The silent incursion alarm blinked when Themas was only halfway through reporting the day’s match results.
“Oti versus Zef culminated in a thrilling draw. Both duelists were knocked out by Zef’s lightning bolt as Oti attempted to redirect with only partial success.”
Themas glanced to the side; the crystal incursion blinker intensified in colour and rhythm. The technician outside the window did a loop with his fingers, signaling Themas to wrap it up.
“Rhuvian Rebel Radio’s coverage of today’s duel results will return after these messages,” Themas said into the microphone. Tough to keep his voice steady and enunciating, but he managed.
He slapped the big mute button, threw his headset aside, and lunged out of the broadcast booth. “Third time this week when I’m on air,” Themas growled at the technician, who could only shrug and nod.
“Incursion! Move! Move!” Themas shouted down the hall. The floor’s support staff knew to keep clear and dodged aside with a miniumum of dropped papers.
The firefighter’s pole in the middle of the radio station seemed absurd when Themas proposed it a few months ago, but he knew the board would once again be grateful they’d made the expense for him to respond quick.
Themas slid down and dropped hard to his knees on the station’s bottom level: Data & Research.
“Deck seven!” called frantic Doctor Evan. Not really a doctor, but with floor initials DR…
Themas shot a mock salute and skidded around the corner to magnetic tape storage deck seven. A quick visual scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary – but of course it wouldn’t. Scrying magic didn’t need to operate the tape deck to read it.
Themas rolled up his sleeves to expose his tattoos, drew his wand from his back pocket, and stretched out his arms. Eyes closed, he flicked his wand and muttered the words to his counter-scrying spell, hoping to read the enemy attack’s composition.
He licked his lips and frowned at the flavour of saltwater taffy. “You again,” Themas muttered.
One of his security enchantments assigned random flavours to scrying spells based on their origin. It didn’t tell him who cast the spell, but it did help track repeat attackers, and therefore similarities which let him tailor his defenses.
These salty-sweet attacks were new – only started cropping up in the last few months. The first two almost beat him with unexpected technique and style, but Themas figured out that an aggressive counterspell followed by a reversal could overload the scry attack. Themas altered his grip on his wand, held it between thumb and forefinger so he could flip it round when the time came.
The taffy mage was adapting back, though, and Themas found the window for his counter was growing shorter every time. He poured countermagic into the invisible but delicious scrying spell attempting to read the magnetic tape. The spiraling, brutalist sigils tattooed on his arm pulsed purple, helping him channel the counter.
Almost there. He licked his lips again. Damn that taste. Making him hungry.
Ridiculous corporate espionage. As he channeled countermagic, Themas shook his head and wondered once again what secrets were worth stealing from a radio news station. “What’s on deck seven today?” he called out.
“Fuck if I know,” Evan replied.
“There’s that characteristic charm. Gotta ask, though, innit your job to know?”
“Yeah, and it’s day shift’s job to record what reels they fuck with before I come on.”
“Tell you what, tomorrow I’ll bring them a bottle of Kisja and suggest they -“
Now.
Themas flipped his wand and grunted as he poured magic down his arm. His tattoos flared bright orange and grew steaming hot.
The scry attack broke. The taste of saltwater taffy evaporated from Themas’s lips. The magnetic tape deck sat there, oblivious to how near it had come to spilling its encoded secrets.
“You good?” asked Doctor Evan. “Your arm’s fucking smoking.”
“Not smoke, just steam,” gasped Themas. “Gotta get back upstairs and finish sports, but before I do, any chance you’ve got a taffy?”
At work Themas was too busy to wonder what the hell he was doing working counter-espionage for news radio. At his favourite lounge later, sipping mint liquor to live sax ambience, he had plenty of time to try to catch up on antiquities magazines and fail as he once again considered what happened to his life.
He knew what happened, of course. It was rhetorical. What he didn’t know was how to pivot back to where he wanted to be.
On his fifth read through a paragraph on locking down cursed artifacts with innovative randomly phase- and language-shifting wards, Themas realized he wasn’t absorbing any of the information. He dropped the magazine with a sigh, finished his drink, and listened to the saxophone player improvise with the piano.
