Outside Pann’s office, a Z-5 struggled with an antique paper fastener. “I know Hiero Bell wants to kidnap and eat Farisa, but as for me, I’d be happy with a better stapler.”
Three days had passed since the Fiduciary Address. Pann had not seen the Patarich since. It had been an altogether strange presentation, with the man he had once known as the mild-mannered occupant of Room 2-13, instead of reciting boring financial facts, ranting about cannibalizing the late Dashi Zevian’s daughter.
To think of it, he had not seen much of Kayla either, but one time about an hour after the speech had ended. Kayla had fallen asleep at her desk, and when Pann roused her, her eyes were so red she looked like a subject in one of those Smitz-era experiments where people were kept awake for weeks. He knew her assignments. What had she been doing to merit such exhaustion? Or was her tiredness a sign that, in this long campaign of attrition, she was starting to give up?
When Pann realized, by his office wall clock, that it was almost ten, he hurried to the office of Michael Poor, the only Z-2 worth a damn. Z-3 Evan Bone was also in attendance.
Hiero Poor said, “Ready to synergize?”
Pann shuddered. Synergize. Was the Z-2 using this nonexistent word for irony’s sake, or had the Patriarch’s deranged presentation been a sign of a new plague, contagious brain rot?
Hiero Poor removed his glasses. “I assume you know why I called this meeting.”
“The Address,” Pann said.
Evan Bone chuckled, then shook his head, as if a bad joke had been told and required the barest acknowledgement.
Pann touched his neck. “I spent a hundred thousand to find Rychard, because I was sure his presence would drive Hampus Bell mad.”
Evan Bone said, “It worked.”
“I’m afraid there are good and bad kinds of insanity,” Michael Poor said. He looked at Pann. “It sets a tone. What’s your sense of the reception?”
Pann said, “Of the Fiduciary Address?”
“No, of Hiero Bell’s body odor. Of course, the fucking Address.”
Pann looked at Evan Bone, the other Z-3. “You might have a better sense of that. What do you hear on the fifth floor?”
“Among older executives, the feelings are negative. Many of our Z-2s have emphysema, so they didn’t like all the smoke.”
“Of course,” Pann said. “It’s hard on the lungs, to burn a body indoors, but if you can’t handle it, then maybe you shouldn’t work here. What about the young?”
Evan Bone looked at his hands. “They don’t know who Farisa is, or care. I’d wager that nine and three-fifths out of ten college kids can’t find Loran on a map. The war happened before they knew how to masturbate.”
“Or were any good at it.”
“All this said, the prevailing attitude of the young has been that the Company's getting stuffy, the work dull. They believe we elders—”
“Speak for yourself.”
“—are hogging all the interesting projects, and that the Company was a better place to work during the Cyril Era or even the Smitz Era.”
“Neither of which they actually worked through.” Pann folded his arms. “So why should we value their opinions?”
“They’re not entirely wrong,” said Z-3 Bone. “Back then, there was a world to expand into. Today, we do nothing but maintain governance.”
“The fucking young sometimes.” Pann paced. “They think they’re the first generation to get shitty assignments. They assume we’re bad at assessing talent, that we give them menial jobs out of out ignorance of some ability they have but that we’re too slow and stodgy to see. I just want to say, ‘Yes, I know the job sucks, that’s why I gave it you.’ ”
The men all laughed.
Hiero Poor said, “Pann has a point. Kids don’t realize today that, for every city we raze, fifty thousand man-hours are spent putting bread, bullets, and bombs in their right places. It can’t all be raping and pillaging; someone has to do the paperwork.”
Evan Bone opened and closed the clasp of his wristwatch. “No disagreement. The young are spoiled. I share no sympathy with their sentiment; I merely express its existence. They’re bored, so when the Patriarch promises that he will have a woman dragged back here from the other side of the world in order to personally cannibalize her, it gives them hope that we might become a more ambitious Company. It suggests that promotions will be available; this motivates them to do the work we assign them. So, in that sense, it’s not a bad thing.”
