Stepping Up (2 page)

I don’t have a ton of cash saved up, so I am going to have
to let Jimmy do something I don’t like to let him (or anyone else) do: pay my
way.  I like to be courted and charmed as much as the next girl.  I’d never
want him, or any other guy, to think I was leading him on.  But let just one
feel like I owe him something after springing for a meal and a movie, and I’ll
drop kick him in the esophagus.  Hmm, maybe Jimmy was the one helping me hide bodies. 
That would explain a few things and the blank spots in my memory. 

For my aesthetic efforts I don’t go crazy, but Jimmy does
rate a shower and fresh clothes at a minimum.  I select a nice, but not too
nice, skirt and shirt combo.  The black pumps and a 4mm automatic in a garter
holster complete my preparation.  It’s a night out with my best friend, but
this is still Tammuz.  I consider makeup, but decide I don’t have time to look
like I’m not wearing any.  I did scrub my face in the shower. The door chimes
precisely at 1929.  How can you
not
love a man who is on time every
time?

Jimmy took the time to primp a bit as well.  He says he
never played, but he wears a rugby shirt very well. 
And why can’t I ever
find jeans that fit me like that? Is that gel in his hair?

“Dearest one, you never fail to amaze me,” he says.  “How
could you have had time to accomplish such wonders of transformation from the
soiled guttersnipe I saw only this afternoon to the breathtaking beauty now
standing before me?”  He dodges the punch I pretend to throw at him. I love him
and throw a hug around his neck and hold him.  Tight.  Vise tight. Pit Bull
tight. He starts to grunt, feigning choking.  He’s patting me on the arms,
tapping out. “Sweetie, Jimmy can’t breathe.  The tunnel vision starts.  Sonia,
everything is going black.  Goodbye, cruel world! Hello, my faithful…Ah! That’s
better.  Thank you.  Shall we be off to the diner?”

Jimmy wasn’t kidding about the pseudo food.  I didn’t
believe it was possible to ruin krill, soy or plankton.   The new “chef” at The
Ranch has proven me wrong.  It’s supposed to be tasteless aside from the
artificial flavoring.  The base, whatever it was, must have spoiled.  Between
us, Jimmy and I empty a bottle of hot sauce in order to make it almost
palatable.  But there’s something to be said for suffering through a meal with
one’s closest friend.  He’s not cheap by any means, but feeding two people real
food just isn’t in his budget—or mine, for that matter.  But like I keep
telling him, I’m not here for the menu.  I’m here because my best friend
invited me.

The Zombie Sentinels
is a singularly unremarkable
movie.  The only thing that makes it bearable is watching it with Jimmy, my
dearest friend.  I consider using the time to make out with him.  But I can
pick up those vibes in his persona that he’s not exactly in favor of it. 
That’s what makes our relationship really work:  There are few physical
expectations between us.

My perCom buzzes three times.  I silence each call without
looking at the unit.  I stare down other patrons.  If I were having a
conversation I’d understand and probably agree with the scorn.  I’m not. 
Anybody can receive a message.  You’d have to be pretty foul to
answer
anything other than a text message in a public forum where others are trying to
hear what’s happening in the attraction.

“Didn’t you tell your other boyfriend you were on a date
with the man of his mama’s dreams?” Jimmy whispers.

“Jimmy, that is disturbing on so many levels.  And your hand
continues to creep from my shoulder; does it have a destination?”

“Oh that? Silly me, I forgot I had neurologically isolated
that wrist.  I’ll give it such a talking to later.”  Instead he uncoils his arm
from around me and our fingers interleave on the common armrest.  I can’t fault
him; if I do say so myself, I’m a hottie. And I should be. I’ve worked hard
enough for it.  Mummy added a lot, and Da did his fair share too.  Granted,
most of his contribution was from his ancestors, but it’s still from him. And
each of them taught me to take what I was given and improve on it. Considering
I’m 5 feet 7 inches, 33B-24-34 and tip the scales at just under 110 pounds, I
like to think I’ve done just a bit of that.