“Good evening. Do you mind if I sit?”
Themas looked up and blinked. A short woman with white streaks in her reddish hair and only the slightest hint of lines around her eyes smiled down at him. She had two drinks in her hand – both the same mint liquor he’d been drinking.
Thanks to his job, Themas couldn’t turn off the part of his head that saw a cold approach by a pretty stranger as a potential attempt at a security breach. Not without at least one more drink, anyway. “I’m sure I’d remember you if we’d met before?” he asked, without answering her question.
“You’re right, we haven’t, but I’ve heard of you.” She put one drink down and held out her hand with a friendly smile. “Berthe Maccahawk, founder of WKVX The Wave.”
“Ah,” Themas said. He shook her hand; her grip was politely firm. Naturally he avoided getting involved in other radio stations’ business, so instead he fluffed his magazine and tried to look politely impatient. “Sure, I don’t mind if you sit.”
Berthe did, pushed a drink toward Themas, and clinked her glass against his. “I see you’re busy, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like to offer you a job at The Wave, with a thirty percent raise over whatever Rebel pays you.”
Themas slouched and sighed. This was never what he wanted to do, and he was still trying to figure out how to get his life back on the track he’d derailed from four years back. But… thirty percent… He reached for the drink and downed half of it.
“I can offer you forty percent, but not a single point higher,” Berthe said.
He giggled. Couldn’t help it. “It’s not what you think,” he began.
She spun her finger round the rim of her glass and smiled. “Of course I know you’re not just the sports host,” Berthe said. “Rebel’s shareholder meetings are reported on in the business digests. I know Rebel hasn’t had a significant scrying breach in three years – six months after you started there, before they put you on sports.”
“But I -“
“I know you’re in charge of anti-scrying security. And you’re good at it. The Wave is up-and-coming and I want it to be a serious -“
“But I’m not good at security,” Themas said, shrill, any charm evaporated. “I only got two-thirds of the way through my apprenticeship before I was forced to quit. I’m struggling to barely keep ahead of the incursions on our records and I don’t have the skill for the advanced techniques that are used in real arcane security, let alone the historical preservation I actually wanted to do.”
The lounge had gone quiet around him, and Berthe stared wide-eyed, her hand frozen with her drink halfway to her lips. Themas swallowed the rest of his drink and covered his eyes with his hand.
“I appreciate your candor,” Berthe said. She set her drink down. “Please let me just say two things. One, you are better than you think. I know you don’t have your certification, but every other radio station in Aulonia that reports to shareholders has had at least three breaches in three years. Yours is the only one with zero.
“Two,” she continued, “The Wave is still radio. It may not be the field you’re interested in. But I like to think we’re more dynamic and agile and scrappy than big corporate Rebel.” She gestured around the moodily-lit, graffiti-laden lounge. “Rhuvia was the first city to join the rebellion against the Golden Emperor four hundred years ago, and it’s always had more of an underground punk feel than any other city. By comparison, despite the name, Rhuvian Rebel Radio is very…” She hesitated a moment, her hands turning in circles. “Safe.”
Themas didn’t reply.
Berthe nodded and slid her business card across the table. The font looked almost hand-written, like someone inexperienced with a fountain pen left a few drops and smudges. “My personal frequency is on the back. The offer is exclusive to you for a week. After that, I’ll open the job posting.” She finished her drink and tapped the card. “Think about it.”
Mostly he was thinking about that forty percent pay bump. He could finally clear out the last of his debt and start saving. Eat out more often. Travel to the west coast, or north to see the chaos-magic border of the Zone in person. Move to a nicer place or maybe even buy one.
There was nothing wrong with working arcane security and counter-espionage for a radio station. Not really. It’s not what Themas wanted to be doing, but at least it wasn’t totally unrelated to his field of study. Themas had friends who were further from their dreams than he. It did keep him on his toes, learning and adapting. Not the way he’d wanted, but still.
Or was he only justifying the raise?
Themas ordered another drink, fiddled with Bethe’s business card, and let his mind drift to the offbeat rhythm of the sax and piano.