“Why do we care so much about the young?” Pann put his hands on the table. “They have no votes in the syr Konklava.”
“Isn’t it just ‘syr Konklava?’” asked Evan Bone. “‘The the Conclave’ seems foolishly redundant.”
“Fuck, now I’m doing it.” Pann’s fists tightened. “Anyway, the Z-5s and Z-6s can fend for themselves. The ones we want always do.”
Hiero Poor said, “So, Hampus Bell has Called the Company. What does this mean for us? I do not see a way for us to call syr Konklava getting my name—any of our names—on it. Does anyone know how the damn thing works?”
Evan shook his head.
Pann said, “I know that the syr Konklava—I mean, syr Konklava—can be invoked if we assemble enough people, and that we have them. The rest will require further study.”
“I suppose we should hold off until we know what we’re getting into,” said Hiero Poor. “At this point, I have business to discuss with Mr. Grackenheit.”
Z-3 Evan shifted his weight, causing one of the hinges on his chair to whine.
“That’s my polite way of asking you to leave.”
“Oh.” Evan Bone got up and left. “Shall I close the door?”
“Yes, please.”
Once the other Z-3 was gone, Michael Poor looked at the wall, then lowered his head. “You know I respect your work, Pann, but I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“What’s not to understand?”
“I’m happy to conspire against Hiero Bell, if nothing attaches itself to me. He has been a lackluster Patriarch. I just don’t see what you, personally, stand to gain. We’re going to cleave Global Electric from this dying hull in ’95—’96 at the latest. When we do, I’ll make sure I have complete autonomy over it, because Hampus Bell doesn’t give a chicken-fried shit about any of that stuff. I’d be happy to make you a Z-2 over there. You could stick to logistics, or oversee the research, or have whatever job you want.”
“That word—job—is precisely why I have to stay here,” Pann said. “It is not that I haven’t considered possibilities such as the one you offered, but the Global Company’s history is singular. Millions have perished, on both sides, to bring this Employer into being. That I possess an office here gives me true residence in the human story—no mere job, but purpose. I belong here. And I belong here as a Z-2.”
“Very well.” Hiero Poor, after glancing behind himself, smiled. “I understand your motivations, and I respect your work, but it's best to have a secondary plan. Moving against Hampus Bell requires us to be able to anticipate his behaviors, and he has become unpredictable. The Fiduciary Address, who saw that coming?”
“It’s just a tactic of his,” Pann said. “My office is right next to his. He’s the same facile man he always was.”
“Sometimes I wish I sat where you do. Up here on the third floor, I feel like I’m often out of the loop. You know the big man’s moods, and I only hear rumors most days. In any case, I’ll do everything I can to help you. The place would run better if you had more say, no doubt about that, but my personal feeling, and I tell you this in your interest rather than mine, is that undermining Hiero Bell is completely unnecessary for your career.”
Pann, though he knew Hiero Poor had spoken with good intentions, considered him unqualified to give career advice, as he had been born into the world’s second-richest family.
“I suppose I need to take time to understand this syr Konklava thing better,” said the Z-3. “I’ve heard the Charter is twelve hundred pages. So I should get to that, I think.”
“Of course,” Hiero Poor said.
He returned to his office, where a team of Z-5s and Z-6s had finally assembled a copy of the Global Company’s founding Charter. The hectography had been done so poorly, Pann had often, over the past two days, had to send pages back; the copies of copies of copies were often illegible. The final document was larger than he expected it to be, reaching a total of two thousand and sixty-four pages, due to the hundreds of pages that had been added in its first years to interpret the original text. Boogers and food stains, more than once in the document’s history, had taken on the status of legitimate punctuation, creating consternation for the firm’s internal judiciary organ, when one had existed, due to technicalities regarding the semantics of the serial comma.
