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Authors: Jim Munroe
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hand.
“Use the cutting board for that, hon,” she said, distractedly. “There’s an entry level position in the media conglom. Low stress. No physical presence needed. Fifty hours a week, but most of that just on call.”
“No suit or anything, huh?” I said, chomping into the bun, holding my hand under it to catch the crumbs.
“Just for the prelims.”
I scowled a bit, pretended that really disturbed me. Mom rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
She shook her head. “Open file, recruit: Breen, Samuel.” Light danced across her eyes as she accessed my file, adding to the angry sparks there. “Mark it closed. Erase file.”
I smiled. That was dramatic, since she could have done it by blinking rather than voice. “How are you doing with the new school crop?” I said pleasantly.
“Better than ever,” she snapped, still online. “Who in their right minds would turn down a conglom job?”
“This Urasan spread is just delicious,” I said, my mouth half-full.
“And you know that... offworld job doesn’t qualify you for any of the trust fund—”
“Oh, I know. Why don’t you do something with it?”
“I can’t invest frozen money, Samuel. The market is so good right now. There would be four or five investments that would be just perfect. ”
The look on her face was frustrated misery. It was a look that wouldn’t have been out of place when Jane left, or Grandpa died, but it hadn’t been there in either of these cases.
I decided to cut to the chase. “You know I don’t want it,” I snapped.
“You don’t want to be out of debt?”
“I don’t want money that was made from planetary renovations. The slave planets —”
“Oh, stop that — that neo-abolitionist nonsense was fine for your university days, but they’re over now.”
I had finished my sandwich and walked out, saving my rage for the scrap that night.
In front of the mirror, waiting for Mr. Zik, I wondered how much the Urasan spread cost on Octavia. Or if the green delicacy was even available. And if my mom would ever get worked up about anything other than a missed business opportunity.
I saw Mr. Zik’s saucer pull up, and I went out to meet him.
“You look very handsome,” he said, his tentacles rippling with pleasure.
“Thanks,” I said.
***
I nodded and smiled, trying not to wince every time the old guy looked at me. His eyes were traced with red and white cracks. He said something, and I was sure he was asking about my translator.
“Supervisor Lok would like you to be very welcome,” translated Mr. Zik.
Supervisor Lok was sipping his tea, unfortunately opening his mouth to do so. I thanked him in Octavian.
He nodded, looking out the roof. There was a dome window that looked quite expensive. I looked up at it again. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I glanced over at Mr. Zik, who was incredibly nervous. He kept smoothing his headcrest down, and glancing between the two of us. I felt a little sorry for him, and tried to answer the ugly little man’s questions properly.
I sipped at the tea. It was woody with an unpleasant sweetness.
The office of the supervisor was plushly furnished, and didn’t look like a lot of work got done in it. I looked over at the supervisor, who was calmly drinking his tea, and felt a surge of dislike for him for the anxiety he caused Mr. Zik. He wasn’t doing anything to encourage it, from what I could see, but neither did he try to lessen it.
The supervisor said something else, holding forth for a few sentences, a tentacle poised in the air.
“He said that you are an important part in Octavia’s... desire to become more galactic,” Mr. Zik told me.
I nodded, and waited for the rest. Nothing. Was he a redundant blowhard, or was Mr. Zik choosing what to tell me? Not that I necessarily wanted the long version — I had heard the party line already. To remain/become competitive, planets had to learn the tongue of
“Use the cutting board for that, hon,” she said, distractedly. “There’s an entry level position in the media conglom. Low stress. No physical presence needed. Fifty hours a week, but most of that just on call.”
“No suit or anything, huh?” I said, chomping into the bun, holding my hand under it to catch the crumbs.
“Just for the prelims.”
I scowled a bit, pretended that really disturbed me. Mom rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
She shook her head. “Open file, recruit: Breen, Samuel.” Light danced across her eyes as she accessed my file, adding to the angry sparks there. “Mark it closed. Erase file.”
I smiled. That was dramatic, since she could have done it by blinking rather than voice. “How are you doing with the new school crop?” I said pleasantly.
“Better than ever,” she snapped, still online. “Who in their right minds would turn down a conglom job?”
“This Urasan spread is just delicious,” I said, my mouth half-full.
“And you know that... offworld job doesn’t qualify you for any of the trust fund—”
“Oh, I know. Why don’t you do something with it?”
“I can’t invest frozen money, Samuel. The market is so good right now. There would be four or five investments that would be just perfect. ”
The look on her face was frustrated misery. It was a look that wouldn’t have been out of place when Jane left, or Grandpa died, but it hadn’t been there in either of these cases.
I decided to cut to the chase. “You know I don’t want it,” I snapped.
“You don’t want to be out of debt?”
“I don’t want money that was made from planetary renovations. The slave planets —”
“Oh, stop that — that neo-abolitionist nonsense was fine for your university days, but they’re over now.”
I had finished my sandwich and walked out, saving my rage for the scrap that night.
In front of the mirror, waiting for Mr. Zik, I wondered how much the Urasan spread cost on Octavia. Or if the green delicacy was even available. And if my mom would ever get worked up about anything other than a missed business opportunity.
I saw Mr. Zik’s saucer pull up, and I went out to meet him.
“You look very handsome,” he said, his tentacles rippling with pleasure.
“Thanks,” I said.
***
I nodded and smiled, trying not to wince every time the old guy looked at me. His eyes were traced with red and white cracks. He said something, and I was sure he was asking about my translator.
“Supervisor Lok would like you to be very welcome,” translated Mr. Zik.
Supervisor Lok was sipping his tea, unfortunately opening his mouth to do so. I thanked him in Octavian.
He nodded, looking out the roof. There was a dome window that looked quite expensive. I looked up at it again. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I glanced over at Mr. Zik, who was incredibly nervous. He kept smoothing his headcrest down, and glancing between the two of us. I felt a little sorry for him, and tried to answer the ugly little man’s questions properly.
I sipped at the tea. It was woody with an unpleasant sweetness.
The office of the supervisor was plushly furnished, and didn’t look like a lot of work got done in it. I looked over at the supervisor, who was calmly drinking his tea, and felt a surge of dislike for him for the anxiety he caused Mr. Zik. He wasn’t doing anything to encourage it, from what I could see, but neither did he try to lessen it.
The supervisor said something else, holding forth for a few sentences, a tentacle poised in the air.
“He said that you are an important part in Octavia’s... desire to become more galactic,” Mr. Zik told me.
I nodded, and waited for the rest. Nothing. Was he a redundant blowhard, or was Mr. Zik choosing what to tell me? Not that I necessarily wanted the long version — I had heard the party line already. To remain/become competitive, planets had to learn the tongue of
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