Another day, another incursion attempt. Repelled again – Themas was getting a handle on the saltwater taffy spy, but the unfamiliarity, the novelty of the scry attack spells bothered him. Someone not from around here, trained in a slightly different method than Themas was. If he’d ever finished his apprenticeship, and especially if he’d continued his studies, he might be able to identify the style.
He chatted and laughed with the other Doctors on the street corner outside Rebel Radio, waiting for a taxi, talking about Kisja liquor and thanking them for documenting their tape swaps. He’d asked the DRs if they’d heard anything about Berthe Maccahawk of WKVX The Wave. None had heard much – Themas knew more than they did, after the talk last night.
Traffic was characteristically chaotic, with conversation frequently pausing to wait out another blaring horn. Two of the DRs hopped in the same cab, fortunate to live in the same building and get along well enough to carpool. Streetlights came on early as lightstones sensed the commensurate level of darkness from the approaching, softly rumbling thunderstorm.
“Themas?”
Oh no. If there was one voice Themas wished he wouldn’t recognize anywhere, this was it.
Could he pretend he hadn’t heard? He leaned off the curb, hoping a taxi would manifest itself out of the crooked Rhuvian traffic. With no such luck, he sighed, slumped his shoulders, and turned around. “Hello, Kalinda.”
It annoyed him how classy and put-together his not-technically-ex-wife looked, given all the debt she’d got them into without telling him. Kalinda still stunned in slacks, heels, and a tight casual v-neck top that somehow looked professional. Hair, teeth, makeup glittered as though she just got out of the salon. Only her arm tattoos, the cursive equivalent of Themas’s brutalist style, seemed out of place.
Worse still, he knew she could read his thoughts now as plainly as she could when they were together. “You look good too,” she said with that infuriatingly perfect smile. Too, she said. I know I look great, and also you’re alright.
“Thanks,” Themas said. “What a total coincidence to see you here, at my work you know the end time of, completely across the city from your job and home.”
Kalinda shrugged. “Okay. You got me.”
“I don’t suppose you’re here with signed divorce papers finally?”
“No, but I do have a work opportunity.”
Themas laughed, desperately checked for a cab again. Still no luck. “You’ll have to wait in line. WKVX The Wave offered me the same job I’m doing now at a forty percent raise.”
“Berthe Maccahawk?”
He frowned, searched Kalinda’s eyes. She seemed… concerned? “Okay, what? How do you know that name?”
“She’s, um, you could say Maccahawk is the reason I have this new work opportunity.” Kalinda chewed her lip. Somehow it didn’t ruin her lipstick. “Can we sit down for a coffee and talk about this?”
“I’m buying, right?” Themas said, voice flat.
“Well… Yeah…”
He sighed and motioned for Kalinda to follow. Themas led her into the Copper Pot, two doors down from Rebel Radio – the whole staff’s cafe of choice for breaks. He waved at the barista, flashed two fingers, and showed Kalinda to his favourite spot in the wood-paneled corner between potted ferns.
They waited for the coffee, Kalinda uncharacteristically awkward, Themas with his arms crossed. The barista dropped off the drinks; Themas nodded thanks, then tried to be polite with Kalinda. “What’s the deal with you and Berthe Maccahawk?”4
“Well, she fired me,” Kalinda said. She took a long sip of coffee, apparently immune to its heat.
Themas waited for her to explain. He spread his hands. “And?”
“She hired me as staff artist for the radio station. She had me on posters and promo stuff. Rebranding. She loved my work.”
“But she fired you?”
“As soon as I turned in everything she asked for. I was in the probation period, so it’s all technically legal – I did get paid – it’s just, it left a bad taste, you know?”
“Well. Yeah. Sorry. But I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“I’m just worried she’ll do the same thing to you. Get what she wants, then fire you.”
“You came down here to warn me?”
“No, I didn’t know Maccahawk offered you a job until you said so outside.”
Themas sighed and cracked his fingers. How soon would he regret asking? “So why did you come find me?”