Though this founding document had once been executed with a serious spirit, no one had ever deigned to use syr Konklava but as a formality whose purpose was to re-elect the sitting Patriarch. There had just never been any doubt about who had earned the job. Still, the Charter did provide alternative means in the form of thirty-six different voting processes—votes and after-votes; flexible votes and negative ones; votes on whether to hold votes and votes on how to count votes—and it became clear that to Pann that this entire system had been invented as a joke. Even still, the Charter was the highest law of the Employer, which made it the highest law of the Known World. It would be worth Pann’s while to figure out how the damn thing worked.
“A Patriarch may be lawfully removed from office by syr Konklava under the following conditions...”
#
It was good for the soul to sleep at one’s place of work, but Pann did like to go home once or twice a month, in case there were any squatters he would need to evict. He slept in his spacious, million-grot apartment and was walking back to work, in a buoyant mood, on the morning of the thirteenth. Nine days had passed since the Fiduciary Address.
Oddly, the world outside the Company—the world that didn’t matter, where children played in the streets, where flutists collected tin pennies, where bees settled on early autumn flowers—seemed to be going on as it always had, unconcerned with the doings of the man whose face adorned their pittance of money, a man who had delivered a hilarious, but also disturbing, murder-monologue in the auditorium of 414 Walker Street.
It turned out that syr Konklava had a legal—in fact, charterial—obligation to meet in January, although this had never been done. Pann wondered if, after calling attention to the fact, he could arrange a favorable outcome. Four months, he realized, would be more than enough time.
He entered the office late—shortly after eight o’clock—to find a stack of reports from Bezelia on his desk. He began to read them eagerly, but he was barely on the tenth page when he was interrupted by a chorus of men singing “Work Makes Us Great” very badly. The world’s anthem deserved better than what these unskilled children were giving it.
He marched out to the floor and cupped his hands around his mouth. “What the hell is going on?”
“There’s been a promotion,” said a Z-4.
“We interrupt work for that?”
“A big promotion.” The Z-4 spread his hands apart, as if holding a watermelon with a hole drilled in it that he was preparing to fuck. “There’s a new Z-2.”
Pann’s toes clenched. “Who?”
“Her name is K something.”
“Osha,” said a female Z-6, already drunk on the rum served for the festivity. “Her name’s Kayla.”
Pann’s bowels quivered in fury. “Kayla? They’re making Kayla a Z-2?”
“She’s the reason we know where Farisa is.”
“Oh, is she?” Pann gritted his teeth. “I’m sure you know fucking everything.” He stormed back to his office, slamming the door.
This was a crime against the Company. There were so many things wrong here. One: people celebrating a promotion in the morning, rather than at ten o’clock in the evening when the day’s useful work was done. Two: women in the Global Company. Three: everybody using that execrable “island girl” slang—osha in the morning, sha-sha in the evening. Four: Kayla’s promotion to Z-2. Five: Kayla still being here at all. These travesties made his bowels bubble with rage. He opened his office windows to diffuse the sulfuric odor of fury.
Kayla, he realized, was no mere annoyance. She was dangerous. Pann could not wait for January to remove Hampus Bell from authority, because of the Kayla problem. Instead, he would have to get it done by November, October, or even tomorrow, gods be willing. And the first act of the Grackenheit–Poor Company would be Kayla’s firing—literal firing, copa Rychard. Nothing less and nothing slow could be afforded.
He stared at his desk, unable to work. He grabbed a jar of pencils and broke every one. It didn’t help. Rage consumed him. Kayla, a Z-2? A Z-fucking-two? An hour passed, and the celebration grew, and Pann calculated that several thousand grot of salary had been wasted on this absolute nonsense. In fury, he skipped first lunch and he skipped second lunch and he almost skipped the afternoon meal that he was not sure if it qualified as a third lunch or a pre-dinner.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Kayla, without knocking, opened his office door. He said nothing; she had the right to enter unbidden now, on account of her superior rank.
