One
Would you kill for a job? the sign on the lectern asked.
    I hoped it didn’t come to it. But I’d like to think I would.
    It was eight thirty in the morning and deadly hot. The air was thick with smog and painful to breathe. The brick-red running track looked soft and muddy, as if it was melting.
    How on earth was one supposed to race on a melting track?
    I guess I’d soon find out.
    At least fifty job seekers tottered around the starting line. Some windmilled their arms, others did squats and lunges. They all tried to look impressive. They failed.
    Mostly they looked like I felt—hungry and boiled-lobster hot in their polyester office wear.
    To distract myself from the scorching air hitting my face, I whipped out my phone. This served two purposes.
    First, it made me look busy, professional, and important. I’d read somewhere that if you aren’t about to catch a first-class flight, step into a high-end clothing store, or get behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle, staring intently at a phone is the next best way to look important.
    Second, if you stared at a phone, you couldn’t catch anyone’s eye. When you looked another job seeker in the eye, you might see desperation there.
    It’s not that I was desperate. But when you’re about to run a race to qualify for the first job in two weeks for which you were eligible, you didn’t want to see desperation.
    Not in someone else’s eyes. Definitely not your own.
    I opened the Fulltime Universe of Jobs app with a jaunty tap. I read the job posting for the fifth time that morning. Possibly the tenth.
    Thank God, it was still there:

    Friday, September 13: Race 1
    Job Title: Human Resources Associate.
    Job Status: Full-time.
​
    I closed my eyes. A bubble of panic welled up. Failure was not an option.
    I took a mental spike to my panic bubble and stabbed it ruthlessly. It refused to pop. Panic was an option.
    There was a commotion at the far end of the field. I swung around, delighted at the distraction.
    My smile faded. What a terrible distraction.
    A man, clearly a job seeker, had emerged from behind the recruiting tent. He was in full flight, with three security guards in hot pursuit.
    He belted down the field toward us, a frenzy of flapping arms and legs, his expression as desperate as they come.
    “You go, brother!” a man beside me yelled. Soon the entire crowd around me was at it, cheering him on, pumping their fists in the air, laughing with excitement.
    One of the guards picked up speed and tackled him. It was a brutal takedown; the two men skidded across the track in a tangle. A little cloud of dust rolled up from where they tussled on the ground.
    The other two guards ran up to them and hauled the job seeker to his feet. He tried to fight them off, but it was pointless.
    They gave him a rough shake to show him who was boss, then marched him grimly toward the administration tent. No doubt every item he owned was already there, waiting in a heap by the cashier’s window.
    The crowd muttered with disappointment.
    What did they expect? That was what happened when you couldn’t pay your way in this place. Out on your back end you went, three security guards at your heels.
    Another wave of panic bubbled up, this one quite large and painful. It pushed hard against my insides. I felt it shove at me, from the tips of my toes to the tip of my nose.
    In a week, that could be me. Then what?
    This was the only place in Futria City to offer full-time work. I’d spent almost every penny I had on the admission fee, three weeks’ tent rental plus shower use and the canteen. And toilet paper.
    What if this was it? This race might be my first and last chance of landing full-time work. Ever.
    Another murmur ran through the crowd. I swung around, and my feet seemed to glue themselves to the track.
    There he was. The job race announcer.
    At least I was quite sure that was who he was, this being my first race.
    He strolled toward us with the calm, self-assured gait of the fully employed. His clothes were clean and new, his face unlined and freshly shaved. In his wake trotted two young women with shiny, bouncy hair and eager expressions.
    They looked so pampered and well fed, I wanted to rip their hearts out then and there.
    I imagined them coming here from their homes. Real homes, with heat and light and decent furniture. Not derelict shacks scheduled for demolition on the outskirts of Futria City that you shared with twenty other people.
    I imagined them having breakfast. Real breakfast, with freshly baked bread and fresh brewed coffee, and juicy, ripe fruit imported from faraway lands. Not the powdered simu-food they served in the canteen that I’d lived off for the past four years.
    The girls bounded up to the lectern, trim in their white Fulltime Universe of Jobs golf shirts. They wheeled the lectern to face the starting line. My panic bubble threatened to explode.
    They were about to start the race. If I failed…what then?
    Go back to Quark jobs and that derelict house scheduled for demolition? In a few months the wrecker’s ball would take aim and obliterate it. Then where would I go? Join the Bike Rippers?
    I couldn’t afford a motorcycle, even if I knew how to drive one. Besides, invading homes and holding old ladies hostage until they coughed up their jewels and savings wasn’t how I saw my future.
    There was always another option, if you were young and female. It involved lying on your back and letting a great, hairy Ripper heave on top of you.
    The thought made me gag, leading to the growth of a rival panic bubble. From what I’d heard, gagging with a Ripper gyrating atop you was a death sentence.
    The lectern loomed high above the starting line. The black lettering on the white sign in front of it was illuminated by the morning light.
    Would you kill for a job?
    I took a deep breath.
    Yes. Yes, I would.
    I took another breath.
    Now wasn’t the time to be frightened, to think about Bike Rippers or failure.
    Now was the time to be a killer. I was letting down the team. The team being me.
    I needed to size up the competition, windmill my arms and squat and jump about like the man and woman beside me. Not cower and quake.
    I pushed my fears out of my mind and focused on the woman. I recognized her; her tent was close to mine.
    She wore a navy suit and sensible pumps and looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She didn’t fool me. I’d heard stories about her. The other day she’d tripped another competitor, right near the finish line.
    There was a pale, skinny girl to my right. Her clothes were too big for her and she moved like a puppet with its strings cut, jerky and drooping at the same time.
    She gave me a sickly smile. I could see her collapsing from heat exhaustion well short of the finish line.
    I tried not to be pleased at the prospect. I failed.
    I saw myself running past her body, sprawled across the track. The image brought me a kind of peace.
    I wished I was a better person. I’m glad I’m not.
    Better people were over, a thing of the past. They’d gone out of fashion at the start of the last pandemic, the one that knocked the pins out from under the world economy and sent everyone scrambling just to survive.
    Any company that hadn’t automated during the previous pandemic did during the most recent one. It was 2030. Artificial intelligence and robots were everywhere. Full-time jobs were almost nonexistent.
    Which meant if I wanted stability, any kind of a future, I had to win this race. I had to make it to the recruiter’s tent. I had to get an interview. I had to be hired. Today.
    One of the young women hopped up behind the lectern and switched on the microphone. The loudspeaker beside us crackled to life. A feverish tension gripped the crowd, and a deathly silence fell.
    “Good morning, everyone!” Her voice, perky and bright, exploded out of the box, filling the field and surrounding area. She sounded cheerful, enthusiastic, and above all, employed. I hated her guts.
    “The first job competition will begin shortly,” she said. “Please have your cash cards ready. I’d also like to remind you that the use of knives, shivs, and other deadly weapons is strictly prohibited on the track.”
    She flicked off the microphone, and the crackling subsided. Everyone relaxed. Everyone but me. I continued to eye my competitors.
    To my left was an older, heavyset man with dark stubble and a terrified expression, perspiring heavily.
    Him I dismissed. With that extra weight, he’d barely make it to the finish line. The race was for a human resources job. HR staff had to be slim, well groomed, and presentable. They had to look like the kind of people companies wanted to hire. He hardly fit the bill.
    The woman beside me turned around, and I stiffened. Like me, she wore a white blouse, black slacks, and black, low-heeled pumps.
    Her makeup was perfect. Not a strand of hair was out of place, unlike my frizzy mop, which always looked like a failed science experiment.
    I bet she spent every spare hour on the track, in the boxing ring, or at the weight machines. So she’d be ready for a moment like this.
    She gave me an appraising glance and a half smile. I saw the challenge in it, and I knew. She was the one to watch.