After the movie, Jimmy walks me back to the comfortable
squalor that is my apartment.  We stop at the door. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he
says.  “If you had any of the good stuff you’d invite me in for a night cap.”

I feign personal injury.  “Hey, you’ve made it further than
most.  The last guy that took me to a movie had to leave in the middle of it. 
Something about an emergency testicular reconstruction, if I remember
correctly.  The fellow before him I left at the train station.”

“You told me.  But I remember you mentioning having given
him a field tracheotomy with a folded paper napkin, or something similarly
unladylike.  Well, many adjectives will be used in the as yet unpublished
biography of James Theophilus Beezler III, Esquire.  But ungentlemanly will
never be among them.”

“As it happens, I do have a half bottle of merlot.  It’s not
the best, but once you choke the first mouthful down, the rest follows rather
easily.”

He laughs, “I’m sure that’s the case.  Sadly, I believe both
of us have early mornings.  Good night my sweet Sonia.”

“Good night, Jimmy.”  We exchange a lingering hug, a loving
but sibling-ish kiss, and then he’s on his way home.  I tap in the access code
and press my thumb to the lock pad of my door.  A ferocious feline yowl greets
me as I open the door to my flat and hear four feline feet thud down the length
of the apartment. “Oh, you poor baby, has nobody fed you in the past three
hours?”  Fuzzbutt tops the scales at eleven pounds easy.  He’s missed many
things but the word “meal” is conspicuously absent from the list.  His yellow
eyes bore into me from his black fur.  Just to shut him up, I pour a scoop of
kitty kibble into his bowl.  He plops down and begins to crunch it with gusto. 
I watch him for a few minutes.  I actually envy him a little; he has no
worries.  I, on the other hand, am not sure from where his next meal will
come—well, his next bag of meals anyway.

 I check my inbox:

•          
Granger
: Mr. Hanson has sent a text. 
Apparently it is from his room at the starport hotel.
Come by anytime from
1930 to 2200, room 112, I’ll look you over and evaluate your resume.
(Sounds
like someone expects me to be an associate mattress tester.  No thanks.)
Delete.

•          
FarGazer
: Ms. Boudreaux left a voicemail:
Thank you for your interest. As long as you’ve had Basic Engineering 201,
you can start as a spacer apprenticed to one of our journeyman engineers. Come
by the SAO anytime 0800 to 1630, Monday through Friday.
(Maybe.  But I want
to be an engineer not someone’s wrench spinner.  I’m doing that now.  And I
went way past 201.) I’ll keep it for future reference.

•          
Night Searcher
: another voice mail:
Hello
Miss MacTaggert. We are filling three slots and an engineer is one of them.
Please come by our launch in bay 114 and take a skills assessment examination
anytime within the next 24 hours. The ship departs for Saxon this Sunday at
1700.
  (Score! They are looking to hire!)

I look at myself in the mirror.  I see something I rarely
see when it’s just me:  a smile.
Lass, ye may have struck pay dirt.  Get
some sack time, then go.
My ancestry manages to peek through when I get
excited.  I go to bed, but I have trouble sleeping.

The alarm sounds way too early, and turning it off is
very satisfying.  But, as I’m not going to the Maintenance Pit this morning,
I’m not in any real hurry.  I stretch lazily and look to my right.  I’d like to
doze back off, but Fuzzbutt is giving me that “Feed me” look.  I pick him up
and set him on my belly, absentmindedly scratching his sides and throat.  He
purrs contentedly for a few minutes, then reminds me that it’s breakfast time. 
He jumps from me and stomps off to the kitchen.  I swing my feet to the floor. 
There’s an unread text message in my perCom.  It’s from Morrie: 
Where are
you and that coffee you mentioned? You have a busy day today.  Don’t be late.
 
Delete.

