Scorched

by Britt Ringel

  Kat’s heart sank as she recognized her ignorance. You idiot! Did you really think you’d just walk into an empty office and ask for a job application? Just fill it out at the counter and be on your merry way? Her shoulders slumped and her stomach twisted into a knot as she remembered her visa would expire in four and a half hours. It will take me ten minutes to get back to Eastpoint, even if I sprint. She hurriedly took her place in a line.

  Kat started counting the people ahead of her and saw Porter representatives carrying slim computer pads walking down each of the lines. She shifted her weight impatiently as she stood in the seemingly immobile line. Many aspiring applicants were sitting on the sidewalk. As time passed, more people queued behind her.

  A representative worked her way to Kat’s portion of the line twenty minutes later. The woman was smartly dressed in a fresh, white shirt bearing the Porter logo and a smooth, black pencil skirt. She asked questions to each person ahead of Kat in turn. When she finally stood in front of Kat, she began her recitation anew.

  “Are you here to apply for employment?”

  “Yes,” Kat answered forlornly.

  “Were you recommended by a current Porter employee?”

  “Yes!” Kat blurted. “Mr. Sadler Wess.”

  The woman consulted her handheld’s screen. Her fingers swept up the surface as she searched. “What’s your name?”

  “Kat Smith.”

  The representative nodded. “Okay, please come with me.” She turned quickly and began to walk up the line and toward the headquarters.

  Kat enviously watched the lithe woman from behind. She had smelled like desert flowers. Her clothes were clean and the tailored cut of her blouse and narrow skirt accentuated her femininity and made her look beautiful. As Kat chased after her, she looked down at her own attire. Her oversized shirt hid much of her gender but she shamefully thought her tight pants implied she was a prostitute.

  Kat followed her tailored savior, gliding past the sea of people while pretending not to hear the grumbles of resentment emanating from the line she was jumping. Roving corp-secs tapped menacingly with stun batons to ensure the resentment didn’t explode into violence.

  The woman brought Kat near the front of the line. Stanchions with sturdy ropes cordoned off an area leading to the doors into Porter Mining. Additional corporate security guards monitored the entrance as a company representative signaled when applicants at the front of the lines could approach and enter the building. The representative guiding Kat pointed at a position that would place her third in a line and stated, “Please wait there, Ms. Smith. Follow the instructions of the rep by the door.”

  “Okay,” Kat replied while guiltily cutting in front of a man as directed.

  The woman walked away, heading back toward the end of the line she had been working.

  “Second person who’s knocked me back in the queue,” the man behind Kat groused.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  The man’s voice raised several decibels. “Tell that to my three kids.”

  A corp-sec officer sidled toward the commotion lifting his assault rifle that had been hanging freely from a harness. “We got a problem here?”

  Kat felt a familiar dread before she realized the officer was ignoring her.

  “No, sir,” the man behind her answered stiffly.

  “Let me see your pass,” the officer demanded. The man handed over his visa stick.

  The corp-sec squeezed the ends of the stick and compared the image it displayed to the man in front of him. He shoved the stick onto the man’s chest with a gloved hand and threatened, “If I hear another peep out of you, I’ll frag your visa on the spot.”

  The man gulped and nodded docilely.

  The remainder of Kat’s wait was in absolute silence. In sequence, the leaders of each of the ten lines were invited into the building as a group. Eventually, Kat took her place at the front of her line and after a twenty-minute wait, the representative by the door beckoned her group inside.

  Chapter 13

  A short man in black slacks and a white Porter Mining shirt greeted Kat and the nine other line leaders who entered the building with her. He ushered the group to a windowless room with a long table dominating its center. The man pointed to the chairs along each side of the table as he strode to the front. “Please be seated and we can start the application procedure.”

  A single sheet of paper lay in front of each chair next to a logoed Porter Mining pencil. Kat chose a middle chair on the right side of the table.

  The Porter representative lifted his example form and instructed, “Please fill out the application in front of you. Be sure to write who recommended you in Box Eighteen on the front of the page.” He pointed to the box on his sheet and then turned the paper over. “On the back, you’ll find a list of jobs for which you may request consideration. Pay special attention to the jobs I’ve underlined in blue ink. Those are positions for which we have actual openings. Below the list is an area for you to write down your qualifications. Any schooling you may have had, prior experience with similar jobs, or any other applicable credentials you think deserve mentioning. Porter Mining may verify what you put down and falsifying an application will not only render you ineligible for future Porter employment but is also a criminal offense.” He lowered the example application to the table. “If you have a question, raise your hand and I’ll try to help you. Also, raise your hand when you’re finished.” He looked at the inside of his wrist. His chip had been augmented with a subdermal luminous wafer that displayed the time through his skin. “You have ten minutes.”

  Kat picked up her pencil and felt an eerily familiar rush of excitement and anxiety. She wrote her name: Kat Smith. Her date of birth came next: 8/4/2191. She hesitated at the box for her home address but eventually scrawled “Shantytown alley, sixteen blocks from Beggar’s Market.” As she paused at the empty Corporate Identification Number block, her eyes returned to her date of birth. Her heart pounded as she looked at the numbers. My God, she realized, that’s my birthday! I wrote it without even thinking. She performed the math instantly. I’ll be twenty-five years old in two weeks! The revelation was both incredible and distracting but she willed herself to push the discovery aside. Focus, Kat.

