Market Share, Part III

Billy stared at Gatlin for what seemed like an eternity, unable to process what he'd just heard. He wants me to...to...
This is a joke, right?
"Oh, it's no joke, I assure you, Mr. Madison", said Gatlin. The president of Mercanix smirked at him. "Did you honestly think a simple deskbound job paid 13+? Now that would be a joke."
Billy stood up quickly and turned towards the door. With his back to Gatlin, he said "I'm not qualified for this, and I have serious moral qualms about accepting this position. In offering it to me, you have broken at least two laws that I know of, and"--Christ, it was a long walk to the door!--"I'm an honest man. Thank you..."
He was interrupted by slow, sardonic applause.
Against his better judgement, he turned around.
"Oh, very good, Billy, very well done," enthused Gatlin. "But I think you'll find that you have, shall we say, an aptitude for this sort of work. While you may not be qualified in terms of prior experience, our scanners suggest you have just the temperament and attitude we're looking for.
Billy stared at Gatlin. Did this asshole actually tell me I'm a born killer?
"See, that's part of what I mean," said Gatlin. "Most people are intimidated by me. Just walking into this office has caused more than one person to lose control of his bowels. Yet you strolled through those doors without a care in the world. An impressive performance."
"I was acting, you asshole!" blurted Billy, without thinking. Instantly his entire body was wracked with spasms of pain and he collapsed, writhing, to the floor. The pain intensified until Billy thought he'd cheerfully die...and then was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. Billy was weeping. He couldn't help it.
"Now, now, Mr. Madison," said Gatlin as if to a three-year-old, "that won't do. Thinking I'm an asshole is one thing. Saying it out loud, however, is unacceptable. "
Gatlin stood and rumbled his way around the desk. Billy watched him approach for a moment and then curled into a fetal position, whimpering. Gatlin smiled down at him, reached out his hand, and tapped him gently on the shoulder. Billy recoiled, and Gatlin said "There, there, now. I'm sure you've learned a valuable lesson just then. Let me help you up."
"I'm fine", said Billy, not entirely sure he was telling the truth. He gingerly made his way to his feet.
"Do I have a choice, sir?" he asked.
Gatlin laughed. "Oh, there's always a choice, Mr. Madison," he intoned. "In fact, you have many choices. You could take the job and get your hands dirty. You could take the job and direct a team of mercenaries--we call them "mercanix", of course--and stay clean. Or you could--just for the sake of argument--not take the job, and, well, then you'd die. Do you want to die, Mr. Madison?"
This last was spoken in the same tone Gatlin would have used to offer him coffee. Somehow it frightened Billy even more. He decided to try one more tack.
"May I ask why I was chosen for this...honour?"
"You may," said the president, "and I may tell you. We've had our eyes on you for years, Mr. Madison. Your record at SellThru was exemplary. You've got a streak of loyalty in you a mile wide--a rare trait these days. Your intelligence tests highly on every scale we've got. You've shown a marked tendency to bend rules whenever possible. In short," Gatlin concluded, "you're perfect."
Billy sat down. "Supposing I took this job and did...what you're asking me to do. Suppose the police caught me. Then what?"
"Oh, Mr. Madison!" said Gatlin, chuckling heartily. "If the police caught you, you wouldn't be a very competent Director, now, would you?"
Billy was thinking fast. "These mercen--'mercanix'. If they did the job under my nominal direction, where would my accountabilities lie?"
Gatlin smilled. "A good question. I'm afraid that for obvious reasons I can't give you access to my Projector, the machine responsible for your regrettable...incident...a few minutes ago. However, there's nobody and nothing to say you can't intimate you have access to the Projector. Our employees here are generally very well trained. They're not told who has the power to elicit pain and who does not. After awhile, they tend to treat everyone with kid gloves...especially if you project an aura of self-confidence. Which you've already shown you can do."
Billy had never felt less self-confident in his life.
"Any further questions?"
"One", said Billy. "What is the, uh, deadline for this project?"
Gatlin looked at him. "I thought I had made that clear, Mr. Madison. General Systems is very close to developing a propsphere of their own. This can not be allowed to happen. You may, if you wish, start tomorrow--but if I hear on this evening's newscast that G.S. has a propsphere ready to go, it'll be on your head."
Not fair! whined Billy's mind. Not fucking fair!"
Gatlin's next words reminded Billy of his mother...and chilled him to his core.
"Life's not fair, Mr. Madison."

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Just two more parts to go, I promise, then the Breadbin will return to its regularly scheduled programming.