“Yeah,” said the marine officer, “The damned Song Pai kept Hyperion out of this system twice when the company tried to grab it with a mercenary flotilla. And there’s the bad boy that did it, Carrier 16.” He pointed to an area of space that seemed at first to be black emptiness but as they approached took on the shape of what looked like a huge ovoid sieve. “Each of those holes is a launch chamber and when the Song Pai activate, an attack fighter emerges from each of them. The entire crew takes part, except for a few caretakers on the main ship. No escape or rescue apparatus because they don’t expect to come back. Minimal life support because they don’t expect to need it. Medical equally unnecessary. Just like the kamikaze in the old video legends. Their ships are designed as suicide vehicles that can take out the maximal target payload. They never conserve anything, just one big gambit designed to decimate the enemy. Their oath is inviolable and they relish the thought of dying to liberate the young souls, as they say. I’ve always thanked my lucky stars that the company didn’t succeed in sending us in there and had to settle for a Blackwater task force that got the crap kicked out of it before retreating. Lost a few old comrades among those dead mercs. And old Carrier 16, with a few dents and a full crew complement, no doubt, is still out there prowling for now.”
Klein didn’t realize that he would soon have his own personal reason for holding a grudge against the Song Pai.
Even though the temperature in the office was set to 73 degrees, the level that Hyperion Corporation had calculated would provide the most stimulation for its employees, Bill Hollingsworth could feel sweat rolling down his brow. His supervisor, Mr. Samuels, had called him into his office for a meeting. Mr. Samuels was not a man given to small talk, and when he called a meeting, something important was likely to happen as a result. Hollingsworth had felt increasingly nervous as the day dragged on, anxiety over the reason for Samuels’ meeting creeping through his mind. He had spent the day looking over dozens of online articles with contradictory advice on negotiating with supervisors, and his day had been very unproductive as a result. But Hollingsworth was not worried about the minor details of a single wasted day; he had become preoccupied with the fear that his boss had prepared to “release” him, and prepared himself for a stressful interview where any misstep could potentially result in his firing. Survival took priority over the more mundane tasks of his job. Finally, the time of the appointment arrived; a few seconds before his digital watch indicated it was four in the afternoon, Hollingsworth was waiting at the door to Mr. Samuels’ office. He walked up to the door and gave a single, soft tap on it to indicate his presence. “Come in please,” a friendly voice beckoned.
Mr. Samuels was roughly the same age as Hollingsworth. He had a peaceful, inviting expression on his face as he beckoned Hollingsworth to sit down. Hollingsworth began to feel slightly more relaxed as he sat down in the large, comfortable chair Mr. Samuels kept for his guests. “There’s something we need to talk about,” Mr. Samuels said.
“Well, if there’s something that’s displeased you about my performance, I’ll make sure to correct it,” Hollingsworth said. “I know that A Hero of Domremy isn’t getting the kind of ratings it used to, but I’ve some ideas to make it fresh again.”
“About that,” Mr. Samuels said. “A Hero of Domremy had about what, three good seasons before the ratings started dropping?”
“Four,” Hollingsworth corrected him.
“Well, the ratings and revenue stream from A Hero of Domremy have plummeted in this latest season. You know our policy when a program’s rating starts dropping.”
Hollingsworth did his best to hide how nervous he felt, but Mr. Samuels could still see the beginnings of a frown on the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’m sorry if the higher-ups have decided our show shouldn’t continue, but I have some other ideas.”
Mr. Samuels’ voice dropped an almost imperceptible degree lower and softer. “That’s a part of what I’d like to discuss about your performance over the past few years, Bill. We’ve noticed you haven’t had much in terms of ideas for monetizing the Domremy colony over the past few years. Other than A Hero of Domremy, most of the productive ideas for the colony have come from Erica, not you. We think that you may not be the best fit for your position in our company anymore.”