  “If you live in Shantytown,” the representative said, interrupting the silence, “just try to be as accurate for your home address as you can. Likewise, if you don’t have a corporate ID, just write ‘CINless.’ Neither will disqualify you. A large majority of our miners are Trodden.”

  Kat continued to work her way through the front of the application. Dishearteningly, she left “Prior Employment” blank but then returned to write her experience as Doctor Reynolds’ assistant in the large box. It barely filled a third of the section but it was, at least, something. In a fit of inspiration, she entered, “Pharmacognosy, First Aid and Triage Procedures” in the “Education” block. She doubled back to verify that she had written “Sadler Wess” in Box Eighteen.

  She took a final, remorseful look at the front and lamented the bare-bones nature of her application before flipping the page over. She was the first at the table to do so, noting how natural it felt to be ahead of the group. I know I’ve taken tests before and I think I’ve done well on them.

  The top half of the form’s back side listed over twenty different job titles. Kat checked the boxes for every underlined position. Beneath the section, she wrote that she would accept any position offered to her but would prefer “Dryman,” the position that Sadler had recommended. She highlighted her experience with first aid, her natural ability to learn on the job quickly, her eye for safety and her willingness to work hard to achieve success. She finished the qualifications block by recounting her accomplishments and ability to remain calm and professional while working the chaotic triage field at Waytown Standard during the recent mining mishap. She noted how her ability to work deliberately, safely and professionally would transfer well to a career with Porter. Finished, she signed
and dated the application at the bottom and performed a final review.

  Kat’s confidence grew as she went through her work. Earlier in the morning, she had dreaded filling out the application because of her woeful inadequacies. As she rechecked her answers, she began to believe that, perhaps, she had a chance. She raised her hand eagerly and sought eye contact with the facilitator.

  The representative walked over to her. “You have a question?”

  “I’m finished,” she answered. The applicants to either side of her seemed to tense upon hearing her declaration.

  The man took her application and quickly reviewed it. “Uh, it looks complete.” He handed it back. “Take the application to the room at the end of the hall. You’ll turn it in there and be told what to do next.”

  “Do I leave my pencil here?” Kat asked while rising from her chair.

  “Yes.”

  She exited the room and turned down the hall. Walking lightly in the corridor, she stole glances through the open doors she passed by. Inside each room were other hopeful candidates busily embellishing their own applications. She walked through an archway and entered an office with a large counter.

  “All finished?” the smiling woman behind the counter asked as she reached for Kat’s application.

  Kat nodded, took a wistful look at her application and handed it to the woman who smelled like vanilla. The aroma was intoxicating and Kat subtly inhaled several more breaths.

  The woman scanned the application with a critical eye. “Were you actually employed at Waytown Standard or did you work as a volunteer?”

  “I was a paid, temporary employee.” Kat liked the way that sounded.

  The woman nodded and made a note on the application. “You’ve checked ‘no criminal record.’ Porter will run you through Waytown’s database. It’s better to just admit any transgressions now,” she counselled. “If there’s nothing major, it won’t disqualify you.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” Kat insisted. “I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never done anything that would cause me to be arrested.” The memory of her defense wire slicing into the preacher’s neck made her shiver.

  “One moment, please,” the facilitator requested while her fingers danced over her computer screen. When she was finished, she directed, “Please step aside while you wait for an HR manager.” The woman shifted her weight to look past Kat and asked with a smile, “Are you all finished?” Another woman stepped up with her application.

  Kat waited at the counter and her suspicions began to grow. She watched the representative perform the identical process with the next applicant except that once the woman had confirmed the details of the application, she simply stated that the list of people who had been hired would be projected at Waytown’s gates. The list would appear next Tuesday before noon and remain until the following day. The facilitator then thanked the applicant and summoned an escort to guide her to an exit.

  Two more prospective employees submitted their applications and were shepherded out. Finally, a man wearing a business suit appeared behind the counter and studied Kat’s application. After a full minute of scrutiny, he beckoned her inside his office.

  She followed the man passively but her instinct to flee had suddenly manifested. Once inside the room and seated, Kat tucked her hands under her legs to prevent them from shaking.

  “Ms. Smith,” the manager opened without preamble, “my name is Mr. Barnes and while your application is a little weak in tangibles, it’s extremely well written.” His eyes played up and down the paper again. “In fact, it’s one of the most intelligently and strategically written applications I’ve seen in some time. I’d suspect that someone wrote it for you if not for the fact that you filled this out while inside our building.” The corner of his mouth turned upward. “What is Pharmacognosy?”

  “The study of medicinal drugs from plants and other natural sources,” Kat replied mechanically.

  “Impressive.” The manager placed the application on his desk and leaned on an arm of his chair. “Equally impressive is your sponsor. How do you know Mr. Wess?”

