The Xactilias Project Page 2

  In the summer, Claire had dreamed up a darker fantasy, but she must have wished too hard, because instead of showing to collect his things and claim his long-awaited glory, Paul Devaney just stopped coming to work altogether and ultimately disappeared.

  The people at Viox Genomics were concerned, the university heads, too. But no one dragged the world's reservoirs looking for Paul Devaney. Instead, they moved forward, the university slotting apt candidates into relevant vacancies, one to fill his void, one to fill the void made by the filling.

  This brought opportunity for Claire, but not the opportunity she deserved. It turned out Paul Devaney had hoarded so much credit, she couldn't assemble a portfolio to prove her contributions. And so she took what came: a suitable offering that allowed her to continue the research which had become her life. And for the next several months, she spent each and every day ruining her eyes on microscopic particles and endless strings of numbers unintelligible to all but her.

  She spent endless nights in that place, life getting away, neither dates, nor parties, nor invitations to decline. But then, everything seemed to change, when a very important person from Viox Genomics called to offer her the job once promised to Paul Devaney. Without hesitation, she claimed the hand-me-down opportunity as her own, a broad smile cutting across her face, mahogany eyes beaming and wet. That night, she drank margaritas from a yawning, salt-rimmed glass, a rush of warmth flooding her core, newfound confidence at root somewhere within.

  Over the following weeks, the past closed out with a wink. Free from Paul Devaney, the facility’s social atmosphere bloomed. Attitudes improved and so did just about everything else. How-are-yous became commonplace. Smiles occurred out in the open. People transformed into themselves. Did the air smell better?

  On this day, bright thoughts accompanied Claire into the building, an overwhelmingly tall man holding the door as she entered. She stepped inside and surveyed the footwork before her. People came and went across the linoleum floor on practiced feet made experienced by days prior. She sucked in a big breath and pushed her way within their ordinary every day.

  For half a decade, she'd worked here, subordinate to geniuses, subordinate to fools. But those days were over, and she wore this truth on her bright, beaming face.

  Stacey, the young the receptionist with the nose ring, saw it at once.

  "Hi you," she said through a broadening, slick little grin. "Getting excited?"

  Claire nodded, Stacey up on her feet, face drawing soppy and wet.

  "I'm going to miss you so fucking much. I just can't believe this is happening."

  The young girl fled the desk and offered a hug. Claire forced a smile and bent so only their shoulders met.

  "Oh, it's alright," she said. "It'll be alright."

  "No," said Stacey, a stern look setting in. "It's fucking not going to be alright."

  She looked over each shoulder, as if she made a habit of qualifying her remarks by the presence of others.

  "It's not alright." She began to cry. "I hate all these fucking people. Each and every goddamned one." She rubbed the back of her hand across her nose and it shined like polished brass. "I hate their faces."

  Claire pulled free and patted the top of her head.

  "O.k. Alright." She nudged the young girl backward. "We still have another week, don't we?"

  Stacey's face went flat.

  "Oh, right." She dusted her chest. "Another week. Sure."

  She returned to her desk, and started working her cellphone.

  "That guy's got an appointment," she said, without looking up.

  Claire looked over to the man sitting poised upon the lobby couch.

  "Oh, hello," she said, making steps to meet him. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."

  "Hello, ma'am," the man said. He bowed a little and tipped forward his hat, a fedora that suited him well.

  "I wasn't aware I had any appointments." She turned toward Stacey, but she was only there in body.

  "That's perfectly my fault," the man said. "It was a last second thing."

  "Ok," she said. "Ok. Well, let me just have a chance to settle a few things, and I'll be right with you."

  He put his hand up and regained his seat.

  "You take your time, absolutely."

  She nodded, her expression showing traces of confusion. Normally, she had few meetings if any, and as she entered her office and closed the door, a temptation to straighten overtook. She looked around for signs of loose organization, but there was already too much order, so she took some files from the cabinet and fanned them out on her desk. She opened one of the drawers, removed a handful of pens, set them on the files and looked around. Someone had given her a coffee mug that read, 'cancel my subscription; I'm tired of your issues,' and this she put in the waste basket.

  She checked the messages on her voicemail, and then waited an appropriate amount of minutes to show that unexpected appointments must wait if for no other reason than to prove the value of her time. Then she buzzed Stacey, who let the man in.

  He entered and gave a little bow, and Claire lifted from her seat slightly, because it seemed like the thing to do.

  "Hello," she said as the man approached. He held a black folder in his right hand and a pen in the other.

  "Hello to you. Do you mind?"

  He pointed to a stiff little chair propped against the wall, and she lifted from her seat once more.

  "Please," she said, as she looked over her appointment book. “Mr. Harris, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He lifted the chair with one hand and spun it to face her desk. He sat down and organized himself as comfortably as the thing would allow.

  "I'm sorry for the chair," she said. "Truth be told, I don't really get that many appointments."

  He pushed away her apology with a flip of the hand.

  "It's good for my posture."

