“Glornash, report to Management Level Three immediately. Glornash to Management Level Three.”
For an instant, the center went silent as every optical organ in the room snapped to Glornash. She felt the pulmonary fluid drain from her facial area. Being called to the Management Level meant dealing with Management. The hiccup went away, almost as soon as it occurred, returning at once to the buzz of voices. Glornash straightened up, and with her cranium held high, she sashayed to the lift. She gave the floor one last visual scan before the doors snapped shut and the car shot downward.
Glornash wrapped a flipper around the support beam and leaned her weight against it to keep her lower extremities from buckling. Fortunately, the trip didn’t last long enough for Glornash to obsess over why she could be called before management—long enough to wonder, but not obsess.
The doors hissed open. Glornash hesitated, not knowing exactly what was expected of her.
“Floor Supervisor Glornash, come forward and be identified.”
She did what she was told. Only a step or two beyond and the elevator doors thudded closed behind her, sealing with a threatening hiss. Glornash gulped, anxiety flooding its adrenal system. “What can I do for Management? I exist to serve.”
“We know you do, Glornash. This is your Performance Review.”
Glornash gathered every ounce of will to keep upright, as every bone in her body seemed to liquefy. She had heard about Performance Reviews before, but she had never been subjected to one. Status updates and annual checkups were standard in order to gain promotion and wage increases, but never, ever a Performance Review. Few came back from this--the highest, most invasive of meetings. It was, in part, how some promotions became available.
“I...I exist to serve?” Fear made her response more question than statement. “May I ask why now?”
“It is your time.”
“I’m...ready?”
“You will be subjected to a battery of tests--physical and psychological. At the conclusion, you will be informed of the results. There is only one thing to remember: be completely honest with your answers. Do not tell us what you think we wish to hear, or what you think would make the company look good. We will know when you’re not being truthful--even to the detriment of yourself or the company. Do you understand?”
“Yes, completely. I understand.” Glornash said the words automatically. She just hoped they wouldn’t use the orifice tubes on her. Even though her sole purpose in life was to sell orifice tubes to races across the galaxy, the thought of ever having one used on any of her orifices made her epidermis crawl. She never wanted first flipper knowledge of their intended uses.
Glornash didn’t see the beings that strapped her into the chair-like device. Actually, after the light in her optical system and a stick in her flipper, Glornash didn’t remember much of anything. She only knew the next thing she recalled was stepping back off the lift onto the call center floor.
“Floor Supervisor! There you are! We’ve had a huge upsurge in calls. MX-27 needs your authorization on a collectible call. And we’re seeing bizarre fluctuations in server speeds.”
“Call in some temps from the pool to handle call volume. Get tech support into the server room. Tell them to do whatever it takes. We need those hamsters running at peak capacity.” Glornash was halfway to MX-27’s cubical before the words were out of her mouth. “Now, what’s the problem here?”
“My caller is determined to purchase more than the strict limit of five we have on the commercial. He is determined to speak with a supervisor,” MX-27 sounded frazzled. Not a good sign.
Glornash plugged her cranial set into MX-27s communications console. She didn’t remember putting the set around her spinal stalk, but that didn’t matter now. “I am Supervisor Glornash. How may I help you?” She listened for a moment. “I am sorry, but because of the genuine Floridium coating, we must adhere to the strict five unit limit. The demand is too great to make any exceptions. We include documents of authenticity and-- Now getting verbally excited isn’t going to help. The manufacturer sets the limits. Yes, I understand, but there’s nothing I can do about the limit. What I can do is authorize free shipping and handling, which is highly irregular. I’ll even upgrade that to priority shipping for no additional charge. Yes, sir. Thank you for your order. I will now hand you back to your operator to finish your order. Thank you.”
Glornash nodded to MX-27 as she disconnected the cranial set. Though MX-27 was already taking payment information, she stared at Glornash with an expression of awe--or constipation--it was hard to tell with her particular species. But that was not Glornash’s concern; the commotion erupting from the production rooms, threatening to disrupt the call center, took precedence.
“Quick! Catch him before he spreads!”
Glornash saw one of the organic spokesbots--maybe even the Vince Offer/Larian from earlier--barreling towards her, its hair aflame, and epidermis splotched a bluish-purple. Glornash only had nanoseconds to realize that this wasn’t typical for the bot’s species specifications.
Emergency protocol drills slammed into muscle-memory place as alarms whooped into life. Glornash spread her flippers. The left side took the bot in the neck, sending it to the floor, as the right side flipper snagged a chemical extinguisher from the wall and sprayed down the bot to extinguish the flames and hopefully neutralize whatever had turned it purple. The extinguishers in the call center were much more advanced than simple fire suppressants.
“Thank you, Floor Supervisor! You saved us all!” The production assistant slid to a halt next to the downed bot and sprayed it with another chemical. “Antidote for the side effects. There is no danger now.”
