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The Candidate |
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Having worked in everything form air traffic control to zoology, writing has been the one constant in Natalie's life. Her work has appeared in Aurealis, AntipodeanSF, Squish Magazine and TNT (Europe).
The light from the back of the lift was too bright. Even now, with her back turned to the illuminated wall, Tamara's retinas registered pain. As soon as the lift cruised past the first floor a dimmer kicked in, returning the illumination to a normal level. She blinked, attempting to refocus, acutely aware of a camera in the corner capturing all. Damn. She needed to look unfazed. By the time she arrived on the 112th floor she felt sufficiently under control. She stepped out as soon as the lift doors opened, heading decisively for the receptionist's bench. He showed no surprise at her arrival. "Ms. Grima?" he said through pursed lips. It was a camp, condescending opening. Tamara nodded, yet did not let his manner unnerve her. He probably projected this same mannerism for everyone, thinking his condescension somehow lifted him above his lowly rank. He indicated a plush brown seat beside a happy-plant. "Please take a seat in that chair." Tamara sat and scanned the room for a camera lens. Nothing. She cursed herself for her folly. Of course. She would never see it. But her failed search would have been noted — a strike against her name. Tamara thumbed through the magazines. She picked the one she thought she was meant to choose and settled into a desperate, comfortable pose. She wondered how long they would leave her. Last time she had been forced to endure the unobtrusive observations for two hours. She hoped this firm would be more relaxed. A quiet crunching came from behind her. Tam didn't know if she should react. It sounded mechanical. She had assumed all the tests would be digital. She turned her face from the page slightly — as much movement as she could allow. The sound stopped. "Ms. Grima," the receptionist said. "You may go in now." He gestured towards a heavy cedar door. Tamara stood with a measure of grace, placing rather than throwing the magazine down. She walked towards the door — not too fast, not too slow. Her hand met the handle as soon as she reached it. Perfect. The heavy door swung in on well-maintained hinges. "Take a seat Ms. Grima," a well-dressed man said. Tam sat without speaking. "Could you please remove your shirt?" he asked. She did. A lascivious smile slipped onto his lips. "Ahh," he said with satisfaction, "No plastic undershirt. With moisture levels as low as yours we are required to check." Tamara re-buttoned her shirt. "And your DNA looks promising, though we will need longer to run a full screening." "Well?" Tamara said with feigned confidence. The man smiled at her audacity. "Yes Ms. Grima, you have the job. You start in the mail room on Monday."
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