And finally, at the moment of triumph, he and I looked up at the sky, and we knew that someday all that we could see would be ours.
And this is the knowledge that I have lived with for two days. I do not know who to share it with, for it is patently immoral to exterminate a race simply because of the vastness of its dreams or the ruthlessness of its ambition.
But this is a race that refuses to die, and somehow I must warn the rest of us, who have lived in harmony for almost five millennia.
It’s not over.
DEAD SPACE FOR THE UNEXPECTED
Geoff Ryman
Born in Canada, Geoff Ryman now lives in England. He made his first sale in 1976 to New Worlds, but it was not until 1984, when he made his first appearance in Interzone (the magazine where almost all of his published short fiction has appeared) with his brilliant novella “The Unconquered Country” that he first attracted any serious attention. “The Unconquered Country,” one of the best novellas of the decade, had a stunning impact on the science fiction scene and almost overnight established Ryman as one of the premier writers of his generation, winning him both the British Science Fiction Award and the World Fantasy Award; it was later published in a book version, The Unconquered Country: A Life History. His output since then has been sparse, by the high-production standards of the genre, but extremely distinguished, with his novel The Child Garden: A Low Comedy winning both the prestigious Arthur C. Clarke Award and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. His other novels include The Warrior Who Carried Life and the critically acclaimed mainstream novel Was. His most recent book is a collection of four of his novellas, Unconquered Countries.
The idea that science fiction actually predicts the future is an overemphasized one, but, in the bleak little story that follows, Ryman gives us a razor-sharp look at working conditions in a near-future society that, as anyone who has ever worked for a major corporation could tell you, is all too likely to come to pass; in fact, it’s very nearly here now …
Jonathan was going to have to fire Simon. It was a big moment in Jonathan’s day, a solid achievement from the point of view of the company. Jonathan knew that his handling of the whole procedure had been model—so far. He had warned Simon a month ago that termination was a possibility and that plans should be made. Jonathan knew that he had felt all the appropriate feelings—sympathy, regret, and an echoing in himself of the sick, sad panic of redundancy.
Well, if you have sincere emotion, hang onto it. Use it. Hell, there had even been a sting of tears around the bottom of his eyes as he told Simon. Jonathan’s score for that session had been 9.839 out of 10, a personal best for a counselling episode.
Now he had to be even better. The entire Team’s average had nose-dived. So had Jonathan’s own scores. He, the Team, needed a good score. Next month’s printouts were at stake.
So Jonathan waited in the meeting room with a sign up on the door that said IN USE. On his eyes were contact lenses that were marked for accurate measurement, and which flickered and swerved as his eyes moved. There was a bright pattern of stripes and squares and circles on his shirt, to highlight breathing patterns. Galvanic skin resistance was monitored by his watch strap. It was, of course, a voluntary program, designed to give managers and staff alike feedback on their performance.
There was a knock on the door and Simon came in, handsome, neat, running a bit to fat, 52 years old.
It would be the benches for Simon, the park benches in summer with the civic chess board with the missing pieces. Then the leaves and seasonal chill in autumn. Winter would be the packed and steamy public library with the unwashed bodies, and the waiting for a chance to read the job ads, check the terminals, scan the benefits information. It would be bye-bye to clean shirts, ties without food stains, a desk, the odd bottle of wine, pride. For just a moment, Jonathan saw it all clearly in his mind.
Either you were a performer or you weren’t.
“Hi, Simon, have a good weekend?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Simon, as he sat down, his face impassive, his movements contained and neat.
Jonathan sighed. “I wanted to give you this now, before I sent it to anyone else. I wanted you to be the first to know I’m very sorry.”
Jonathan held out a sealed, white, blank envelope. Simon primed for a month, simply nodded.
“I hope you know there’s nothing personal in this. I’ve tried to explain why it’s necessary, but just to be clear, there has been a severe drop in our performance and we simply must up our averages, and be seen to be taking some positive action. In terms of more staff training, that sort of thing.”
Already this was not going well. The opening line about the weekend could not be less appropriate, and nobody was going to think that being fired was a positive step or care two hoots about the training other people were going to get. Inwardly, Jonathan winced. “Anyway,” he shrugged with regret, still holding out the envelope that Simon had not taken. Jonathan tossed it across the table and it spun on a cushion of air across the wood-patterned surface.
Simon made no move to pick it up. “We all get old,” he said. “You will, too.”
“And when my scores slip,” said Jonathan, trying to generate some fellow feeling, “I expect the same thing will happen to me.”
“I hope so,” said Simon.
Right, counselling mode. Jonathan remembered his training. Unfortunately, so did Simon—they had been on the same courses.
“Are you angry, would you like to talk?” said Jonathan, remembering: keep steady eye contact, or rather contact with the forehead or bridge of the nose, which is less threatening. Lean backwards so less aggression, but echo body language.
Simon smiled slightly and started to pick his nose, very messily, and look at the result. He held the result up towards Jonathan as if to say echo this.
Jonathan nodded as if in agreement. “It’s only natural that you should feel some resentment, but it might be more constructive if you expressed it verbally. You know, say what you feel, blow off some steam. If not to me, then to someone, the Welfare Officer perhaps.”