“You won,” Pann said. He would win this war, but today he had to play the part of a vanquished combatant. “I don’t know how you did it, but…” He stood up and his right arm rose to a summer sun’s angle. “H’vast Z-2 Kayla.”
“Won?” Kayla closed his door. “I haven’t won anything. Not yet.”
“You have. Enjoy it. Savor your rum and cake.”
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” She stood over his desk, then pivoted on one foot, walked toward his door, and looked back over her shoulder before leaving. “I suppose you never will. Sha-sha, Panniculus Grackenheit.”
The genesis of Pann’s response was interrupted by the loud shutting of his own door by her.
#
Around one o’clock, a memorandum was delivered. Although Pann was working in 4-04 that day, a copy found its way to him there. Hampus Bell had decided that Perfing, given recent changes to the Company's priorities, would be delayed to February.
Pann’s feelings about this were mixed. On one hand, winter was the ideal time for the Company to rid itself of low performers—a cold, difficult season when grain was expensive and heating oil a daily necessity, both of which facts were likely to result in more fired employees crying and begging for their jobs back. On the other hand, the Company’s most undeserving denizens would accrue five months of extra pay. One day his boss was cannibalistic; the next, he was generous in an unseemly way. Which one was the real Hampus Bell?
Of course, Pann was high enough that he could still fire people, regardless of Perfing, whenever he wanted. He decided that he’d hold a secret lottery and fire four subordinates at random. Sometimes the lottery approach resulted in the loss of a good worker, but the benefit of this was that it caused survivors to devise explanations and patterns to explain the selection process behind the culling, when in fact there had been none, which in turn led them to overestimate management’s perceptive skill, which would make them work harder for the rest of the year—thus, it paid off. If only bad workers were made to walk the plank, nothing unexpected had happened, and this effect could not be achieved.
Furthermore, Perfing gave refuge from the chaos of daily life. It was cathartic. Even for subordinates he admired, he could find something in each one to detest—the set of his eyes, the lilt in her voice, the supposition of an excessive personal life. The first drafts of these performance reviews would always be free-balling hate rants, so extreme he could not get through a second read without doubling over in laughter at what he had come up with. In later revisions, he’d restrain his negativity, since it always did more damage to present one’s criticism as helpful feedback—he would take on the tone of a stern, omniscient father figure. Often, he would give the most vicious reviews to his most effective people, not because he disliked them, but because they needed to be reminded of their place.
It was a shame that Perfing happened so irregularly. Once he was a Z-2, Pann would make these reviews happen four times per year. They were like orgasms, but better, as they could be enjoyed with other people—in public, even.
His pen fell out of his hand. He had read the Global Company’s Charter six times, knowing there had to be, within its clauses and counter-clauses, a quick means of deposing a Patriarch, but he had found no suggestion of a compact strategy that might actually work until now, in his seventh read of the eleventh paragraph of Article 172, which brought knowledge together in a beautiful new way. In glee, he recited the relevant bits aloud.
“...in which event, on the second Monday after both parties have consented to...”
He hurried down a flight of stairs. His belly and chest jiggled, but it did not bother him.
“...pursuant to Article 59’s allowances, except when required by a written order, signed and stamped—stamped!—by the highest-ranking officer in attendance...”
The brisk wind of a second-floor corridor brought a smile to his face. The odor of a days-old fish sandwich did not upset him.
“...after which, a seven-day waiting period will be granted, but not if it is decided by a two-thirds majority of the...”
“Pann.” Hampus Bell, coming around a corner, surprised him. “We need to talk.”
“I utterly agree.”
#
“The maid’s in my office,” said Hampus. “Could we use your hideout, 4-04?”
“It would be my preference,” Pann said. The best moments of his life had occurred in that windowless Perf Room. All the Perf Rooms were like his children, but this one was his highest pride—this the one he would have sent to an expensive college, if such a thing made sense.