Kalinda brightened up, almost vibrated as she downed more coffee. “Oh, right. So I have this work opportunity. The museum wants to open a new field office outside of -“
“The museum? The museum? The Rhuvian Museum of Archaeo -“
“Yes, that museum! It’s, well, it’s not strictly speaking one hundred percent legal because of the treaties with -“
Themas laughed, incredulous. “This is just another scam you’re falling for. I bet they haven’t offered you a contract yet because of the legal issues the lawyers will definitely sort out by the time we relocate?”
“Well, I, yes, they did say -“
“Kay, I can’t do this again,” Themas groaned. He spun his coffee mug, watched the steaming black liquid spiral. “I’m still in debt from everything you took on without telling me, and the only reasons we’re still technically married are that you won’t sign the papers and I can’t afford a lawyer.”
He stared at his mug for a long few minutes. Eventually he glanced up, surprised Kalinda wasn’t talking. She looked away, sniffed, rubbed her eyes. “Well. Okay. Just. Be careful with Maccahawk.” She pushed out of her seat, spun around, and hurried toward the exit.
By the time Themas thought maybe he should stop her and apologize, she was gone. He sat until his coffee got too cold to drink.
Themas asked for a day off and was denied. Vacation days must be scheduled at least thirty days in advance, they told him.
Instead he brought a breakfast platter and a dozen coffees to Data & Research and casually mentioned to the team that he was looking for information on Berthe Maccahawk of WKVX The Wave. Might be a story there, Themas implied. Never claimed it would be a story for Rebel Radio, but yeah, a story.
Themas expected a terrible day where he’d be stuck stewing in his thoughts about Maccahawk and Kalinda. To some extent, he was. He screwed up what should have been a simple ward renewal because he couldn’t block out the same if-then thoughts he’d had for years.
If Kalinda had talked to him before taking on debt, maybe they could have found a better way, or at least a better option. Or at least if she’d talked to him before the second, the third. If she hadn’t lied to him for years, he might not have had to drop out of his apprenticeship for late tuition fees. If he had his certification, he’d be in a better job and could pay down the debt. If she’d let them work through this together, maybe they’d still be together.
If he could afford therapy, maybe he wouldn’t be so hung up on this. Some days he still got so mad at her it could blow his work. That was the definition of needing therapy.
But working in D&R meant Themas had the DRs to keep him from spiraling too deep. Evan was crass, but a good guy and a straight shooter who had no time for excuses. When something went wrong, Evan’s motto was “figure out what the fuck happened, take responsibility, and don’t let it fuck you again”. When Evan slashed a finger on a sharp edge, he’d declare it was his own fault, he shoulda worn some fuckin’ gloves. And when Themas was feeling so down about his debts it interfered with his work, Evan would declare his support for Themas to ask for a fuckin’ raise.
Themas didn’t mention the offer from Maccahawk. Instead he played off his mistake as his recurring frustration with Kalinda, complained a bit and thanked Evan and the DRs for their support, and let them take him to fuckin’ lunch.
Themas didn’t do much of the talking at lunch, but it felt good to be around work friends and just half-listen to them commiserate about the new quarterly budget: how could the company value Themas’s recommendations so much to overhaul data storage to fancy new magnetic tapes, but not budget enough to properly maintain the systems?
Afternoon went better after the break and distraction. Themas was able to refresh the wards correctly, and even had time to sketch out some new arcane structures to try as he listened to the DRs argue with a scriptwriter about the pronunciation of some magic word Themas didn’t recognize. Maybe if he’d finished his –
“Here.” Evan slapped a clipboard down in front of Themas. “Everything we’ve got on Maccahawk. Pulled together by that nice lady who asked you out last month and you rejected because you need to work on yourself and your debt.”
Something about the sarcastic way Evan said it managed not to send Themas spiraling again. It helped that Themas hadn’t asked for this but appreciated the gesture. “I did, though. I do need to work on myself.”
“Yeah, I know,” Evan winked.
Themas rolled his eyes. “Thanks. I’m about to go on, but I’ll check it out tonight.”
Rhuvian Rebel Radio’s file on Berthe Maccahawk was thicker than Themas expected. Just skimming took an hour.