“I don’t need to blow off steam,” said Simon and stood up and walked to the door.
Procedures were not being followed; discipline was important.
“Simon, you haven’t taken your letter.”
Simon stood at the door for a moment. “It’s not my letter. It’s not written for me, it’s addressed to Personnel so they can stop paying me.”
Boy, thought Jonathan, if you were still being marked, you’d be in trouble, buddy.
“You forget,” said Simon, his blue eyes gray and flinty, “I used to work in Accounts.” He picked up the letter, paused, and wiped his finger on it. Then he left the room.
Jonathan sat at the table, trembling with rage. Fuck counselling, he wanted to haul off and slug the guy. He took a deep breath, just like in the handling stress course, then stood up and left the meeting room, remembering to change the sign on the door. VACANT it said.
Back in his own office, he checked his score. It was bad form to check your scores too often; it showed insecurity, but Jonathan couldn’t help himself. He verballed to the computer.
“Performance feedback, Dayplan Item One.”
His mark was higher than he had thought it would be: 7.2, well over a five and edging towards a 7.5 for a pretty tough situation. But it was not the high score the Team needed.
It was 8:42. Three minutes ahead of schedule.
“Dayplan complete,” he verballed, and his day was laid out before him on the screen.
8:30 Simon Hasley (actioned)
8:45 Dayplan confirmed and in tray
8:50 Sally meeting prep
9:00 Sally meeting
9:30 Sales meeting William
10:00 Dead space for the unexpected”…
It was important that work was seen to be prioritised, that nothing stayed on the desk, or queued up on the machine. It all had to be handled in the right order. The computer worked that out f
or you from the priority rating you gave each item, gave you optimum work times and the corporate cost, and if you did not object, those were your targets for the first half of the day.
Right. In-tray. There was a management report on purchasing. Jonathan did not purchase, but he needed to know the new procedures his Finance Officer was supposed to follow. So make that a priority eight, book in a reading for it next week, and ask for the machine to prepare a precis. Next was a memo with spreadsheet from Admin. Admin acted as a kind of prophylactic against Accounts, giving early warning of what would strike Accounts as below par performance. Jonathan’s heart sank. Late invoices. Holy shit, not again, an average of 12 days?
Thanks a lot, George, thanks a fucking lot. Shit, piss, fuck, I’ll cut off that god-damned asshole’s head and stick it up his own greased asshole.
Ho-boy, Jonathan, that’s anger. Channel it, use it. Right, we got ourselves a priority one here, schedule it in Dead Space. Jonathan slammed his way into George’s network terminal. Which at 8:47 in the morning was not switched on.
PRIORITY 1
George, we have a serious issue to discuss. Can you come to my office at 10:00 am today, Thursday 17th. Please come with figures on speed of invoicing.
J Rosson, III 723, nc 11723JR.
There goes our cash flow down the fucking tube. And interest payments to the Centre. Great.
There was a fretful knocking at his door. Jonathan could guess who it was. Two minutes was all the time he had.
In came Harriet, gray hair flying. What you might call an individual. Jonathan swivelled, knowing his body language showed no surprise or alarm. His greeting was warm, friendly, in control. So far, so good.
“Hello, Harriet, good to see you, but I’m afraid I’m up against it this morning. I expect you’ve heard about Simon.”
“Yes, I have actually,” said Harriet, eyes bright, smile wide. She was preparing to sit down.
No, my door is not always open. Don’t mess with my time management, lady. “I’d love to talk to you about it when I can give you some time. How about 10:10 this morning?”
“This will only take a minute.” Harriet was still smiling. A tough old bird.
“I doubt that very much. It’s an important issue, and I’d like to talk to you about it properly.” With a flourish, he keyed her into his Dayplan. “There we go. 10:10. See you then?”
Harriet accepted defeat with good grace. “Lovely,” she said. “I’ll look forward to that.” She even gave him a sweet little wave as she left.
Poor old cow is scared, thought Jonathan. Well, there are no plans to get rid of her, so that should be a fairly easy session.
Next. Up came a report on a new initiative in timekeeping, a hobby horse of Jonathan’s. Was a priority one justified just because he was interested in it? He decided to downgrade it, show he was keeping a sense of proportion, that he was a team player. He gave it a two and booked it in for Friday.
He was behind schedule. Thanks, Harriet. Next was a note of praise for a job well done from that crawler Jason. The guy even writes memos to apologize for not writing memos. Jonathan wastebinned it with a grin. Next was a welfare report on the Team’s resident schizophrenic. Jonathan was sure the poor guy had been hired just to give them a bit of an obstacle to show jump. The Welfare Officer was asking him to counsel the man to reduce his smoking in the office. But. He was to remember that the stress of giving up smoking could trigger another schizophrenic episode.
Oh come on, this really must be a monitoring exercise. Jonathan thought a moment. He should therefore show that he knew it was an exercise and not take it too seriously. So, he delegated. He dumped the whole report off his own screen and into the Dayplan of his Supporting Officer.
And so, 8:55. Five minutes to prep for Sally. Jeez, thought Jonathan. I hope I’m not showing. Not showing fear. Which meant, of course, that he was.
