a little rubbery from the final push, but she’d held her own pretty well. Mark was made for biking, with his strong legs and lean torso—and his ability to push himself just a little harder when he had to. Proof of his prowess adorned his home office walls: ribbons and medals from his college bike-racing days.

  As they took off their helmets, Sheila couldn’t help but smile as she glanced at Mark’s bike. He’d had it for years, taking the time to repair it or upgrade it himself rather than buy a new one. It was a matter of pride as much as it was of frugality. His bike had most of the features of her newer model, but retained all the dings and scratches to the body paint that Mark had put on through faithful and frequent use. He liked to say it had personality, like a favorite old shirt.

  “Hey, how’d it go?” Jim Hartman, his slight paunch balanced over the waistband of his jeans
, called to them as he fed small branches to the budding campfire.

  “Ah, she thought she’d beat me,” said Mark as he squatted to check for dirt in his chain. “But nooo!” He laughed.

  “I almost had ya, and you know it,” said Sheila, hooking her helmet onto her handlebars.

  Cathy Hartman appeared from their small trailer, two-year-old Aaron following close behind in a fresh diaper and T-shirt. Sheila noticed how fragile the child looked, with his nearly transparent white skin and sparse blond hair. And those long, beige lashes over his shy, blue eyes. The Hartmans had nearly lost him in the months following his birth. Some crazy virus. He was fine now, perhaps a touch smaller than his peers. The ordeal had taken its toll on Cathy, aging her prematurely. Fine lines crosshatched the corners of her eyes and mouth; deeper lines traversed her forehead. Aaron was her focus now, after she’d come so close to losing him. Who could blame her?

  Sheila was thankful she found out about the Alzheimer’s before they’d had children. The decision made itself; her desires had no place in the matter. She tried not to think about it—and sometimes she even succeeded.

  Jim had a metal grill heated over the fire and was just setting the marinated steaks on it. The smoky scent drifted over, making Sheila’s stomach growl.

  “Jim, that smells wonderful.” Sheila flopped down into one of the folding chairs near the fire pit.

  “Cathy’s secret marinade. I just cook ’em.” Jim winked and fussed with the steaks and foil-wrapped ears of corn.

  Sheila smiled. Jim and Cathy were friends of theirs from college, and had been married since graduation. It was good to see them still so obviously in love and happy with each other, despite the near-tragedy with Aaron.

  Cathy sat down in a folding chair next to Sheila, then hoisted Aaron up into her lap. “So, you almost beat Mark on the trail?”

  “Almost. Need to get my wind back a little. It’s been months since I’ve been on the bike at all.”