The words Hollingsworth had been dreading came at the end of the sentence, although he had anticipated them since Mr. Samuels had referred to him by the informal Bill rather than the more formal Mr. Hollingsworth. Hyperion Human Resources had determined that using informal names put employees at ease and made it easier to “negotiate” with them in difficult situations. By negotiate, they invariably mean getting their way with only the most puny of consolations to their employees, Hollingsworth thought.
It took all of his emotional composure not to raise his voice at Mr. Samuels. “Is this about the fact I’m getting on in years? Because if it is, you’ll be getting a call from my lawyer for age discrimination.”
Mr. Samuels gave an irritated cough. “This decision has nothing to do with your age or how near retirement you are, it has everything to do with your productivity. You just haven’t put in the effort that our other employees are in comparison. We’ve been analyzing your performance in your duties for some time, and we’ve made the decision that it’s time to release you. Of course, you can discuss your temporary post-employment options with Human Resources.”
At least the prick’s not beating around the bush anymore, Hollingsworth thought. “Of course. I’ll go discuss this with them first.” Hollingsworth knew his attempt to intimidate Mr. Samuels into allowing him to keep his job was worthless; there was no way he could afford an attorney who could possibly compete with Hyperion’s brilliant, expensive attorneys. It was the reptile part of his brain, the angry, atavistic voice screaming for a chance to make its rage felt. But it was as useless as any other individualistic effort within the monolithic Hyperion Corporation.
“Naturally, you’ll be asked to stay on an additional two weeks as we finalize the details of your release. You’ll oblige us, won’t you?” Mr. Samuels asked.
“Certainly,” Hollingsworth answered. “I’m going to get some things from my office to show to HR now.”
“Oh, and here’s an official printed statement on the matter of your job performance I prepared for you. You will read it, won’t you? It’s a very nice statement,” Mr. Samuels said.
I wish I could tell you where you could shove that “nice statement” of yours, Hollingsworth thought. “Certainly. I’ll be sure to read over it before I leave today.”
“Good luck to you in all your future endeavors,” Mr. Samuels said as Hollingsworth got up out of the seat and left the room.
As he briskly walked down the hallway to his office, Hollingsworth’s mind churned with anguish and thoughts of opportunities lost. To be fired so quickly, with only four more years before retirement benefits! Maybe he shouldn’t have counted on A Hero of Domremy lasting a couple more seasons, maybe he should have paid more attention to the spreadsheets of agricultural yields, but could he have truly done much more for the company, after his many years of loyal service? He reassured himself that he had indeed given it his all, and that Hyperion would always move to find some motivation to release its employees before they could officially retire and claim benefits. Had old Gunderson really deserved that firing over his inappropriate joke he had posted on the company’s chat forum accidentally? And now to fail for a cause he had always secretly dreaded.
