He had only the vaguest recollection of the last several days. He remembered going for a drink after finally getting out on bail, but everything after that was pretty much a blur. Apparently, he’d managed to achieve his goal of drinking enough to briefly forget his problems, and then some.
He spat several times to clear this mouth, then pulled himself to his feet through sheer force of will and leaned over the sink. He turned the faucet on, waited for the rusty tinge to clear itself from the running water, then bent down to drink from the tap, the cool water a welcome balm to his ravaged esophagus.
He straightened up, being careful to avoid glancing in the mirror as he did so; he didn’t much like what he saw in it these days. His physical decline had started long before he’d lost his job. The lean, mean, fighting machine was gone and in its place was some sorry fuck that Nate didn’t even recognize, never mind like. Looking into that pathetic loser’s eyes after waking up in a puddle of vomit was not the way he’d intended to start his day, thank you very much.
He didn’t have a towel handy—when was the last time he’d done laundry anyway? — so he just wiped his face with the back of his hand and headed for the kitchen.
He grabbed a mug out of the cabinet, one of the few Lisa hadn’t taken when she’d split, and punched the power button on the coffee maker. He glanced idly about while waiting for his coffee to finish brewing, his thoughts already working to try and figure out how he was going to find the money to get a drink, and that’s when he saw it.
A business card, propped up against the salt shaker in the middle of the cramped little counter he used as a kitchen table. The crisp, clean whiteness of the card stood out against the sweat-and-food-stained surface of the counter top.
What the hell?
He stalked over and picked it up.
Limbus, it said.
It was followed by what he took to be the company slogan—“We Employ”—and a telephone number. But it was the last and final line of the card that really caught his eye.
“You are running out of time,” it said.
Nate scowled down at it. Running out of time? What the hell did that mean?
He flipped it over, hoping he might have scrawled something on the back to remind him of where he’d gotten it or what the company actually did, but there was nothing there. The back of the card was blank.
He racked his brains for a minute, a not insignificant task given how hung-over he was, and was just about to give up when a face floated out of the recesses of his memory.
Charlie.
Just like that the floodgates opened.
He remembered he’d gone to Julio’s hoping to find something with legs and a pair of tits to shack up with for the night, and had run into Charlie instead. It had been Charlie who’d given him the card; Charlie who’d told him that there was work available, if he wanted it.
Work.
The word was like a beacon in the night, jarring him from his apathy and setting his heart to beating again. He glanced around the hovel he was living in and mentally winced at the depths to which he’d sunk. He’d lost his edge, lost his drive, and this was where it had gotten him. It was time to turn things around, to get moving again. No more of this self-pitying bullshit. It was time to start living again.
Work.
That’s what Charlie had said. There was work available if he wanted it.
Damn right he did.
He turned the card over again, looking for an address, but didn’t find one. He noted with a start that he had read the last line incorrectly the first time around; he must be more hung over than he thought. Instead of telling him his time was running out, the line below the telephone number actually read “You won’t regret your decision to join us!”
Yeah, we’ll see about that, he thought.
He turned to the comm unit and punched in the number. It rang only once before a cheerful female voice answered it. “Limbus — We Employ. Will you be joining us, Mr. Benson?”
The connection was voice only, no video. Nate wondered if he was talking to a real person or just a computer simulacrum.
“How do you know my name?” he asked.
“Your comm unit identified you when you called in to our offices, Mr. Benson.”
“Oh, right.” Nate felt stupid for even asking. Of course the unit had identified him; all comm units used broadcast identification as a default setting.
A little paranoid, Nate?
He didn’t bother answering himself.
“Are you still with us, Mr. Benson?”
Nate cleared his throat. “Yes, yes I am. I’m calling about a job opening.”
“Of course you are, Mr. Benson. It would be my pleasure to serve you.”
As it turned out, they were doing interviews all day in one of the corporate buildings downtown. Nate booked an appointment, wrote down the address, and then, after disconnecting the call, went to look for something to help his hangover.
Two hours later he stepped off the slidetrain and slipped through the crowds lining the platform, headed for the nearest exit to the street beyond.
He’d made himself look as presentable as he could. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a reasonably new button-down shirt under a light jacket to fend off the light drizzle that was falling.
This section of New Manhattan was all corporate high-rises and company-owned businesses. Everyone he passed on the street was wearing the latest fashions and he drew more than a few curious stares as he moved through the crowds in his far more humble attire, but he didn’t care. He was here about a job and the rest of them could go take a flyin’ hike for all he cared.
The address he was looking for turned out to be a one hundred and twelve story building several blocks from the train station. He checked with the robodirectory when he arrived and the squat humanoid-looking construct told him the offices he was looking for were located on the seventy-eighth floor. Gravlift eighteen was the easiest way of reaching that destination, he was told, so he sauntered off in that direction.
Once on the correct floor, it only took him a moment to find their offices at the end of the hall; the titanium plaque on the front door displayed the company name in letters a foot tall.
As he reached for the door handle a feeling of unease unfurled in his gut, a sense that if he went through that door things would be irrevocably changed, and that brought him up short, his hand hanging there in mid-air as if he’d forgotten what to do with it. For a moment it seemed he wasn’t going to go through with it, that he was just going to stand there indefinitely, but then he shook himself all over, like a dog shedding water from its coat, and the feeling passed. He grabbed the door, pulled it open, and stepped inside.
He found himself in a large reception area. A row of leather chairs lined the wall to his left while a desk stood to his right. Both were empty. Beyond the desk was an open door, which Nate assumed led to an inner office.
He took a seat, assuming the receptionist was in the back office area and would no doubt return momentarily. He had only been there a few minutes when he felt someone’s gaze upon him. Looking up, he started with surprise to see a bald-headed man in a dark suit staring at him from the open door behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi,” Nate said, his heart thumping at the man’s sudden appearance. “I’m Nate Benson. I have a two o’clock appointment.”
He guessed the man in the suit was somewhere in his late forties, which would make him about a decade older than Nate. He was tall and rather thin, with long fingers that reminded Nate of a piano player he’d once seen at an after-hours club in the Holy City, but unlike that piano player this man’s suit was impeccably cut and probably cost more than Nate made in a month.