FIC: Networking
Title: Networking
Author: bugs
Genre: Ficlet, Drama
Rating: T
Word Count: 800
~*~
The room is dark; something that's usually a sign of our lives of deprivation, but tonight is different. I’ve bribed my way aboard the most comfortable vessel the Fleet has, and the dimness is the mood lighting, not power conservation. Dancers shift in the shadows, their teeth flashing in smiles and laughter, their eyes bright as gazes slide over bared skin.
One older man cocks his head slightly so he can watch a woman’s sleek leg swing in time with the music under her table. He does it stealthy; he appears to be stretching his neck in his dress uniform’s stiff collar.
When he approaches the woman's table, her face lights up as she greets him. I tsk under my breath; our leaders, behaving as though they're at their senior prom.
Then my target crosses my vision. The president's aide is even taller, skinnier and younger than he looks on the snow-filled news vids. Straightening my shoulders, I put on my best professional smile, with just a tinge of flirtation.
“Excuse me, Mr. Keikeya,” I say with confidence.
He glances around, then down, to see me. I keep my smile bright.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“If I could speak to you for just a moment.” Before he can protest, I pull him into a quiet corner and hop up on the the high chair at a table.
“If you have a matter for the president, you can contact our Fleet liaison--“
I had borrowed another container rat’s briefcase and it’s empty but for the single sheet of bartered-for paper containing my resume. Snapping the case open so he can’t see this, I whip out the document.
He holds it close to the table’s candle. His fair face flushes. “Ms Foster--“
“The presidential election is in six months, Mr. Keikeya. My experience would be invaluable--”
He quickly scans my resume again. While he does, I glance over to the dance floor. Now the President and Commander are dancing, exchanging smiles. Rolling my eyes, I nod in their direction. “And I could help with that.”
“What?” The aide looks up, confused.
“That’s a possible situation,” I said confidently. Laura Roslin’s little problem with Richard Adar was pretty well known in political circles, but when I see the boy’s face flush again, this time an angry color, I realize I’ve made a critical error.
I close the briefcase.
“Thank you for your submission, Ms Foster,” he says frostily, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.
Then with some real sincerity, he adds, “We’ll be in touch. We can use a good pollster.”
At least he’s gained that much political sense in the past few months. He’ll need a lot more in the next six, but I decide to keep that to myself. My gaze is already onto Tom Zarek, chatting with Doctor Baltar, who’s ignoring him to stare at one of the dancers’ bum. Everyone’s working the room. If only I’d brought another resume, but the price of paper...
“Some advice, Mr. Keikeya,” I say even as my internal monitor scolds me not to.
“Yes?” he replies, but his eyes on the dance floor too, following another pretty woman, not his boss.
“Always respect the office you work for--“
He looks astonished. “Of course.”
“Respect it more than you respect the person holding it,” I warn.
“Thank you,” he says, distant and ungrateful.
Tugging down the slightly too large, threadbare dress jacket I’ve managed to trade my purse for, I murmured my good night.
With no money for drinks or food, I wander away from the festivities in the converted bingo hall. I might as well enjoy the ‘fresh’ air and night air perfumed by blooms before heading back to container 37, bunk D, on my freighter.
My lightweight briefcase swinging beside me, I wander the gardens, ignoring the couples enjoying this rare privacy.
Two figures come from the club’s bright doorway, pausing as though deciding which way to go. The stockier form motions to the gardens; the slender one follows.
I sink to a bench, suddenly exhausted as my failure hits home. I begin to shake. I don't know how much longer I can take this waiting game. My fellow refugees have been slowly disappearing from the container, turning to the comforts the sex trade offers, or suicide, only to replaced by those who've run out of the meager resources that gained them a private cabin on a passenger ship.
A job would mean no more communal showers, a sleeping space of my own, a wardrobe of business clothes...
The couple strolls by, murmuring to each other, heads tipped close.
The President and her military leader again.
When they have passed, I square my shoulders, resolute once more. When that call comes, and it will, I’ll have my work cut out for me.
