James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

“I’m not suggesting that we go through it now.” Olivia perched again on the edge of her chair. “I’m sure we all have too much work to do.”

Paul flipped through the pages of Olivia’s edit. The original, on Rick’s desk, was as bright as an illuminated manuscript, with lime-green highlights and Olivia’s sharp marginalia in red pen; in the photocopy in his hands, the red commentary was black, and the highlighter came through as long, gray blots swallowing line after line. Paul tried to read what Olivia had done, but his rage and terror turned the letters to cuneiform.

“So what I’m suggesting, with Rick’s approval,” she continued, and Rick flipped his hand in the air, okay, whatever , “is that the team take some time to digest my suggestions, and that we reconvene on Friday morning—”

“Tomorrow?” gulped J.J.

“—and take the whole day to go over the document, line by line, in light of my suggestions.” She swiveled her gaze round the office. “If that’s okay with you all.”

“Tomorrow?” whimpered Bob Wier.

“Well, you have all day today,” said Olivia. “And if we each take it home with us tonight—”

“Tomorrow’s good,” barked the Colonel. He had not budged from his stance; his arms were still crossed, biceps bulging. His copy of the RFP was rolled up and squeezed nearly in two in one tight fist. “We’ll all make it a priority.”

“That’s good enough for government work,” announced Rick, pressing his palms against the pages of the RFP. “Paul,” he said, darting a glance in Paul’s direction, “whyn’t you book the conference room and the laptop and projector for tomorrow, all day?”

Paul’s throat seized up, but at last he managed to croak, “It’s kinda short notice—”

He was interrupted by a loud harrumph from the Colonel. “The professor’s holding out on us,” he said. “I hear tell he’s got some pull in Building Services.”

All eyes turned to Paul, who wanted to shrink against the wall. He glared at the Colonel.

“Sure,” he rasped. “No problem.”

“Well then!” Olivia widened her eyes and stood up. “Let’s all get to work.”

“Yep, you betcha, let’s do that.” Rick waved at them all as if from the deck of a departing cruise ship. Paul and the Colonel stood aside, and Olivia minced out the door and up the aisle. Then J.J. slouched after her, and Bob Wier disentangled himself from his chair and slipped quickly away. The Colonel ostentatiously waved Paul ahead, and then fell in step beside him. He put his arm around Paul again and directed him up the aisle into his own cube, settling Paul into a chair in the narrow space across from his desk. J.J. and Bob Wier crowded in after them. The Colonel flung his rolled-up RFP onto his desk and sat. He folded his hands and glowered at Paul. J.J. glowered at him, too, from the cube doorway, his copy of the RFP crushed under his arm, while Bob Wier clutched the document with both hands and nervously surveyed the cube horizon.

“Professor,” the Colonel said in a low voice, “you might have warned us.”

“About what?” Paul shifted uneasily in the chair. His copy of the RFP was coiled loosely in his hand.

“About Olivia joining the outsourcing project,” the Colonel said.

“I only found out yesterday.” Paul hated the way his voice shot up in pitch.

“You coulda said something at lunch, dickhead,” hissed J.J.

“She’s going to ruin it for all of us,” whispered Bob Wier, his eyes wide and white.

“You’ve been sitting across from her.” Behind the desk the Colonel crossed his arms and stared hard at Paul. “Whatever you’ve been doing over there, she’s been keeping an eye on you, and now she thinks she can muscle in and take over the whole goddamn project.”

Paul nearly erupted out of his chair. “What I’ve been doing over there,” he said, struggling to keep his voice down, “is writing the goddamn RFP.” He shook the document at the Colonel. “I do all the research, I do all the writing, I do all the fucking work!” He stopped and drew a breath. Bob Wier shot a nervous glance at the Colonel, as did J.J., and the Colonel lowered his gaze to his desk.

“Jesus Christ,” Paul said, dropping his voice an octave, “did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“The professor has kind of a faggy intonation sometimes.” J.J. looked to the Colonel. “Have you noticed that?”

“J.J.,” warned the Colonel.

“You’ve been a real blessing to the team,” Bob Wier said to Paul, in a quavering voice. “Which is why we’d like to invite you to—”

“Reverend!” barked the Colonel. “Shut. Up.”

Bob Wier shrank lower, his shoulders rising up around his ears.

“Invite me to what?” Paul glanced from Bob Wier to the Colonel to J.J., who glared angrily at the floor. “Invite me to what? What the fuck is going on with you guys?”

“Karaoke night.” The Colonel uncrossed his arms and touched the top of his desk with the tips of his fingers. “Friday night. The whole team’s invited.”

“Even Olivia?” J.J. glanced up.

“Especially Olivia,” said the Colonel.

The three men exchanged a look while Paul watched from his chair. But before he could say anything, the Colonel stood up and said, “Dismissed. We’ll reconvene at lunch.”

Bob Wier hurried out the door, while J.J. fixed Paul with one last angry glance before he left. Paul stood.

“You have a choice to make, Professor.” The Colonel smoothed out the RFP with the edge of his palm. “You can be a slave for Olivia Haddock, or you can be a man.”

Paul waved his copy of the RFP dismissively and moved out the door.

“We keep you alive to serve this ship,” the Colonel called after him. “Row well and live.”

PAUL AVOIDED LUNCH WITH THE COLONEL BY PERSUADING Callie to take him to Sonic, and they sat in the hot cab of her truck with the windows rolled down, in a hot breeze redolent of hot fried foods, and ate cheeseburgers and fries. Paul couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with a woman at a drive-in. His ex-wife wouldn’t have been caught dead in one — like most postmodern theorists, she was a frightful snob — and Kymberly would have quizzed the plump waitress with the paper hat and the coin changer on her belt about the fat content of every goddamn thing on the menu. It was different with Callie. As hormonal as a fifteen year old, still thinking of the night before, Paul got a teenaged thrill from the way their fingers brushed when they reached into the bag of fries at the same time. They slouched across the big bench seat, their shoulders touching, and traded commentary about the patrons in the vehicles on the far side of the awning.

“See that slick sonuvabitch in the Jeep Cherokee?” Callie asked, with her mouth full.

“The one on his cell phone?” Paul wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “He’s in real estate.”

“Worse than that,” said Callie. “He’s the kind of snake who buys people’s houses in foreclosure and then leases their own house back to ’em — at twice the interest.”

“Weasel.”

“Plus he’s cheatin’ on his wife.”

“C’mon,” Paul said, “how can you tell that?”

“Look at the way he’s smilin’ and laughin’ on the phone. A guy don’t smile like that when he’s talking to his wife.”

“How do you know he’s married? Maybe he’s single, and he’s talking to his hot new girlfriend.” Paul waggled his eyebrows lubriciously.

“You can see his ring, where his hand rests on the steering wheel. God,” she laughed, waving her burger, “look how he’s curling his fingers around the wheel. Look how he’s rubbing it! He ain’t thinkin’ of the little woman.” Callie took an enormous bite of the cheeseburger and a pickle oozed out the other side and landed plop! on her darling clavicle.