Return from Zeta: The Auditor
Aug. 10th, 2014 02:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aaaaaaaagh_skyIt's anything but a woman's world out there.
Sure, you had your pick of non-military, non-religious colleges to apply to. Sure, there were women in the workplace all over the country. Yeah, dozens of the Fortune 500 companies had women on the board of directors, and as of 2015, no-fault divorces were allowed in every state in the union and the District of Columbia. And most of the time women make a decent rate of pay at their jobs. That's great. That's just great.
But you can't help but look at that and think that about fifteen years ago the numbers didn't look like that at all- you know, before the Commies got Alaska and they had to kick off the draft in earnest. And you can't help but remember the look of sheer relief on your manager's face at the performance review a few years back, when you handed him the papers from Dr. Brightstein's office and said he wouldn't lose you any time soon. He lost you anyway a few months later, but there's a difference between losing you to promotion and losing you to maternity leave.
They made you internal audit director for the mid-Atlantic division of General Atomics. They moved you to Philadelphia, the company's world headquarters. You were the first woman in the position and they patted themselves on the back for that. Progressive company, they said, and handed you the biggest paycheck you'd ever seen. How they expected you not to see that it was nowhere near the size of the man who held your position last, you don't know.
You didn't say anything, though. It wasn't worth it. You have a job, and that's more than a lot of people can say. You've got food, and as little as you like to admit it, that's also more than a lot of people can say. This is not a good time to raise a stink. Maybe in a few years, when the War's over and the economy's back to normal.
(But the men will be back then, the voice in your head says. The men will be back, and they'll be veterans. And veterans will need jobs, rewards for their service....)
So you can't do anything about your situation now, not really. But by damn you can make absolutely sure that you do your job perfectly. There will be nothing in your performance they can criticize you for. This job is yours and it will remain so for as long as you wish it, regardless of what you've got or haven't got between your legs. You'll make sure of that.
And for six months, seven, eight, nine, ten, you do.
One month short of your anniversary as the head of internal audits, Columbus Day weekend of 2076, you seize the rare opportunity to step out of the office for a three-day weekend. There's a resort in the Poconos. You've earned a little down time, and even if your salary isn't what it ought to be, you can afford the gas for the trip, just this once.
Two miles outside Canadensis, as you come around a curve in Highway 390, the car's engine craps out without warning.
And as you hop out of the driver's seat, praying nobody else comes around that curve before you can push the stupid thing onto the shoulder, the air lights up around you.
And whose world it is doesn't matter any more.
You've never been prone to recurring dreams. You wish that weren't true. If you'd ever been prone to recurring dreams, then the things that happen next- over and over, every time you're wheeled out and allowed to open your eyes- could be written off as nightmares.
The best you can do is close your eyes while they happen, and think about watching the machines being built on the factory floor, or the glowing green numbers on the black screens during reporting season.
It helps, a little.
You're wheeled out again. You open your eyes, draw a deep breath.
“It's okay,” says the first human voice you can hear in as long as you can remember. “It's okay. No one's going to hurt you any more. You can stop screaming.”
He's in Army togs. He's got a medic's insignia on his collar. He's blond and young and worried-looking. He's human.
“I'm Dr. Elliott Tercorien,” he says, and awkwardly puts a hand on your shoulder. “It's all over, and there are people who can help you.”
You won't cry. You won't.
Dr. Tercorien bites his lip and adds, “But there's something you need to know first.”
Sure, you had your pick of non-military, non-religious colleges to apply to. Sure, there were women in the workplace all over the country. Yeah, dozens of the Fortune 500 companies had women on the board of directors, and as of 2015, no-fault divorces were allowed in every state in the union and the District of Columbia. And most of the time women make a decent rate of pay at their jobs. That's great. That's just great.
But you can't help but look at that and think that about fifteen years ago the numbers didn't look like that at all- you know, before the Commies got Alaska and they had to kick off the draft in earnest. And you can't help but remember the look of sheer relief on your manager's face at the performance review a few years back, when you handed him the papers from Dr. Brightstein's office and said he wouldn't lose you any time soon. He lost you anyway a few months later, but there's a difference between losing you to promotion and losing you to maternity leave.
They made you internal audit director for the mid-Atlantic division of General Atomics. They moved you to Philadelphia, the company's world headquarters. You were the first woman in the position and they patted themselves on the back for that. Progressive company, they said, and handed you the biggest paycheck you'd ever seen. How they expected you not to see that it was nowhere near the size of the man who held your position last, you don't know.
You didn't say anything, though. It wasn't worth it. You have a job, and that's more than a lot of people can say. You've got food, and as little as you like to admit it, that's also more than a lot of people can say. This is not a good time to raise a stink. Maybe in a few years, when the War's over and the economy's back to normal.
(But the men will be back then, the voice in your head says. The men will be back, and they'll be veterans. And veterans will need jobs, rewards for their service....)
So you can't do anything about your situation now, not really. But by damn you can make absolutely sure that you do your job perfectly. There will be nothing in your performance they can criticize you for. This job is yours and it will remain so for as long as you wish it, regardless of what you've got or haven't got between your legs. You'll make sure of that.
And for six months, seven, eight, nine, ten, you do.
One month short of your anniversary as the head of internal audits, Columbus Day weekend of 2076, you seize the rare opportunity to step out of the office for a three-day weekend. There's a resort in the Poconos. You've earned a little down time, and even if your salary isn't what it ought to be, you can afford the gas for the trip, just this once.
Two miles outside Canadensis, as you come around a curve in Highway 390, the car's engine craps out without warning.
And as you hop out of the driver's seat, praying nobody else comes around that curve before you can push the stupid thing onto the shoulder, the air lights up around you.
And whose world it is doesn't matter any more.
You've never been prone to recurring dreams. You wish that weren't true. If you'd ever been prone to recurring dreams, then the things that happen next- over and over, every time you're wheeled out and allowed to open your eyes- could be written off as nightmares.
The best you can do is close your eyes while they happen, and think about watching the machines being built on the factory floor, or the glowing green numbers on the black screens during reporting season.
It helps, a little.
You're wheeled out again. You open your eyes, draw a deep breath.
“It's okay,” says the first human voice you can hear in as long as you can remember. “It's okay. No one's going to hurt you any more. You can stop screaming.”
He's in Army togs. He's got a medic's insignia on his collar. He's blond and young and worried-looking. He's human.
“I'm Dr. Elliott Tercorien,” he says, and awkwardly puts a hand on your shoulder. “It's all over, and there are people who can help you.”
You won't cry. You won't.
Dr. Tercorien bites his lip and adds, “But there's something you need to know first.”