Ag! Ag! Ag! It had always been Hollingsworth’s least favorite aspect of colonial activity. He was trained in Human Exploitation Management and should not be blamed for the failure of the Ag projects. Why, he could not even manage to keep a cactus alive on the shelf of his thin office window! Erica, who did not have a window in her cubicle, would bring him some green thing from time to time to try to encourage his interest, but it would be dead after only a few days. He was aware that his Hyperion Fields project had been a disaster, but he tried
not to think about it. A few rare plantations actually produced good results for a season or two, but then withered. The fertilizers or the pollinators or the chlorophyll transfer went wrong and the Ag engineers in their offices in Iowa couldn’t figure out a fix. He wished he could freeze a few of them and send them out to Domremy to be responsible, but that wasn’t going to happen. As it was, the best they could manage were a crowd of Asiatic peons Erica signed on through her contacts in Delhi, Hanoi and Beijing. Those fools would let the machinery run down and then disappear from the HF facilities. He suspected a lot of them must be running off to the Dissenters. Ah, the damned Dissenters! The rare warm bodies Hyperion could beg, borrow, or steal to send to farm efficiently on Domremy – and only if the blockheads could be coaxed to accept a transit contract that granted them their own land and their own hours. No matter how large the bonuses he offered them to work overtime in the Hyperion Fields, they seemed to scorn them, preferring to putter around on their own plots. Of course, their plantings were apparently quite successful, for they managed to grow plenty to stuff for themselves and the other colonists, too. However, instead of lending a hand to HF, they were always tending their own gardens. He’d read somewhere long ago in one of the few college texts he had bothered to open that when the Soviet Union was collapsing back in the twentieth century, the people on the communal farms did the same thing with their little vegetable gardens, growing more than the state itself. He seemed to remember that Caribbean slaves had lived in the margins centuries earlier, although they were only permitted to till their own patches one day a week. These Dissenters were the same kind of riffraff, experimenting with all kinds of unauthorized things the company never encouraged, smuggling all kinds of things up through the Farm Union and various phantom transport outfits before Hyperion could stop them. And as soon as Hyperion closed down one of the conduits, they had already opened another. It was useless trying to talk to them or get them to explain because they would just chew on hay and jabber about potatoes. They had the connivance of the nearby authorities, too, since they supplied all the ingredients necessary to keep a thousand “artisanal” breweries and distilleries going on every site on the planet. All the non-Dissenter colonists seemed to be good at was consuming massive quantities of booze, drugs, and porn, and then going off to the Forlani houses to dip their wicks.
Damned Forlani! They were supposed to be Erica’s problem and she always bragged about how efficiently they serviced the convicts that had been commuted up to Domremy. He had tried to explain the economic downside to her, but she always seemed uninterested and managed to change the subject. Would she ever realize that the Forlani managed to suck up a lot of capital at the expense of all that screwing? But did they invest it in the Local economy so Hyperion could reduce the subsidies? – No! Instead, when they weren’t doing the horizontal dance, they lived as frugally as nuns and sent every credit back to their home planet. Hollingsworth had often wondered after a night in one of his favorite corporate bordellos if there was not some way he could lure human whores to his colony, but they always seemed to laugh at his proposal of being iced and then plunked down in a great sea of empty prairie. Damn! So much grass up there and yet why couldn’t they manage to fill up his supply ships for the Earth trade? Just thinking about Ag made his temples start to throb.
Erica Duquesne walked up to Hollingsworth, interrupting his thoughts. “Hello,” she said to him. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just feeling kinda tired,” Hollingsworth said. “I feel worn out from all the work I’ve been doing this year. I think I’ll be taking a break in a couple of weeks.”
“Really?” Erica asked, her eyebrows slightly raised in surprise. “You almost never take a vacation.”
“Yeah,” Hollingsworth said. “I think I need to think things over. Besides, my show, A Hero of Domremy, got cancelled, and I need some time to consider new directions.”
“I’m sorry,” Erica said. For once, she felt genuine concern for Hollingsworth. Although she hadn’t experienced it happening to anyone close to yet, she had heard stories of what happened to older Hyperion employees once their “most valuable assets” had been terminated. She silently wondered if this was being used as an excuse to shove Hollingsworth out the door. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Not really,” Hollingsworth said. “I think I’m going home early today, I think I’m developing a headache. Just keep making sure things are running smoothly on Domremy.”
“Certainly,” Erica said. As she returned to her office, she remained tense and suspicious over Hollingsworth’s fate. Maybe he just got fired because he was getting lazy. But if that’s the reason, why can’t I feel secure in my position? How long until it happens to me, too? Doubt and uncertainly clouded her mind as she returned to the work in her office.