He worked his way through the information over the next couple of days during breaks at the Copper Pot. Much of it seemed overly personal, irrelevant, or both. Why would Rebel bother collecting data on Maccahawk’s birth date and location, her family history, relationships, education, even medical treatments and therapy for gambling addiction? How relevant could that possibly be to operating Rebel Radio, even when keeping tabs on the competition? Was this legal?
Themas was slurping the dregs of his coffee and struggling to find any relevance in a two-page write-up on Maccahawk’s education at Ravenshore’s archmage tower when an aide from Rebel stumbled into the Copper Pot. “Incursion,” gasped the out-of-shape middle-aged man.
He was out the door in three seconds. Themas left the aide behind and sprinted two doors over to Rebel, threw his badge at the receptionist and leaped over the gate, and slid down the fire pole to D&R.
Silent alarm lights flashed and DRs cleared a path. Themas rolled up his sleeves, flicked out his wand, and got to work, his tattoos shimmering purple.
Saltwater taffy in the air again.
Themas spun around, searching for where – ah, the scry attempt targeted tape deck three, where… he checked the notes Evan demanded… where the scripts for the midday news had already been backed up. Someone trying for a scoop.
He flicked his wand, said the words, and dumped countermagic into the attack spell – but this time it adapted. The magic was invisible, but to Themas it sort of felt like the scry spell… slid aside. Anticipating his method.
Easy times couldn’t last forever, he supposed. If the taffy mage adapted, so would Themas.
The still-strange feel of the spell against his wand bothered him. Something nagged at Themas’s mind like his persistent re-living of what happened with Kalinda. No, not quite like that – something more urgent. A word stuck in his head. Ravenshore? But…
Ravenshore. He read it in Maccahawk’s file. She studied magic in Ravenshore. That was important, somehow. The tower in Ravenshore was… he licked his lips, grimaced at the salty-sweet flavour, tried to remember. Ravenshore’s tower was somewhat separated from mainland traditions. In Aulonia most wizards were members of the Arcane Eye, but Ravenshore’s archmage was more independent and developed some different methods of…
Different methods. If Maccahawk trained in Ravenshore, her magic wouldn’t feel the same as what Themas knew.
The saltwater taffy scrying attacks didn’t feel like the Aulonian magic Themas knew.
For now he shook it out of his head and redirected his countermagic. He pushed against the spell, cornered it, and at just the right moment, flipped his wand to reverse the flow and
missed?
Once again the spell slipped around Themas’s counterattack. The wards shattered with the faintest, nearly inaudible sound like cracking wood and falling splinters. Themas felt a push back, not dangerous, but enough to knock his back into another deck. He watched helpless as the spell read the data off the magnetic tapes. No visible indicators – the tapes didn’t roll or melt or anything – but Themas stared nonetheless.
One word played back through his mind over and over like a skipping record. Ravenshore.
Feeling tired and defeated, Themas glanced at DR Evan, avoiding his eyes. Evan and the other DRs stared, silent, visibly shocked. “I’ll be at the library for the rest of the day,” Themas said, and slunk out of the basement.
Rhuvia’s public library had no match for the advanced spell and theory books one could access as a member of the Arcane Eye, but since Themas never finished his apprenticeship, he had to make do with the basics.
Not that Ravenshore’s archmage shared her methodology with the Arcane Eye – that’s why Themas was in this mess. All he could do was read between the lines in research journals that described methods but didn’t provide the spells themselves, archived news of discoveries, and textbooks that made references and comparisons to various historical traditions.
Like most of the city, Rhuvia’s library staff chafed under too much authority or standardization and had their own… creative… ideas on how to shelve books. Not so haphazard that Themas couldn’t find what he was looking for, but he wasted time digging through shelves of journals organized by colour rather than title, date, or topic.
It took all day, but Themas found enough information to work on his methods. Enough references spoke of the insistence of Ravenshore’s archmage on simplifying magic wherever possible, making it more accessible, more easily learned. He had a hell of a time figuring out what that meant when he’d never finished learning the fundamentals. Apparently it took someone much smarter than Themas to make magic easier for people like Themas.
But having taught himself so much from limited materials already, Themas was able to spot some hints and cobble together a messily elegant set of notes on how he might pare down his wards and counterspell. With a few days of work he should be able to match the flexibility of the scry attack that beat him.
