Market Share, part II

Billy accessed his ticker during the one minute ride to the 92nd floor. He looked down and to the left, squinched his eyes shut, and thought "JOB POSTING". The text that played back read

DIRECTOR OF MARKETING (CONTRACT DIVISION) MERCANIX, INCORPORATED

Are you a proven marketing executive looking to take that Next Step Forward and Feel Whole?
Mercanix has an opportunity tailor made just for you! We require a solid results-oriented penetration expert to manage and implement contracts from inception through completion and follow-through.

Candidates must be in excellent mental and physical condition, able to withstand the rigors of a demanding and stressful position.
We offer the best benefits in the business, including RR 13+

We are always looking to increase our already impressive market share. Can you help us? Apply MERCANIX DIRECTPOS 34591.

Pretty vague, he thought. Within the propsphere, the letters in MERCANIX seemed to glow with a gentle, welcoming light. But what really had Billy aglow was the RR 13+. That remuneration rating translated to practically unlimited wealth. Enough so that he could buy pretty much anything he wanted, then turn around and do it again next week. And every week thereafter, if he chose.
His current RR, working for that rinky-dinky marketing outfit SellThru, was 6. That was okay to live on--Billy wasn't starving, not by any means. He'd started at a 1.5 RR eight years back...entry level wages, just half a level above the minimum paid to all citizens, working or not. He'd busted tail for that company, jumped to a 4 within a year, then saw his salary and buying power stagnate. It was definitely time to move on.
13+. That was--Billy calculated, using the archaic currency his Grandma had told him existed when she was a girl--about three and a half million dollars a week. Or more. Wouldn't Grandma just shit if she could see me now? Talk about reaching for the brass ring.
For a minute his face clouded over with self-doubt. Can I do this? he thought. Am I worth 13+?
His dad appeared in his mind's eye, saying "Of course you can, Billy, never fear. You can do anything. And you're worth...wait a second, did you say 13+? Cripes, that's a lot of dough. Yep," the voice concluded, grudgingly, it seemed to Billy, "you're worth it. Never let anyone think otherwise, anyways."

The elevator doors opened onto a paradise. Billy stepped out and immediately thought he might drown in the carpet. He turned left and followed the hallway about a hundred metres, trying not to gawk. The walls appeared to be sculpted out of solid gold. Every five meters a hidden spotlight illuminated a painting on the wall. Matisse. Renoir. Jesus, was that a Rembrandt?

He turned right and entered suite 9201.

The view from here had knocked lesser men over. The office--if you could call something the size of a small factory an office--had windows wall to wall and floor to ceiling on three sides. The 92nd story of the Mercanix building was above cloud level. Also above pretty much everything else in the city. You could see forever.
Controlling his face, Billy strode up to the receptionist as if he belonged here.
"Hello," he said, "I'm Billy Madison. I have an interview slated for...right now."
"Hello, Billy," she purred. My God, he thought, never mind the paintings and this view, Mercanix is so rolling in it they can afford human receptionists? Let alone sex kittens like this?
"You can...come right in."
Billy mentally poured ice water down his pants and sauntered into the office of J. Paul Gatlin, President of Mercanix.
He blinked.
The place was done up like an old hunting lodge, circa 1900. Post and beam construction. Gorgeous lake view out the west wall. The sunset told Billy this was a VR screen--that and the fact he was 92 storeys in the air. But the illusion was perfect. You could even hear waves.
A fire crackled in the fireplace set into the north wall. There were animal heads mounted everywhere. Billy suspected most of them were extinct, at least on this continent. Certainly he couldn't identify any of them.
Billy took all this in over about three seconds, then focused on the desk in the center of the room and the man rising to greet him.
The desk appeared to have been carved out of a giant redwood tree. It was easily thirty feet long.The man looked like he had made the desk himself. Six foot eight and broad as a barrel, J. Paul Gatlin had one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. It was smiling now, that face, and Billy thought he'd do well to keep it that way. This man's temper was the stuff of legend.

They shook hands. You learned a lot about a man's sense of self-esteem from his handshake. Too weak, and the guy was a pushover; too strong, and he was trying to compensate for something. Gatlin's handshake was strong without being macho, and Billy instinctively weakened his grip just a titch. The idea wasn't to get into a pissing contest with the likes of J. Paul Gatlin. He could outpiss you without unzipping.

"Billy Madison", the voice boomed. "Good to see you."
"It's an honor, sir," Billy replied.
"Yes, it is, isn't it? Sit down, please. We have much to discuss."
Billy pulled a chair out and lowered himself into it. The trick now was to let Gatlin guide the interview. The trick was to say everything he wanted to hear without being too kiss-assy about it. In other words, the trick was to act as if the job was already his.
"You've got the job, by the way," Gatlin said.
"Thank you, sir," said Billy without batting an eye. Inside, he was thinking what the hell?
"But I'm afraid I'm not really certain what the job entails."
Tell me," said Gatlin, "what do you know about Mercanix, Incorporated?"
Now Billy was back on familiar ground. For a moment he gathered himself, thinking I'm being interviewed for a job he says is mine already?
Billy spoke in rapid point form, summarizing everything he'd been able to access online before coming down here. "Founded 2009, by your grandfather. He liked the word Mercanix, with its connotation of things being fixed. Over seventy companies have been gathered into the Mercanix fold, making everything from music software to envirocars. Very well, too. Your market share's at 48% and growing, helped along by that amazing proprietary sphere you've developed. Your marketing's second to none. General Systems"--Billy felt a faint pang just saying the name--"is your only real competitor, everybody else is just small fry. I just bought MusicMuse this morning, and so far I really like it."
"Bullshit", said Gatlin. "You think General Systems has a 'functionally superior' product, and you only bought MusicMuse to flatter our scanners. But," he continued, "I would have done the same thing in your place, and besides, you're right. G.S. has better mindsearch capability...right now. Their Harmony can play a selected song before you're even aware you want to hear it. If they ever stumble across our propsphere blueprints, we're doomed."
Gatlin stood up suddenly, his face blank, like a cliff. "That's where you come in, Billy. Your title is Director of Marketing, Contracts Division. I'm issuing your first contract right now. It's for the head of G.S.'s Propsphere Development Team. The head of the head, if you catch my meaning."

To be continued...