I surprise myself a bit this morning.  Ever since I’ve been
working for Morrie, I’ve never had to make wardrobe decisions before
breakfast.  Now I find myself in front of my closet in complete brain-lock
trying to decide between coveralls and presentable clothes.  I consider wearing
what I wore to the movie last night, but I can still smell the popcorn Jimmy
spilled on me.  I opt for another blouse/skirt ensemble.  Hair?  I put it up in
something simple, efficient but still attractive.  Maybe it will give the right
subliminal signal.

After a quick breakfast, I grab my notebook and head to bay
114. For a small notebook, it contains a lot of information, most of it
reference material.  I put it together in school. It’s true that I could use my
perCom to hold the same information, but the notebook has a ten-inch screen
while the perCom’s is only three.  Besides, it holds most of the more esoteric
equations and transferring from notebook to perCom is inconvenient.  I use it
more for procedures and check lists than anything else.  The small craft bays
are anything but easy to find.  One fourteen is a little hidden, and the route
labyrinthine, especially as I have to circumvent Morrie and my old post.  And
I’d rather Jimmy not see me here all dolled up either.  He gave me the contact
so he has probably guessed I’m leaving.  But I don’t want to rub it in his
face. There’s bay 114.  My perCom beeps.  It’s Morrie.  Ignore.  His face I
will rub it in.  When the time is right, I will rub hard.  I’ll leave scars
I’ll rub his face in it so hard. It’s a good time to silence the unit as well.

There’s a Ship’s Boat here with an access hatch for the
forward landing gear open.  The first person I see is a mechanic working on the
landing strut for the Balder class ship’s launch.  He’s trying to start his
welding rig, and isn’t having a lot of success with it. I tap him on the
shoulder.  “Hi, I’m Sonia MacTaggert. I’m looking for Aria. She invited me to
take a skills assessment test for an Engineer job.”

He pushes his mask up and looks at me. He’s not a happy
man.  His face is lined with irritation and drenched in frustration. “Up the
ramp and aft,” he growls, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.  To
further communicate his irritation, he hurls his mask in the same direction.

Before heading up the ramp, I take a chance. “Those machines
can be difficult. Would you mind if I give it a look?”  I get that “Are you
serious?” look.  I’m used to it.  “I am here for the Engineer’s job.  I know a
few things about machinery.”

That makes his mind up.  He’s happy for the break.  “Be my
guest.” He stands to the side, sipping from a cup of what I guess is
coffee—cold, judging by the way he throws it to the side. I reach for a pair of
safety goggles as these rigs can spit from time to time.  And it just won’t do
to go to an interview with electrical burns to the eyeballs.  Looking it over,
I don’t see anything obvious. 
If I apply power, this relay should close
.

I trace what I think should happen in the machine with my
finger.  But the light isn’t coming on.  I spin the unit around.  “Have you
checked the secondary input capacitors? I see the indicators for the primaries
out here of course, but aren’t there six internal ones behind this panel? I
don’t think you’re getting power downstream like you should.  If one or more
are out…”

He looks at it from where he stands, weighing my advice.  He
has one hand on his hip. With the other he scratches his head. “You may be
right.  I’ll snatch it off and check them.”  He holds out a rag.  I hand him
the goggles and use his proffered rag to wipe the grease and dust from my
hands. Walking into the shuttle, I turn to my right, towards the rear.  There’s
a man sitting at a desk.

“Good morning Miss MacTaggert, won’t you come in?  Please
call me Malcolm.” He sees my surprised expression at his calling me by name. 
“I heard you talking to Jack.  If you’ll have a seat there and activate that
holoCom it will guide you through the examination process.”

“Is this by chance an open book test?” I ask, holding up my
notebook.

He smiles in what is clearly meant to be a disarming
fashion, “Miss MacTaggert, life is an open book test.”  This man could be a
toothpaste model, or a poster boy for the local cosmetic orthodontist.

I sit down, get comfortable, and start the test.  I work
through it, referring to my notes as needed. Either I remember more from school
than I thought, or they aren’t looking for much of an engineer.  But the
questions are all over the place:  a little theory, some mid-level math
problems, a little problem solving.  All in all, there’s nothing really
difficult.  But they are probably looking for a generalist, not a department
head or anything.  My head snaps up.  I smell coffee.  Malcolm catches my
predatory gaze. This girl is on the hunt.