If he was right. If the scry attack really was based on Ravenshore methods.
“This better not happen again,” growled DR Evan, gagging. “Promise me this won’t fucking happen again.”
“It – ow! – shouldn’t,” Themas gasped.
He gripped the stair railing so hard he worried he’d pull it out and fall. Evan pulled and pushed on Themas’s arm, trying to pop the shoulder joint back into place.
“No, you have to – AH – pull, not push!” Themas shouted.
“Oh I’m fucking sorry, you want to do it yourself?” Evan screamed back. Given the colour of his skin, there was no way he should be this pale. “Or maybe I can call a fucking ambulance like I fucking suggested?”
“Just do it!” Themas yelled.
With a sickening lurch and click and bolt of pain and relief, Themas’s arm jumped back into place. He gasped and dropped to the floor, holding his shoulder.
Evan dropped beside him and gave a hysterical giggle. “Sorry, man. I hated that. You know I hate that.”
“I swear this was the last time,” Themas said. He rotated his arm experimentally, grimaced again at the jabs to his nerves. “I tried something new, I didn’t expect the feedback on the flip but next time I’ll -“
“Last time,” Evan repeated. “You fucking promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” Some colour returned to Evan’s face, and a smile crept out of its hiding place. “You fucking did it though.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Themas closed his eyes and rested his head against cold metal railings. It took three days of battling incursions, three days of failures and WKVX scoops beating Rebel to the punch on researched pieces. All with the silently implied threat that Themas couldn’t fail at his job too many more times if he still wanted to have a job.
But he did it. He adapted, he’d learned the attacker’s method, and he’d be able to repel anything they tried from now on, unless the enemy scrier went back to school for more advanced spells or hired someone dramatically more expensive.
“So it was Maccahawk?” Evan asked. With his eyes closed. Not looking at Themas’s shoulder.
Themas nodded. “Yeah, I think so. This attack was definitely a Ravenshore method, and you said Research hasn’t turned up any other Ravenshore-trained mages in Rhuvia this week. Legal department says it’s still not proof of -“
“Fuck Legal,” Evan said. He looked up the stairwell, then back down, grinned at Themas. “Well, I mean, you don’t need Legal to throw Maccahawk’s job offer back in her fucking face.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Shame about the money though.”
“Ha.”
At Themas’s invitation, Berthe Maccahawk walked into the Copper Pot. She wore a blue suit with a black scarf, accenting the white streaks in her hair. She waved at Themas and ordered a coffee.
When she joined him at his table, Themas couldn’t help abandoning his prepared script. He’d planned a careful, probing conversation where he’d sound like he wanted to accept her job offer but needed some reassurance. Instead he just wanted to throw her off balance. “I know you’re the mage behind the scry attacks on Rebel Radio,” he said.
Maccahawk raised two fingers. “First, you can’t prove that in court. Second -” she smiled – “I’m now offering you fifty percent over what Rebel pays you.”
Themas shook his head and looked out the window, trying to cover his half-stunned instinct to take the offer immediately. “Why?” he asked.
“You’ve shown initiative and skill in defending your employer – I’ve heard. I value that and I’ll happily pay and appreciate you more than Rebel does.” That smile again. She seemed so genuine.
It wasn’t quite what he’d meant to ask. “I mean why are you doing all this? The scry attacks just to beat Rebel to a report by a few minutes to an hour? Spying on me?”
Maccahawk took a breath and gave a slightly thinner smile. “Establishing a reliable pattern of being the first to report the news is something any radio station would want. As for “spying” on you -” she did quote marks with her fingers – “How were you able to put a stop to the recent scry attempts on Rebel’s data storage?”
Still technically not admitting anything, but Themas wasn’t planning legal action. “I see what you’re implying with that question. Sure, Rebel might have done some looking into you -“
“Some?” she interrupted, exaggeratedly raising both eyebrows.
“Okay, maybe a lot -“
“Maybe?”
He crossed his arms and took a frustrated gulp of his coffee. “Just say whatever you’re trying to imply.”