Chapter Six
“Continue moving forward and prepare to present your documents,” repeated the gentle Forlani voice every minute or so as the line inched ahead. Customs had already been a breeze at the efficient new Processing Area where their transport had alighted a few hours ago. The Forlani inspectors had been happily enthusiastic about the saplings, asking all sorts of questions about the fruit as if they meant to devour some then and there. They had pretty routinely approved all the other material, including the injector and the vials of toad venom made to look like agricultural hormones. The Song Pai guard gliding about in the background on his lower tentacles had appeared to eye them from a distance, if “eye” is the right verb for a creature covered in an elaborate breathing helmet where nothing resembling a human eye was discernable. The Forlani females appeared to ignore their large and disgusting co-inspector, though they occasionally dabbed some cream below their noses, which Klein suspected was a perfume to cover up the Song Pai’s overwhelming dead fish odor. The one finicky thing about Entara, Ragatti, and the other partners Klein had taken to bed was their delicate sense of smell, as they had all invariably insisted he had a precoital wash-up. He knew that the Forlani houses on Domremy were equipped with a room that resembled a decontamination chamber, through which naked clients of objectionable scent were made to pass before they got together with the girls. That the Forlani women who had to work with Song Pai could survive the olfactory experience was really proof of their seriousness in developing planetary security.
“William K. Himmelreich,” said the inspector who took his ID, pronouncing the H in a sort of Slavic guttural way that was one of the several Forlani equivalents of the earthly letter. “Where do you come from?”
“Domremy, Stafford Station.”
“And when did you join the Farm Union?”
He rattled off the date in G-time and was pleased that he remembered it exactly as on his form.
“Very well, next!” Klein shuffled ahead slowly so that he could eavesdrop on her questions for Peebo, who was right behind him.
“Floyd Arthur Pickens.” Klein had to control himself so that he didn’t burst out laughing, even though it was not the first time he had heard Peebo’s real name.
She only asked Peebo a few perfunctory questions and sent him on up the line. Klein would have sworn there was some unspoken policy among the Forlani to give Farm Union arrivals a bit of preferential treatment, despite the formalities. “No problems, Flooooyd?” Klein drawled.
“Quit yer snickerin’” huffed his landlord.
“We done yet? I can’t wait to get out of here and see Entara.”
“You wish! Those buggers up there will probably insist on a cavity search,” snarled Peebo, glancing at a couple of Song Pai toward the end of the immigration area.
“Been there, done that. We had them all the time when I was in stir. You wouldn’t believe the stuff prisoners tried to cheek into the prison: drugs, butane, weapons, even some weird stuff like…”
“You ain’t never had a search like this. I didn’t want to tell you about it earlier because I didn’t want you to get nervous, but these squids are mighty invasive. Whatever you
do, don’t lose your cool! If you do, we’ll never get past the checkpoint.”
Sure enough, they were passed into a clear plastic corridor and made to strip. Klein felt a little self-conscious, even though he knew perfectly well that nudity was not a concern for the Forlani, who only wore clothes for some sensible reason and often not at all. His prudishness turned to defensive tautness when one of the big chartreuse cephalopods loomed above him and forced him with powerful tentacles to assume the position. The tentacular thrust up his rectum and way into his bowels was more than anything he had ever experienced in the penal system, but the explosion of lukewarm material inside his intestine practically made him turn on the creature with murderous anger. It was a good thing Peebo had reminded him of the necessity to stifle his feelings.
Cursing under his breath, Klein cleaned himself off inside and outside as best he could with some towels from a convenient dispenser on the clear wall. “Tell me that wasn’t what I thought it was!” he barked at Peebo.
“It was,” said the farmer, as though a windstorm had just flattened his barns.
“I’m going to have some blood for that! I just got a big desire to cut that thing open and see what his insides look like.”
“Don’t let it get to you. You’ve got more important things to think about now.”
“Right, and after that, maybe I’ll think about him again, because I managed to pull this off while he was having his jollies.” Klein opened his fist to show Peebo a metallic bar that might pass for a badge among the Song Pai guards. “I’ll track him down if it’s the last thing I do, I swear. That’s one thing I can’t tolerate for long, even if I have to tolerate it for now.”
Life Sentence (Forlani Saga Book 1) Page 19