“I just put it on.  Cream or sugar?” he asks.

“Black please, thank you.”  I hadn’t even heard him leave
the room.

I hear the welder’s starting whine as it spools up along
with a barely muted string of profanity.  If I was right, I hope he doesn’t
hold it against me. I suppress a grin when I hear the mechanic growl: “I hope
those bozos hire her.  Pretty and smart. It will be a welcome change.”  I
glance up at Malcolm.  He is trying to remain impassive, pretending not to have
heard. I can only grin at the obvious façade. He gets up from his desk and
heads forward, returning with two steaming cups of coffee.  He sets one in
front of me without a word.

When I finish the test, I look around for Malcolm. He’s
still at his desk, leafing through a magazine with page after page of glossy
airbrushed beauties.  “Any idea when they’ll be making hiring decisions?” I
ask.

Malcolm quickly hides his magazine and starts to answer when
a beautiful woman walks into the compartment.  He defers to her.  “This way
please, my dear,” she says to me. “You may bring your coffee with you if you
wish.”

I leave it.  If this is the interview I don’t want to spill
it. Or slurp it. Or spew it at the wrong question. She leads me forward into a
small office that is adjacent to the launch’s cockpit.  “Please call me, Aria,
I am Chief of Operations for
Night Searcher
.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Aria. I’m Sonia MacTaggert.” 
I put my hand out. She shakes it.  Odd, you don’t often meet a person in the
service who doesn’t use a surname, no matter how hard it is to pronounce.  But
another beauty of the merchant forces is that very few ranks get used.  There
is a desk in the room. But rather than move behind it, she sits at one of the
two chairs in front of it, indicating the other for me.  The chairs swivel and
we face each other.

“These are impressive scores. More so considering your
lackluster resume.”  Ouch! There are a handful of knuckles in that compliment.
She lays the clipboard on the desk and, folding her hands, continues: “I have
four or five questions for you.”

I settle in; I’m ready.  I know this chair has a back.  I
saw it.  I put my hand on it when I sat down.  But perched on the leading edge
of the chair, I can’t feel it.  The interview is where I typically blow it.  I
really hope I can break that pattern—especially after that very flattering gut
punch.

Aria begins her questions: “One: Would you consider a
starting wage of one thousand two hundred credits per week?”

I remember all the interview tips from college.  If you want
to try for a higher salary, repeat the amount and be quiet for a four count. I
fail horribly. “Twelve hundred per week?”  I blurt out.  I couldn’t help it. It
came out with a hint of surprise to it. That’s at least three times what I was
making at the yards. “Yes, ma’am, that will do just fine.”

“Two: Is there anything preventing you from long voyages?
Family concerns? Husband? Children? Employment contracts or indenture
agreements still in effect?”

“Nothing, ma’am. I’m free to travel wherever and whenever I
wish. In fact, I’m looking forward to seeing other planets, other
civilizations, other cultures.”

“Three:  Would you define yourself as heterosexual, a
lesbian or somewhere between the two?”

Spit! Hangnails! Stinky feet!
  And I thought things
were going so well. I wish I’d brought the coffee now.  I’d throw it at her. I
can feel the color flooding into my face and the brogue into my voice. “What
impact does my sexual orientation have on my engineering abilities?  I’m an
engineer, not a courtesan.  I thought you were hiring engineers.  Are you
really wanting concubines?”  I fight the tears, but they are trying so hard to
fall. I gather my things, preparing to leave.

“Sexual orientation means a lot, but it will not keep me
from hiring you. For the moment I will classify you as ‘asexual.’  Four: do you
prefer working alone, or with a partner?”

Like it matters anymore.
“I can work on my own or as
a team.  Sure, it’s beneficial to have another pair of eyes and hands
sometimes, but there are also advantages to knowing what’s already been
considered and discarded with no arguments.” It’s a hack answer.  I can’t think
straight.  I’m still fuming over the sex question.  I practically spit my
answer at her.