“Well, then, after you.”
As they walked to the stairwell, Pann tried to discern the topic of this impromptu meeting. He had nothing to worry about, because Hiero Bell hated to deliver bad news in person—he had always made Pann the one to do it. So, was Pann being promoted? Had all of his conspiring against Hampus Bell, in the end, been unnecessary?
As they walked up to the fourth floor, they overheard two middle-aged Z-4s talking.
“It’s been a month and wifey’s still mad about a five-grot bet on a hylus match.”
“You did bet against your own daughter.”
“I wasn’t betting against her. I was betting against the team she was on. It’s an important distinction.”
Hampus chuckled. “I guess no one gets to have a good day every day.”
Pann said, “He should’ve offered his daughter a cut of his winnings, as a bribe to throw the game.”
“I agree.” Hampus opened the door to the Perf Room. “Before we start, do you need coffee?”
“I do not.” Pann sat on the metal chair in the room’s number-two position. He had never sat here before; it made him feel small, as the upholstered chair facing him sat a foot higher.
Sitting down and folding his hands, Hampus asked, “How’s your family?”
“She’s good.”
“Your wife is... how old?”
“My sister.” Pann had never had a wife, and both his parents were dead, so she was his only family.
“Right, of course. And she’s well?”
“She’s on the mend, I think. They recently drained a—well, I’m not sure you want me to get into it. Do you actually care?”
“No, of course not.”
Pann put his sweating hands behind himself. “So...”
“Please be honest with me. What do you think of Kayla?”
“I trust that you will come to the right decision.”
“You should trust that I have made the right decision.”
“She’s young, is what I’ll say.” Pann shifted his bulk. The metal chair was exquisitely uncomfortable; he was proud to have furnished it for the butt end of his own Perf Room, but irritated at having to sit in it. “You said you wanted me to be honest, so I’ll be honest. I’m surprised she still works here. I’m surprised you put up with her and her mistakes. She spent millions to find Farisa, right? You specifically said you didn’t want to find Farisa.”
“No, Pann. I said I didn’t want you to find her.”
Pann’s arms itched. “I see...”
“I know it was your work, not hers. It's good work, too. Unfortunately, I know some things about you that I would rather not be true. Your hedge spy told me everything.”
“Hedge spy? The Dry Man or the Wet Man?”
”The frappin’ Moist Man. Of course I mean the Wet Man.” Hampus leaned back in his chair. “You think that treacherous piece of—dare I say—dung isn't above playing both sides? He's been wiring Kayla all summer at every stop from Muster to Portal. I know everything you have been doing for the past three months. I know all of it.”
Pann’s breathing felt like manual labor. “Whatever you think you know, I can explain.”
“After careful consideration, I have reached the decision that I no longer require your services.”
“Of course.” Pann curled his toes. “Of course, we are all replaceable. I remember being told that on my first day, and I never let myself forget. Your message is well taken, and I apologize if I have offended you, but if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to work.”
“I don’t think you understand what I just said.” Hiero Bell looked at his watch. “As of two twenty-six in the afternoon, September 13th, you are officially retired from the Global Company at eighty-five percent of your highest attained salary.”
“You’re firing me?”
“I believe that is the commoner’s word for it, yes.”
Pann grabbed the rails of his seat so his hands wouldn’t shake. “I—I know where Farisa is! I know precisely where she is! She’s within days of Switch Cave. K-Kayla’s a charlatan! You said it yourself, I did all the work. You’ve got to trust me—”
“Your betrayal of me is in direct violation of Global Company Code, Section 53 dot 168. You have twenty-four hours to take your belongings and leave. To protect your reputation, we shall call this a mutual departure.”
Pann shivered, even though he was sweating.
“This isn’t the end,” Hiero Bell said. “It’s a new beginning.”