Simply, Sally was one of the big boys. She was the same grade as Jonathan, a 1.1 on a level D, but she was younger, whiplash quick, utterly charming, and she always won. Jonathan knew her scores were infinitely better than his own.
Sally had been naughty. Her Division and his Team had to cooperate on projects that were both above and below the line. Without telling him, she had called a meeting on his own grade 2s, flattered them no end, and then got the poor lambs to agree, just as a point of procedure, that all joint projects would be registered with her Division. This would cost his Team about three hundred thousand a year in turnover.
Jonathan had countered with a report on procedures, reminding all concerned that such decisions needed to be made at Divisional level, and suggesting a more thorough procedural review. Sally had countered with enthusiastic agreement, deadly, but said a joint presentation on procedures might eliminate misunderstanding. The difference between discussion and presentation was the difference between procedures up for grabs, and procedures already set and agreed.
When Jonathan pointed this out at a Divisional Liaison, Sally had said “Awwww!” as if he were a hurt, suspicious child. She had even started to counsel him—in front of management! Jonathan had never felt so angry, so outmanoeuvered. Now his Team had noticed pieces of artwork they should have controlled going elsewhere and wanted him to do something about it. Too late, guys. Bloody Harry, his boss, was too dim to see what had happened, or too feeble to fight. Harry had agreed to the presentation.
So, he told himself. The posture has to be teamwork, cooperation between different parts of the same organization, steer like hell to get back what he could. And keep smiling.
He put his phone and mail through to Support and went downstairs.
Sally’s office was neater than his own, and had tiny white furniture. It was like sitting on porcelain teacups. He was sure she chose the furniture deliberately to make large men feel clumsy. Sally offered him coffee. Christ, what was his caffeine count already? Too many stimulants, you lost points. Was she trying to jangle him, get him shaky?
“Oh, great, thanks,” he said. “White with one sugar.”
“Help yourself,” she said. Her smile was warm and friendly. What she meant was: help yourself, I’m not your mother.
“Real cream,” acknowledged Jonathan as he poured.
“Nothing but the best is good enough for us,” said Sally. She was luxuriantly made up, frosted with sheen. She sat down opposite him. Her hair was in different streaks of honey, beige and blonde, and she was slim under her sharp and padded suit. Her entire mien was sociable and open, inviting trust.
“Thanks for the report,” she said. “It was very useful, and I really want to thank you for organizing the presentation for us.”
Jonathan had fought it every step of the way. “My pleasure,” he said. “We really need to get the two teams together to talk. I just want to be clear that what we’re aiming to do is work towards a set of procedures for shared work, which keeps everything going to the right people.”
Sally nodded. But she didn’t speak.
Jonathan double-checked. “Am I right?”
Her smile broadened just a stretch. “Uh-huh. We do have a set of procedures that your own staff agreed.”
“Not all my staff, and not the Quality Action Units who should have been involved. The idea is to empower everyone in the organization.”
“Well, I’m sure we can iron out any points of difference. Refer them to the Quasi. OK?”
Jonathan played back the same trick, an uncommitted shrug. But it was one up to him.
A peace offering? Sally kept on. “I also thought that we should present to you first. Most of my staff are familiar with what you do, but our CD ROM work is new, and we need to go over it with your team.”
Can I let her get away with that? The clock was ticking, his heart was racing. Caffeine and three hundred thousand smackers. Basically, her staff would NOT be there, say just three of them. They would have the floor and the agenda, but his people would outnumber them, and it would be very easy to take pot shots from the audience. On ba
lance, yes, he could go along with that.
So he agreed. They set dates and agreed how to split the cost of wine and food. Sally gave him a warm and enveloping smile as he left.
Climbing back up the stairs, he reckoned he had scored a five. She still had the initiative, she’d gone no distance towards giving up registration of his jobs, but then, it could be argued that Harry had given them away. I got some points across, but anyone could see I was tense. Jeez. Why do I do it to myself?
Right, now it was Billy, then Dead Space, then the brief on the Commission tender, then lunch.
Lunch with Harry, his boss. Harry was shy and hated schmoozing, which was endearing in a boss, if only he didn’t wring his hands for hours at a time and utterly fail to make decisions. Jonathan braced himself for an hour of whining. Jonathan used to work out at lunchtime, till he realized that he scored a full .03 higher if he social-grazed instead. He was climbing the stairs now, to keep fit, though he was not too sure if anyone was noticing. For some reason, he was feeling mean when William arrived for the Sales Meeting.
“Template?” Jonathan snapped at him. William’s eyes glittered. Look at those lenses dive for cover. William was in his early twenties, uncomely, gay, nervous. He was supposed to have the agreed agenda and a place for agreed action notes. “Ah. It’s just here.” When William found his sheet, the agenda section was left blank.
Jonathan tapped the white space, and chuckled, and shook his head, like an indulgent father. “Billy, Billy, what am I going to do with you? Couldn’t you remember to print it out? Here, use mine and photocopy it to me after the meeting. Did we get the form letters out?”
The Year's Best SF 12 # 1994 Page 62