Glornash turned back to get the call center back up and running, only to discover that none of the beings on her watch even had a cranium up out of his/her/its cubicle. Only a few with multiple optical orifices--some all the way around the cranium--even seemed to be watching the commotion while they continued to take calls.
Glornash tried not to swell with pride--after all, it was simply her job to keep the call center running smoothly. She left the bot to the production department and flowed around the center one last time before heading to her own clear-walled office, on the edge of the floor. She had reports to file.
Just as Glornash settled behind her workstation, she noticed the flashing alert of a message. It was probably an update on new products or tech support alerts. At the worst, it was a product recall. She hated recalls. Recalls meant refunds. Refunds caused her to break out in allergic reactions.
Glornash, your service to the company has been noticed and commended. Management would like to discuss your future with the company today, after your shift. Please confirm.
Glornash blinked at her screen. Her mind went completely blank with shock and not a small amount of awe. She did her job to the best of her ability and took personal pride in her success. The fact that Management had noticed Glornash’s hard work excited her almost to the point of meiosis. She confirmed the message automatically. They offered her an opportunity of a lifetime; of course she was going to the meeting.
Glornash went through the rest of the shift on automatic pilot. Fortunately, the shift concluded without further incident. For the first time in her long career, her mind was not on her work. Glornash wondered what Management wanted with her. Soon enough, and yet an eternity later, the end-of-shift alert clanged. Glornash watched her charges shut down their workstations, pack up their possessions, and shuffle out.
She filed her last report, the accounting of the shift’s activities, and sent it on before acknowledging the meeting reminder. She shut down the workstation and flippered off the lights. She oozed over to the lift and pressed the button for management level. Glornash was more used to the trip this time, not that it helped at all.
She slid out of the lift when it stopped and looked aro
und the darkened corridor. She realized she had no idea where she was supped to go. As she scanned the corridor, a door opened at the far end, on its own. She headed toward the diffuse light that spilled out onto the floor. Glornash’s esophagus went dusty dry as she moved toward the light, against every base survival instinct in her body.
“Welcome, Floor Supervisor Glornash. Come in. We’ve been expecting you.”
Glornash eased inside and tried not to start when the door sealed shut behind her. She turned back toward the voice, but could see nothing but light. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“We did, Glornash. Your record and reputation are exemplary. You passed your performance review with flying colors.”
“Um, thank you?” Glornash wasn’t sure how she should respond to the statement. “I live to serve.”
“And that’s what we wanted to discuss with you.”
“All right.”
“You have qualities that we find, though not lacking, in need of bolstering within the company. You have a capacity for compassion and empathy that we wish to nurture, and your leadership skills are unparalleled.”
Glornash was both elated and thoroughly lost. She would take the compliment where she could get it. “Again, thank you.”
“We want to ensure that your future and your assets will continue to benefit the company.”
“I am very happy with my life here,” Glornash said guardedly.
“We are happy to hear that, but it does lead us to ask an...indelicate...question.”
“Okay...” Glornash didn’t know where any of this was going. She didn’t like being confused.
“How is your family life, Floor Supervisor?”
Glornash blinked. Life Form Resources would have a fit if they knew she was being asked such a question--not that she had any intention of reporting Management for asking. Besides, she had nothing really to report. “I have no family. Just my work.”
“Then you have nothing holding you here?”
“Am I being transferred?” Glornash knew that the company had other facilities across the cosmos, but she had only known and worked in this one.
“Of a sort, but we need to know how willing you are to be a more...permanent...fixture in the company.”
“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the company. Surely my work record has shown that. I have no desire to leave here.”
“We needed to hear it from you, to confirm what we learned through the performance review. We have been monitoring you.”
They had? Of course they had. Management was always making the company better for both the workforce and the customer. Right? But Glornash was still confused. She couldn’t see who or what addressed her, so it had no facial or body clues to indicate what was required of her. “What are we talking about? Profit sharing? Retirement program? Health benefits?”
Laughter enveloped her. “Don’t be silly. That path lays insanity. We have a different type of partnership in mind. We want to move you into Quality Assurance and, eventually, move you up the management chain. However, in order to become part of Management, you’ll have to be willing to...sacrifice.”
“Okay, I don’t have a lot to give up. I’m ready to move up in the company.” Glornash felt a brief pang of doubt.
“Think before you speak, Glornash. Once you make this decision, there is no going back. We will send you the new contract. Read it carefully. If you proceed, return the signed contract, and report back here. Take a rest cycle or two to consider. This decision affects your future and your life. It is not to be taken lightly.”
The door opened behind Glornash. The meeting was over. She headed home, brain reeling with possibilities. She was not prepared for the contract waiting for her when it arrived. The cover message told her to take the next shift off to make her decision and then give them her answer.
Glornash found the next circadian cycle difficult. The opportunity presented was impressive. The compensation was significantly higher, but so were the responsibilities and the physical requirements expected. The offer was daunting. She couldn’t relax, her brain reeled, and rest eluded her as she wrestled with the pros and cons.