If you tell me you smell change in the air, I will fucking… No, Pann, stay calm. You’ll get your job back when Michael Poor takes over. You have friends in Propaganda and Press who’ll still meet you for a second dinner. What harm is there in a few months of vacation? Take up running, it’ll get you back in shape. Learn how to cook, or ride a bicycle. You have options, Pann. Stay calm and you can win this.
Pann extended an arm for a handshake. “I have greatly enjoyed our time together.”
“So have I.”
“I’m sorry I fucked this up so bad.”
“I am too.”
Pann turned around and grabbed the Perf Room doorknob, but his hand slid off the metal. He wiped his palm on his shirt and tried again, but the knob did not move.
“The door’s locked.” The Patriarch opened the Perf Room desk drawer. “There is, unfortunately, some processing that must occur before I can let you go.” He produced a glass tube with a metal needle on its end. “Syringe, is what these are called. This is one of the old ones, from one of my father’s camps. They’re beautiful, really.”
Pann’s breath quickened. “What’s in it?”
“Sedative. It’s so you don’t cause trouble on the way out. I’m sure you won’t, but it’s Company policy.”
“I’ll go, but I’m not going to let you stick me with a fucking needle.”
Hampus reached for Pann’s arm. The (former) Z-3 picked up the metal folding chair.
“Violence would put you in direct violation of Global Company Code, 77 dot 119. Assault with a Deadly Weapon against a Superior Executive.”
Pann put the chair down. “Shit, you’re right.”
Hampus reached again for Pann’s arm. “Company policy.”
As Pann felt his former boss’s fingers close around his wrist, he turned his body and used his bulk to slam the Patriarch against the wall. Winded, Hampus dropped the syringe. Pann crouched to reach for it, but the Patriarch kneed him between the buttocks, connecting with his tailbone. The pain spread through Pann's pelvis and nearly cost him his balance. The men, fists up, circled each other. Hampus, face red, threw a punch that Pann blocked; Pann swung with full force but, at the last moment, realized it would hurt his knuckles to strike a human face, so he adjusted his fist’s trajectory toward the Patriarch’s shoulder. Hampus threw another jab; Pann blocked it, then charged the Patriarch in an attempt to tackle the man, but found he lacked the bodily strength to get him off the ground. Hampus landed an open-hand smack on Pann’s flank, causing his whole body to jiggle. Pann stepped back, leaning on the wall, took a moment to recover his balance, then charged and kicked his opponent in the shins. Hampus yelled, “You bitch!” as he slammed a hammer-fist into Pann’s chest, causing the Z-3’s body to collide with the sharp corner of a wooden desk, and this time the pain really did cost him his balance, so in the process of falling, he lunged sideways to pin his ex-boss against the wall. The men’s heads, by pure force of accident, collided; the pain put them both on the floor, stunned for a moment. As their wits returned, they wrestled, reddening each other’s faces with open-handed slaps until both were exhausted.
Pann lay on his back, panting. “I love you. Not in—I mean—”
“I know.” Hampus laid his head on Pann’s shoulder. “I love you too.”
“We should do this again.”
“We should.” Hampus smiled giddily.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” Hampus rolled to face away in their post-fight cuddle. “I’m just getting comfortable."
A flash of fiery heat erupted in Pann’s left buttock. His leg cramped, as if it were being wrung inside him. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”
Hampus Bell shuffled his tired body toward a corner and sat up, holding the emptied syringe. “I’m truly sorry, and I hated having to do what I had to do, but I’ll never be able to trust you.”
Pann rolled into a sitting position as well. The pain in his leg had given way to numbness. “What are you talking about? Can we please get back to—”
“At first, I intended to accept your resignation, but leave it at that. The old eighty-five percent. Ninety-two point five, even. That’s what yesteryear’s Hampus would have done. In the Company I want to build, however, there is no margin for error, no tolerance of betrayal. After Kayla told me everything, I looked through your office, and what did I find but the Global Company Charter, marked up with your notes about the syr Konklava?”