The end
Author: bugs
Genre: Ficlet, Drama
Rating: T
Word Count: 800
~*~
The room is dark; something that's usually a sign of our lives of deprivation, but tonight is different. I’ve bribed my way aboard the most comfortable vessel the Fleet has, and the dimness is the mood lighting, not power conservation. Dancers shift in the shadows, their teeth flashing in smiles and laughter, their eyes bright as gazes slide over bared skin.
One older man cocks his head slightly so he can watch a woman’s sleek leg swing in time with the music under her table. He does it stealthy; he appears to be stretching his neck in his dress uniform’s stiff collar.
When he approaches the woman's table, her face lights up as she greets him. I tsk under my breath; our leaders, behaving as though they're at their senior prom.
Then my target crosses my vision. The president's aide is even taller, skinnier and younger than he looks on the snow-filled news vids. Straightening my shoulders, I put on my best professional smile, with just a tinge of flirtation.
“Excuse me, Mr. Keikeya,” I say with confidence.
He glances around, then down, to see me. I keep my smile bright.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“If I could speak to you for just a moment.” Before he can protest, I pull him into a quiet corner and hop up on the the high chair at a table.
“If you have a matter for the president, you can contact our Fleet liaison--“
I had borrowed another container rat’s briefcase and it’s empty but for the single sheet of bartered-for paper containing my resume. Snapping the case open so he can’t see this, I whip out the document.
He holds it close to the table’s candle. His fair face flushes. “Ms Foster--“
“The presidential election is in six months, Mr. Keikeya. My experience would be invaluable--”
He quickly scans my resume again. While he does, I glance over to the dance floor. Now the President and Commander are dancing, exchanging smiles. Rolling my eyes, I nod in their direction. “And I could help with that.”
“What?” The aide looks up, confused.
“That’s a possible situation,” I said confidently. Laura Roslin’s little problem with Richard Adar was pretty well known in political circles, but when I see the boy’s face flush again, this time an angry color, I realize I’ve made a critical error.
I close the briefcase.
“Thank you for your submission, Ms Foster,” he says frostily, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.
Then with some real sincerity, he adds, “We’ll be in touch. We can use a good pollster.”
At least he’s gained that much political sense in the past few months. He’ll need a lot more in the next six, but I decide to keep that to myself. My gaze is already onto Tom Zarek, chatting with Doctor Baltar, who’s ignoring him to stare at one of the dancers’ bum. Everyone’s working the room. If only I’d brought another resume, but the price of paper...
“Some advice, Mr. Keikeya,” I say even as my internal monitor scolds me not to.
“Yes?” he replies, but his eyes on the dance floor too, following another pretty woman, not his boss.
“Always respect the office you work for--“
He looks astonished. “Of course.”
“Respect it more than you respect the person holding it,” I warn.
“Thank you,” he says, distant and ungrateful.
Tugging down the slightly too large, threadbare dress jacket I’ve managed to trade my purse for, I murmured my good night.
With no money for drinks or food, I wander away from the festivities in the converted bingo hall. I might as well enjoy the ‘fresh’ air and night air perfumed by blooms before heading back to container 37, bunk D, on my freighter.
My lightweight briefcase swinging beside me, I wander the gardens, ignoring the couples enjoying this rare privacy.
Two figures come from the club’s bright doorway, pausing as though deciding which way to go. The stockier form motions to the gardens; the slender one follows.
I sink to a bench, suddenly exhausted as my failure hits home. I begin to shake. I don't know how much longer I can take this waiting game. My fellow refugees have been slowly disappearing from the container, turning to the comforts the sex trade offers, or suicide, only to replaced by those who've run out of the meager resources that gained them a private cabin on a passenger ship.
A job would mean no more communal showers, a sleeping space of my own, a wardrobe of business clothes...
The couple strolls by, murmuring to each other, heads tipped close.
The President and her military leader again.
When they have passed, I square my shoulders, resolute once more. When that call comes, and it will, I’ll have my work cut out for me.
The end