She leans back and looks at me over her steepled fingers.  I
reach for my notebook.  I’ve blown it big time.  I lost my cool on one of the
questions.  That’s never a good thing.  Well, the coffee was good.  I guess
it’s true:  If you want to get ahead, you have to give some.  The silence is
uncomfortable, borderline unbearable.  I wonder if Morrie is too pissed to take
me back?  I start to stand then Aria speaks.

“Five:  Can you return here no later than 1700 on Sunday so
we can get you settled in and begin your orientation?”

I can’t speak.  I had completely forgotten she said four
or
five questions. I just look at her.  My mouth is hanging open. I can feel it.
“Miss MacTaggert?” she waves her hand in front of my face. My trance breaks. 
“Is there a problem?”

“I, uh, NO.”
Dial it back a bit Sonia that was way loud.
“I mean ‘no, no problem.’  I got the job?”

She chuckles. “Yes, Sonia, you have the job, if you want it.
You will work with our engines. I presume you still want to ship out with
Night
Searcher
?  And rest assured, there is no swimsuit phase of this interview.”
We both chuckle, the tension fades. “Now, have you any questions of me?”

“Just a few things. I forgot to thank you for your
compliment on my scores.  And I’m also sorry if I came off like a bitch.  As a
pretty woman yourself, I’m sure you know, it’s hard to be taken seriously as
anything other than a sex toy.  I thought I was done when you asked about my
sex life.  For the record though, I’m a flaming heterosexual, if it makes a
difference that is.  Well, ‘smoldering’ might be a better description.  That
is…let’s just say I’m no longer in the wrapper but still shiny and leave it at
that. 1700 Sunday? I’ll be here.  One, okay two, questions: Belongings-wise,
what is my limit? Fifty kilograms? Also I’d like to do some research on your
engines. Can you tell me which ones you have?  And thanks again for the
opportunity.”

“Rest assured, offense was neither intended nor taken. As to
your belongings, they must fit in one of those.” She points to a container that
I figure must hold four cubic meters, a collapsible fat footlocker. “Anything
else you will have to pay to transport. Either cash up front or payroll
deduction is acceptable. No vehicles, household goods, pets, etc. The Transit
drives are Sinnair E545s, so they are uronium crystal powered. The maneuver
drives are Daystar 9Q250s.  The specifications of each are, of course,
classified.  You may peruse those manuals at length when you come aboard, but
not until then.  If you wish to be quartered earlier, come back any time after
zero nine hundred tomorrow.”  Aria hands me a footlocker in its collapsed
configuration.  It’s not much in size and fits easily under my arm, but it will
grow to hold a considerable amount.

That’s it? I’ve been hired? “Excellent.  I have some
belongings I’ll need to either sell or store which is my problem not yours, so
tomorrow afternoon is fine.  I’ll see you then, and thank you again!”  I head
down the ramp. It takes deliberate, conscious effort not to skip.  The spacer
is still working on the landing strut. I give him a thumbs-up and a wave.  He
returns both gestures.  He smiles at me, I beam back at him.

Back at home I start filling the footlocker, mostly work and
relaxation clothes.  I have a few semi-formal dresses and skirts. I toss one of
each into the bag—one never knows. I’ll bring my “homey” things: music discs,
photocubes, and things like that.  The rest of it goes to a bin for sale at the
pawnshop.  Whatever won’t sell will go into the church’s donation bin. 
Fuzzbutt will go to the crazy lady across the way who could never be troubled
to mind her own business.  She has always implied psionic ability, let’s see
her get any secrets out of
him
. Fortunately, the apartment came
furnished, so I am spared the headache of disposing of the furniture.  I will,
however, buy myself a bigger pistol.  Da always said the four-millimeter was a
fitting girl’s gun, so I started there.  But Mummy always preferred a nine, so
I’ll promote myself to one of those.