  Kat inhaled deeply to settle herself. Keep cool, she commanded. Word choice is important. “Professionally,” she answered in a measured tone. “At the hospital yesterday I also acted as an impromptu aircar marshal for vehicles landing with casualties. Mr. Wess was piloting a flatbed. The quad was pretty congested at times and we needed order.”

  Barnes may have smirked. “Well, judging by the notes he wrote, you certainly impressed him.”

  For the first time, Kat felt the manager’s eyes really look at her. She was glad she was seated to keep his focus on her oversized shirt and face instead of the rest of her figure.

  Seconds ticked by as the man made his silent appraisal. His finger tapped rhythmically on his desktop and Kat forced herself not to look away. Instead, she concentrated on controlling her breathing and feigning confidence.

  Barnes finally spoke. “Ms. Smith, we have only two unfilled jobs remaining. One of them is for a dryman. The duties include keeping equipment clean and assisting the other miners. It’s dangerous, hard work. It’s one of the lowest positions in the ranks and the only shift available is the six to six day shift so it’ll be unbearably hot. It’s also the second lowest paying job inside the mine.”

  “I’m hoping to strike for dryman,” Kat stated, pleased she had remembered the proper terminology.

  After another second’s consideration, the man opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small, thick strip of pliable plastic. He positioned it in front of Kat on the desktop. It was seven centimeters long and slightly concave at the top. “Please press your index finger onto the DNA capture strip.”

  Kat raised a hand reluctantly. “What’s it going to do?”

  Barnes waved dismissively. “It’s just going to take a DNA sample.” Perceiving her reticence, he leaned closer and stated, “Sometimes the record is used to help identify victims of mining accidents. Mostly it’s just for the standard background check we perform on all employees from our satellite office in Northport. They have connection to the Global Net there. You won’t be registered in the database, none of the Trodden are, but it’s standard procedure.”

  Kat pressed her finger to the small depression and the darkened light at the top of the strip illuminated green.

  “All done,” the man proclaimed. He picked up the strip and peeled the adhesive protection off the back before sticking the sample to Kat’s application. Afterwards, he rose, escorted her out of his office and directed her to another section of the building.

  There, a doctor spent twenty minutes examining her, paying close attention to the healing wound on her side before eventually pronouncing her fit for employment. His only other remark had been about the exceptional condition of her teeth. After the physical, Kat filled out more employment paperwork with the aid of a clerk. She would work provisionally for Porter Mining Enterprises pending her background check, after which she would be formally hired. Even then, she would work at the discretion of the company and could be terminated without cause at any time. In the event of an accident, Porter would pay the first week of medical costs but then be released from liability. Near the bottom of the last form, Kat listed Doctor Maggie Reynolds as the beneficiary of any death benefits.

  At the end of the process, Kat balked when a med tech wanted to implant a chip into her wrist. It was nearly painless and necessary, the tech explained. The chip would store the visa that granted her entrance into Waytown each work day and access to the bus that took miners from the gates of the city to the mag-rail station. The chip would also allow her to ride the train with the other miners in a special passenger car down the mag-line to the mountains in the east.

  Kat was torn between accepting the implant and listening to her instinct to rebel. The issue resolved itself when a second tech suggested imprinting the information onto a wristwrap like those used by the hospital for its patients. The durable, tight-fitting band would easily last severa
l months at which time it would no longer be their problem. After over an hour of in-processing, Kat was given final instructions to show up for work on Monday and report to the “miner’s courtyard” at the mine for orientation.

  A Porter representative escorted her to a side exit and Kat gazed upon the hundreds of people still waiting in the long lines outside the building. “Is there really only one job left?” she asked quietly.

  “Actually,” the man answered, “I think they’ve already filled it.”

  “Then what are those people waiting for?”

  “Oh, they don’t know there are no more openings and won’t be told,” he explained. “Experience tells us to just let them finish the process. The day is less likely to end with violence that way.” The man cast a quick look at the lines. “Most of them will have to give up because their visas are running out anyway.” He gave a gentle wave goodbye and ducked back into the building.

  Kat watched the door close behind her. She tried her best to ignore the futile hopes of the mass of people and turned toward Eastpoint. The people in line weren’t the only ones running up against the deadline of their visas.

  Chapter 14

  In the predawn of early Monday morning, Kat left her alley and a loudly snoring Rat. Stars in the limitless sky were almost achingly beautiful although the utter absence of clouds promised a blazingly hot day. It was the seventh day without rain and Rat’s water reservoir had gone bone dry. Kat walked toward Eastpoint and soon found herself following a herd of miners out of Shantytown.

  She had spent most of her Sunday browsing the Beggar’s Market for better clothing and shoes but chose, instead, to save her remaining coins for food and rent. Porter Mining offered sturdy coveralls and boots to each of its workers along with any specialized equipment needed to perform assigned tasks. The gear, including the clothes, stayed in lockers at the mining site and was cleaned by independent contractors each weekend. During her in-processing in Waytown, she was also told a mid-shift meal would be provided each day. Costs for these supplies and services would be taken out of her daily wage. Furthermore, she could purchase additional food at the mine using either credits or Shantytown silver.