  Mr. Harris wore a bland gray sport coat that seemed too tight and slacks that seemed too short. Burgundy suspenders arched over his belly, stretched thin against its forthcoming weight. He was handsome in the face, but his age and small stature stole greatly from it. Indeed, it took effort to notice his kind, square features over the plainness of the rest. But something about his manner suggested he might not care either way.

  "How can I help you," she asked, her hands folded neatly on the empty wood desk.

  "Do you mind?" He asked, hesitating to set the folder upon his side of the varnished barrier.

  She turned her hand over, and he placed it flat.

  "Now, Ms. Foley, I'm here today to offer you a proposal, and I hope you'll listen to me the whole way through even if at times, you don't feel like you need to, or want to, or whatever."

  He had some sort of rural accent, but he didn't seem rural at all. She leaned back in her chair and it cried a little.

  "I've got enough copy toner if that's what you have on your mind."

  "No, no," he shook his head. "This is way better than toner, I assure you."

  "Alright," she said. "Well, I think I should warn you that I won't be here much longer, so you might be better off taking your offers upstairs."

  He shook his head and pursed his lips.

  "No, ma'am. I'm here today to see you and you alone."

  She put an index finger to her chin and lowered her eyebrows.

  "Okay."

  He smiled and wrinkles shot out from his eyes.

  "Now, it may not look like it, but I represent some very powerful people. People who have the power to make dreams come true." He put both hands flat against the desk. "People who have the power to give people like you everything they need to reach their goals."

  She frowned.

  "Ok," she said. "That's an aggressive statement."

  "Absolutely," he said.

  She picked up one of the pens and set it back down.

  "What makes you think I'd be interested?"

  Mr. Harris leaned forward and scratched the back of his head.

  "W
ell, because we know a lot about you."

  She smirked without realizing.

  "Really?" She asked. "What do you know about me?"

  He tightened his lips and raised his eyebrows.

  "We know plenty. You'd better believe it."

  Claire chuckled and shook her head.

  "Mr. Harris, is it?"

  He nodded.

  "Well, I'm not sure what you are selling, but you'll have to do better than this." She leaned forward and folded her hands. "If you really know plenty about me, you'll know I'm uncomfortable with ambiguous language. I deal in certainties, and I'd expect the same from anyone who hopes to do business with me."

  He bowed his head and raised his left hand.

  "I'm sorry. I'll be as forthcoming as I can."

  "Why can't you be 100 percent forthcoming?"

  "Because the people I represent don't feel it's in their best interest."

  "Forgive me, but these people sound somewhat shady."

  He placed his hand flat upon the folder in front of him.

  "I assure you, they're as shady as your average corporate or political man, which is to say, somewhat."

  He pushed the folder forward, and sat back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other with some obvious discomfort.

  "Please have a look, and take your time."

  She lifted the folder and flipped it open. A single loose page sat upon a stack of pictures, followed by more pages and still more pictures. She thumbed through the top three, eyes darting around, widening. She closed the folder and looked up.

  "Who are you exactly?"

  Mr. Harris put his hands together as if truly frustrated.

  "Ma'am, it really isn't important who I am, I assure you. What's more important is who you are."

  "Who do you think I am?"

  He shook his head a little and pushed his hat back to reveal a balding scalp.

  "Doesn't matter. It's what they think."

  "Your employer?"

  "That's correct."

  She looked down at the folder.

  "And who do they think I am?"

  "I know few details."

  She looked up.

  "What do you know?"

  He leaned forward and propped his forearms against his knees, face casual, eyes set.

  "Just that you're headed for a position at Viox Genomics after working for five years under Paul Devaney, his death the main reason for it."

  She set the folder flat.

  "He's dead?"

  Mr. Harris nodded without losing eye contact.

  "From what I understand."

  She bit her lip and closed the folder.

  "How do you know?"

  He shrugged.

  "I don't know; but my employer does, and I have no reason to doubt it."

  She put both hands on her desk, the sweat on her palms making suction for a moment.

  "I think I'm going to pass on your offer, Mr. Harris. But thank you anyway."

  He stood.

  "This isn't unexpected." He pulled the fedora back in place. "Please give a look to the rest of the folder. You'll receive a call from me within the next couple months in case you change your mind."

  He put his hand to the front of his hat and turned toward the door. She traced the folder's face with the edges of a finger.

  "Wait," she said. "Why don't you give me your number?"

  He turned and looked at her. She wore an uncertain expression, as if her words still hung in the air waiting to be taken back.

  "Because my employers don't feel it's in their best interest." He opened the door a crack and then shut it firm without leaving. "I will tell you this. The people I represent, they aren't the type to quit asking."

  With that, he put his fingers to the front of his hat once more. Then he opened the door, acknowledged the receptionist and made his way to the elevator.

  Claire eyed the folder and considered its contents. During her brief glance, she'd seen an oddly-worded cover letter, a few mug shots and not much else. The remaining contents were a mystery and would stay that way for at least a little longer. The clock demanded action and she'd never been late in her life. She lifted the thing and looked it over once more. It was nearly an inch thick and heavy as a book. She opened a drawer and slipped it inside. She left her office and locked the door.

