I watched as she walked away, confused as fuck. Not about the company takeover. No, that wasn’t a surprise. Cadinoff ate the smaller start-ups like a starving monster. I was confused as to why Cadinoff’s loyal foot soldier was giving me the heads up about it. What was in it for her?
* * * *
I got roped into lunch with other alumni of Becker Academy. I wasn’t strong-armed into it, but I was stuck in the unenviable position of having no good excuse to duck out, so I ended up at an uninspiring banquet table surrounded by other engineers. To a one, every other alumnus had gone on to some prestigious corporate career. They made millions.
The guy on my right, Benjamin Brassard, had been in the graduating class just behind mine. He wore what looked like your bog-standard polo shirt/trouser combo. Looks were deceiving, however, and that Elfanta polo shirt cost as much as I earned in a year. The trousers? I’d have to drain my savings account to get them.
That was a joke. I didn’t have a savings account. The only way I’d get those trousers was if I stole them.
Brassard laughed like gold coins were going to spurt from his throat. Oh, and he worked for Sev Tech, one of Cadinoff’s big competitors. I hated both of the big corporations, so that didn’t earn any brownie points with me.
Holding his glass of wine, Brassard leaned forward, “This new design will revolutionize the way we think about engines, I swear.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, even as excitement fluttered among the other attendees. Everybody spoke in these grandiose terms, about “revolutionizing” the industry or “chop-socking” the universal constant. In the end, it never amounted to anything more than some modest, incremental improvement. The jazzy language was just to hoist up the profit potential.
My lack of enthusiasm must have been noticeable because Audrie Tritton, across from me, raised an eyebrow. “What projects are you working on, Henderson?”
The Solar Forward 280 wasn’t nearly as impressive, but I didn’t have much else to offer. Cadinoff had gotten a design out of me—against my wishes. Since then, my mind had been an empty canvas. But this was a lunch to show off accomplishments, so I had to make up something.
“I’m doing freelance for a certain organization. I’m not allowed to talk about it, but it’ll be pretty big when it’s released.”
That was so obviously bullshit, the table quieted in a moment of silence to memorialize my embarrassment.
Brassard cleared his throat. “I saw you were speaking to Myka Benton.”
I grimaced, downing my wine. “She was speaking to me, rather.”
“What about?”
“Oh, she was telling me all the Cadinoff secrets, Brassy.” Dumbass. “Come on. She was just doing what she usually does. Show up, hint around at things, then leave. It’s her whole thing.”
“Wait, who?” The woman on the other side of me, Charli Paradis, joined in. “Myka Benton? You’ve talked to Myka Benton?”
“Yeah, haven’t most people here?”
All I got were blank stares from my fellow alumni. “Myka’s the personal attaché to Adela Glezos, herself,” Brassard said. “She doesn’t flit around talking to people willy-nilly.”
A kind wait-bot had refilled my wineglass, so I downed the new alcoholic offering. “Well, she does to me.”
A scrawny man next to Charli sank in his seat. “I’ve been trying to get a meeting with her for months.”
“It’s hard to get her attention. Even my team has tried to reach out to her for a future project.” Brassard’s gaze threatened to drill a hole in me.
“It’s ‘cause you refuse to take any job offers,” Charlie said.
“I have a job,” I objected.
“Working at a run-down shop in the middle of the Back 40 isn’t a real job, El. Be sensible.”
This was why I hated these types of expos. Inevitably, it ended with people chiding me for striking out as an independent rather than cashing in on the big corporate bucks. There’s only so much of that I could take, and with a luncheon I was gonna get it in surround sound. I rolled my eyes to cut things off at the pass. Another drink arrived. Good wait-bot.
“Maybe she fancies you,” Brassard said lazily.
That would have prompted a spit-take if I’d had any wine in my mouth. Fortunately, I’d just downed it all—again—when they’d insulted my shop.
Brassard shrugged. “Contractors need love to, you know.”
Contractors were the unlucky class of colonists. Basically, a company owned a contract on their services. Contractors worked purely to pay off debts, whether inherited from their family at birth or their own. They earned no extra income. Oh, they got living expenses covered, and they could move up the ranks to some pretty respectable positions. But most contractors never managed to pay back the debt in their lifetime. The most they could hope for was to pass on less debt to any children they had.
I felt sympathy for most contractors, but Myka was different. She was like an empty person. No substance. No time for hobbies or a social life. And I never got the vibe that she disliked it. Most contractors were menial workers. Bottom of the ladder. But Myka had to be ambitious to become the personal assistant to a Cadinoff regional VP. She enjoyed what she did. It’s fucked up.
I shook my head. “Contractors don’t have the freedom to fancy anyone.”
Brassard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe. But a contractor who did fancy someone would be a very attractive damsel in distress.”
Charli wrinkled her nose. “Ew. Keep your fantasies to yourself, Brassard.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Besides,” I continued as I lit up another cigarette. “I’m not Myka Benton’s fucking prince.”
* * * *
As Myka had promised, I was admitted upon showing up