“Rhuvian Rebel Radio didn’t become the dominant news radio station for half the country by playing nice and minding their own business. Rebel practices plenty of anti-competitive methods. Research department is practically a spy agency, they do plenty of their own scrying. Legal uses every dirty trick and technicality to buy other stations before they can grow into real competitors. Turns out that Rhuvia’s proud history of going their on way and breaking the rules is sometimes only skin deep – the big corporate station calls itself Rebel and somehow listeners think they mean it.”
Maccahawk watched Themas’s face as he tried and failed to counter her arguments. He couldn’t. It was all true. “But they’ve treated me well,” was all he could muster.
“In what way?”
He couldn’t help a short laugh. “They hired me without a degree and kept me on when I made mistakes.” Even as he said it, he knew Maccahawk’s next argument.
“Are you happy with the pay and benefits?”
He resisted the impulse to stand and pace. No, he wasn’t, not really. Three years of steady work and he was still paying off debt and renting a tiny home. He’d been frustrated but felt he had no better options. Still, Rebel may not be great, but Maccahawk had no evidence or argument that they were evil.
He wouldn’t let Maccahawk control the conversation. “How can I trust you?” he asked bluntly. “You’re offering a lot of money and acting like you’re better than Rebel, but you’ve been illegally attacking my employer, and my ex-wife says you fired her before her probation ended, as soon as you got what you wanted. How do I know you won’t do the same to me?”
Maccahawk finally blinked. “Your ex-wife?”
“Kalinda, who designed The Wave’s ad campaign.”
“Oh.”
Maccahawk seemed genuinely taken aback, as though she’d not at all expected Themas to know about Kalinda. What an odd gap in her research.
She sighed and pulled off her black scarf. “Yes, that did happen. It was some time ago, when The Wave couldn’t afford to keep a professional artist on permanently. Since then we’ve been attracting listeners, and therefore advertisers and sponsors. We can afford to keep you on.”
Something about her tone sounded more honest. Still… “I can’t leave my job at Rebel without some kind of guarantee.”
She shook her head. “I can’t guarantee more than six months. I’d like to keep you on permanently, but I can’t write a contract that makes you immune to layoffs or firing due to finances or incompetence.”
Themas leaned back. That was more than he expected, actually. It would help with the debt, but he’d be gambling on what would happen after those six months.
Well, he’d come prepared to reject the offer, but also to see if he could get anything else out of it. Themas leaned in, rested his elbows on the table. “Any chance you’d be willing to put the offer in writing? Or act as a reference?”
At this she laughed. “Sorry. If you accept I’ll give you a contract to sign, but I won’t help you find a raise or job with my competition.”
“Fair enough.”
She shifted, straightened, and her suit jacket settled crisp. “To be clear. Are you rejecting my job offer?”
To Themas’s surprise, the answer came quickly. “Yes.”
Berthe Maccahawk gave him a curt nod, gathered her scarf and coffee, stood, and left without saying goodbye.
Well. That was that. No new job, no leverage for a raise, no reference. Nothing changed. Back to work. What an unsatisfying conclusion to all this mess.
He’d at least take the time to finish his coffee before going back to the basement.
Themas chewed on a fruity muffin with his coffee down in D&R. After his homework dealing with Maccahawk resulted in a week without any incursions, management had graciously and generously provided a one-time department breakfast platter from a cheaper cafe than the Copper Pot. And made it clear this would not be a regular occurrence.
Themas sipped his coffee and watched the tape decks whir quietly.
“Hey, Themas.”
“What, Evan.”
“I know you didn’t ask for this, but since you were complaining the other day, out of curiosity, I had Research look into your ex wife.”
“Evan, what -“
“She’s paid off half her debt, she’s in therapy, and that university job offer is fucking legit.”
“…what?”
“Yeah. Maybe you should take her up on it.”
“…huh.”
Several times over the years, Themas caught himself saying of his relationship with Kalinda that everything had been perfect – she’d been perfect – except for her lying about the money. And while that was quite a big “except”, he’d loved her.
Three years after their separation, for some reason, Themas still had Kalinda’s personal radio frequency. Hadn’t been able to bring himself to get rid of it. If she really was working on the only problem they’d had…
Maybe he’d give her a call later.
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