  For the rest of the day, she went about the usual routine. But within her mind, Mr. Harris had found a place in which to live. She thought of his words while she ate. She thought of them during phone conversations. She thought of them while she worked in the lab. And she thought of them during her drive home, the file sitting alone in the passenger seat, a few subtle glances here and there.

  When she finally arrived home, she gathered the hefty thing up and made her way inside. Without deterrence, she unlocked her front door and hurried to her bedroom, where she opened the folder and spread the contents across her bed. As she thumbed through it all, her heart picked up, its quickened beats audibly thumping within her ears.

  No single piece was shocking in itself, but as a whole, the contents were terrifying. They had everything on her: credit scores, middle school grades, bank statements, orthodontic records. There were receipts and phone records. Letters she'd written long ago to people she no longer knew. Car leases, rental agreements, and somewhere in the middle, she found a picture she'd never seen before. It was her as a child, maybe six, maybe nine, brittle-edged and sepia, freckles on her cheeks.

  What she didn't find was an offer, a job outline, a copy of her resume or letter of recommendation, one. The contents were deeply personal, not professional, and it became clear that what Harris had given her was no pitch at all, but a veiled, methodical warning that she should take their offer, whatever it was, whenever it came again. It was their power revealed and nothing more, and as she closed the folder, she felt the threat working within her as designed, and she did not sleep well or much, and by the time morning broke, she was greatly diminished.

  The next day, Claire received a call from Gunther Billingsly, the man who'd begged her to accept the position at Viox Genomics in lieu of the prestigious Paul Devaney. Then, his voice had been pleasant, soft and pleading. This time, it was terse, his words as if from a script.

  "I'm sorry to say that Viox has withdrawn its offer and will be seeking other candidates," it said without any obvious inflections. And no questions were answered, and no reasons given, and if she'd been a pleader, Claire might have argued on her behalf, but she'd have done so to a fallow receiver, the opposite party removed the moment his words crossed the wires.

  In a daze, she left her office and stumbled outside. She looked about as waves of hurrying people split around her without regard. The air was cold against her skin, and as the pale sunlight disappeared behind a passing cloud, it grew even colder.

  She walked along the street, alone and afraid, her mind so frayed and so long without sleep. She passed a cafe and stopped to enter, but the tables were all occupied, so she pulled her coat collar up and took a seat alone outside.

  The waiter brought coffee to ease her predicament, and she sipped it gratefully, while the human rush moved before her eyes in a blinding mesh of wool coats and brightly-colored scarves. After a while, her disappointment gave way to terror, as she put the author to its effect.

  This Mr. Harris worked for powerful people, indeed. Viox was a multi-billion dollar company with its own version of the CIA. There was no lie this behemoth corporation couldn't dismantle, and no person able to stand firm in the way of its goals. But, somehow, this entity had gotten to them, made them do its will. And if Viox's defenses were but a day's worth of aggravation, what were hers?

  The waiter appeared from inside, his demeanor strained against the weather's cruelty. He placed a bill on the table, the wind nearly seizing it before she could slap it down with her hand. She withdrew a credit card and handed it over. The tall young man took it and hurried to take refuge within the cafe's interior.

 
She sipped her coffee and thought, the caffeine rush lifting her spirits and sharpening her mind. She considered Mr. Harris and his people. What was her value to them? Where would they stop to get what they wanted?

  Without Viox, she would have to withdraw her resignation from the university, but things could be worse. Whatever the case, she would not be won by coercion, and she nodded to herself to solidify the stance.

  She looked up to see the waiter approaching, his soft, youthful face apologetic and somewhat sad.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card has been declined."

  She looked up, her cheeks growing red without permission.

  "That's impossible," she said. "Are you sure?"

  He squinted into the wind as it stung his face.

  "Yes. I ran it twice."

  She lifted her purse and withdrew another.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know how that can be. Can you try this one?"

  He took it and hurried away, only to return with the same results. After a third try, she paid with stray coins from the bottom of her purse, and when she took her place among the flowing mob upon the city sidewalk, she was truly afraid.

  She walked to the bank, where she spoke to a bald man who resembled the Mr. Clean character from television.

  "Let me look into this for you," he said, his voice dry as stale bread.

  When he returned moments later, he explained that a hold had been placed on her account through legal means that were appropriate and neat. She would have to consult a lawyer for more information. He was obliged by bank policy. She asked for more information, for help of any kind, but bank policy was his god, so she gave up and left the building.

  Outside, the winter wind licked dryly her face, each cheek a healthy rose from the gathering daily same. She wept openly for all to see, few taking notice as they hurried on their way. As her mind went soft, she dawdled within the crowd in a wavering circulature more fitted to the homeless insane. After a while, the solid construct of the adult mind gave way, and she caught a cab, escaped into its interior and aimed it toward the only place suited for someone in her place.