It’s not ‘the’ syr Konklava. “I—I—”
“Within five minutes, you’ll lose your ability to speak. Your hands will be too unsteady to write. Once I see this to be the case, I'll allow you to leave this room. You’ll be able to walk for a little while, and you’ll be able to wave your goodbyes, but I urge you to hurry along so you don't embarrass yourself. I’d advise you not to waste time. You haven’t got much.”
“Wh—Wh—I—”
“Enjoy the day. This time of year, the sun sets right over the river. It’s beautiful. Say goodbye to your wife, if you have one.”
Pann’s tongue had gone numb and hung limp in his mouth. The Patriarch rolled over to the hind leg of the Perfing Chair and pressed a button. The room’s single door unlocked. “You may go.”
Pann shambled across the fourth floor. The insides of his lungs burned and he could not stop coughing.
“Are you sick?” asked a female Z-5.
“I-ugh-ugh-grrhrg.” He shambled through a blizzard of paper. Desk lamps, brighter than the lights of oncoming trains, swung at him. He stopped trying to speak; the effort would only add to the ropes of drool hanging from his face. His eyes closed; when he opened them, he had been placed in the chair of his second-floor office. His whole body had no sensation in it, and he could only breathe by leaning forward and slightly to the right.
His legs had been bound, not that it made a difference. Good prank, Hampus. He could feel the fiery tingling spread through his chest. How long does this shit stay in the body? Hampus Bell had always been a prankster, but Pann felt this one had come close to overdoing it, because the pain level was now quite high, and so not only could he not work but he could not even usefully think about his work. Every few minutes, a wave of fresh discomfort would emerged from a corner of cramped muscle, ricochet off a bone, and ripple through his body till it seemed to come from all places at once.
Between these jabs of misery, though, there was an opiate sense of calm, of unconditional love, of awe and gratitude for the Global Company that had given him a life worth living—love and money and work and, today, a spot of comedy. He had to admit that he’d never imagined Hampus Bell pulling off such an elaborate prank—a mock firing followed by a mock poisoning, both done so well they felt real.
Four o’clock, on his wall clock, turned five. His vision was blurry, but he could still hear well—thus, he could listen in on office discussions, but not take part. Verbs were often incomprehensible. Only nouns. “Farisa.” “Merrick Klein.” “Raqel Ahava.” “Mountain Road.” “Claes Bergryn.” “Ariel.” “Eastern Station.” “Plan Lapi.” “Catella.” “Hydrogen.” Often, he found himself wanting to join the conversation, either to ask for clarification or offer one, but as soon as he stood up, breath drew spare and his vision lost color.
Five o’clock turned six. The red sun shone directly on him, and he was getting quite hot. He tried to call for help, to ask that he be moved into shadow, but his burning chest produced no sound. Office noise quieted as people went upstairs for the after-party to the after-party for Kayla’s promotion party. Pann wondered if he had been wrong to consider these sorts of festivities frivolous. He had always been working, always overcompensating for his humble origins, but perhaps it would have held nonzero value for him to cultivate a social life. He could still change that. He’d find a way to make a friend or two in his remaining decades; one only got so much time in this world. This year, he’d do better.
Six o’clock turned seven. The sun had set. The drool on Pann’s cheek and neck had dried out and was starting to smell bad. Pann wished Hampus Bell hadn’t chosen such a tedious prank—he truly loved his boss, and he wished he hadn’t taken the man for granted, but sometimes the Patriarch’s sense of humor required a censor, and this recent absurdity, which had cost him five hours of working time, was an example of this.
Seven o’clock turned eight. Pann remembered the only piece of good advice his father had ever given. “Show up at work before your boss, and don’t leave before he's gone. Every day you do these two things, you are one step closer to the top.” Giddiness filled his still body. Tonight would be a credit to his record, as he would be the absolute last to leave the office. He would be a Z-2 soon.