Finally, Glornash knew what she had to do. She sluggishly made her way back to the call center. The wash of well wishes surrounding her return buoyed her spirits. The whole energy of the room rose the moment she was back. She couldn’t turn away from them or the company. If she accepted this promotion, she could make sure everyone--customer service representatives and customers--had the best buying experience possible. She could be part of something bigger than herself.
She sent the contract off as she finished her shift and went back to the Management Level. “I’m here. I’m ready.”
“You will be a great asset to the future of this company, Glornash. We applaud your decision. Now, if you’ll proceed through the next door, operators are standing by.”
Glornash slid through the door that opened to her right. Her optical orbits bulged a bit as a medical team wait for her. Behind them, a row of containers, containing floating bodies and brains, connected to a massive computer server bank. But she had made her decision. She was part of the company forever now.
The Art of Absence
Don Webb
Don Webb expertly unravels timeless mysteries--universal,
personal, and otherwise--as archeologist, Peggy Reynman, journeys
to the red plant to research the legendary Cylinders of Mars.
Her daddy used to bury little things in the backyard.
Mainly, George Reynman buried arrowheads that he bought at an antique store in town. Sometimes, silver coins or ten-cent pieces from a hundred years ago, when they still made coins from silver (and had denominations less than a dollar). It was all for Peggy‘s older brother, of course.
Jack wasn’t doing well in school. He was three years older than she was, and he was going to look like daddy when he grew up. She was pudgy and not going to look like anybody. Momma was famous, beautiful, and dead. Momma had died in the first Venus landing. Then, Jack stopped reading and doing math, but she had escaped into books and studies. She lived on the nets.
Daddy had meant to awaken some romantic spirit in Jack. If Jack were turned on by finding these little treasures, he might want to read about Indians or twentieth century America. Jack might get excited, do well in school, and not be so damn pale. It didn’t work. Daddy had to help Jack find the arrowheads. Daddy would uncover them with his feet while the three of them were barbecuing. He would wait for Jack to spot them, and failing this, would suddenly exclaim, “Oh, what’s this?” or some other equally inspired piece of acting. Jack would look dully at the piece of flint, sigh, and go back to eating his hamburger.
But not her.
“Princess” would be thrilled. The arrowhead would immediately become part of her ongoing story--usually a tale involving Daddy, herself, and a dragon.
Daddy lost interest in trying to bury things for Jack.
One day, when she was eight, she dug up all of the things that Daddy had ever buried. She washed them and displayed them on a big piece of burlap. Daddy looked at her as if he had never seen her before. “I’m so proud of you, Princess.”
He was glad when she told him that she wanted to be an archaeologist. He helped her find role models: Amelia Peabody, Jeanine D. Kimball, Guiniviere Marie Webb, and Mary Denning.
When she was twelve, he told her what had made him happiest was that archeology would keep her on Earth. He never talked directly about Momma dying on Venus. Momma was on a stamp. Captain Sarah Reynman.
Now, the landing on Mars was three hours away. Mars landings were no big deal, but she was scared. Not of the landing, but of the gap, the space she was making. She wanted a brave face for the cameras. Fifty-five years and a couple of books on archeology behind her, she could make a
brave face. Hell, she had faced failing freshmen. Reporters shouldn’t scare her.
She looked a good deal older.
She had been fourteen when Daddy died. Jack had been free of his depression for years; girls and puberty had cured that. He didn’t want to watch Dad dying. No one died of cancer anymore; it was tragically out-of-step with the times. It was like Dad’s arrowheads and his old junk. Jack developed an electro-stem addiction. He even wore the ugly blue helmet at the funeral.
Dad didn’t talk much, as the crazy cells ate his brain and lungs and liver. She made it her business to know everything. She understood why the cancer was inoperable. She knew its origin, in one of the plasmid diseases of the 2030’s--the Plague Decade, forty years ago. She knew everything.
And knowledge was not enough.
She would be with him every day, watched his blood, more brown then red, flow through its exsanguination tube out to be scrubbed.
“Princess. I. Want. You. To. Have. Something.”
He pulled the heavy brass watch from his chest-of-drawers. Great-grandfather’s railroad watch that he had told Jake, for years, would be his. Jake was in the basement, having a magnetically-induced experience of God.
“Keep. It. Safe.”
The spacecraft had begun its descent into Mars. She hoped a crowd wouldn’t gather to yell abuse at her, like they had done earthside. She was excited by the idea of lesser gravity. She had never been off world, not even to the Moon.
After Daddy, there was a big, empty space.
There had been lovers, men and women that filled an evening or two, but no one could fill the space.
Then there was Keith.
Keith lectured on archeology for a freshman survey course. He was young for the field, and she was young for a freshman.
The hall was full that day, half the women were in love with Keith for his curly hair and flashing eyes, but she was in love with him for his ideas.
Rayguns Over Texas Page 13