Two

They expelled you from the complex if they found a weapon on you. Otherwise, I’d have brought a knife, a shiv, and any other deadly weapon I could think of with me, if it meant I’d win the race.
    Would I have used it? I’d never know now.
    I jogged lightly in place. My calves were starting to cramp when the race announcer mounted the steps behind the lectern. He looked like he was around ten years older than me, perhaps thirty-seven or thirty-eight.
    He was tall and good looking, and well groomed, like all the other Fulltime Universe of Jobs staff. In other circumstances, my heart might have fluttered. Not today. There was no time for dallying today. Only winning.
    He turned on the microphone and stared down at us, unsmiling. He gripped the edges of the lectern.
    “Good morning, everyone!” he said. His voice was deep, velvety, serious.
    By now it was almost nine and the heat was suffocating. Many of us were soaked in sweat and wheezing from exhaust fumes drifting over from the nearby expressway.
    “Good morning,” a few people croaked back. The rest remained silent.
    He gazed down at us, his expression sorrowful, dismayed.
    “People, people, what is happening here? Why so soft, so passive, so meek?” He paused for a long time, then he bowed his head. When he raised it, tears glistened in his eyes. “I feel it, people. I feel the fear in you. I feel the despair. I feel the loss of faith.”
    He placed his hand over his heart. His voice spluttered to a soft whisper, as if he too was defeated by our fears. No one spoke. We stood as one, staring up at him, mute, spellbound.
    Which was why when he suddenly pounded the lectern, everyone jumped.
    “Well, people,” he roared. Collectively we reeled back. “I am here to tell you not to give in! I am here to tell you to take heart, to rejoice in the possibility of a new future. Your future! The future of warriors. You! The warriors of the work world. You are winners, the best of the best, on a mission. You have joined us here ON A CRUSADE!”
    He drew a deep breath.
    “Yes! A crusade! A crusade to flay the competition! A crusade to show the world how to get things done. How to succeed. How to win! A crusade to nurture your killer instinct! You are on a crusade to CONQUER THE WORLD!”
    He threw up his hands and his head as if seeking answers in the heavens. Slowly he lowered them and met our gaze. His voice was low, admonishing, menacing. “Yet this is all you can muster? This quiet, plaintive greeting, on this, the first day of the rest of your life?”
    He put his hand to his ear and gazed into the distance. “Release your fears and let me hear you, people! Let me hear your fire! Let me hear your faith! Let me hear your passion! You have come to me, to this place, to embrace faith, and above all, work!
    "It's your passion, your future, your destiny! Let me hear your voices, joined, into one voice, the voice of CHAMPIONS! Once again, people, I say to you…” He extended his hands as if to grab us and screamed, “GOOD MORNING!”
    Our voices lifted in unison and we roared back, “GOOD MORNING!”
    “Ah,” he said, smiling. “That’s better. Welcome, everyone, to the Fulltime Universe of Jobs, the only place for full-time work in Futria City.”
    He pulled out a tablet. “I see we have five jobs on today’s roster, including the race for the HR job, that’s about to begin right now. Well. I have great news for you! There a special deal of $500 for you go-getters ready to enter all five races.”
    He winked. “And for lesser mortals, it’s $450 for four competitions, $400 for three, and $350 to enter two job competitions. There are no singles on offer today.”
    My heart, still pounding with hope and longing from his sermon, plunged into my sensible low-heeled pumps.
    No singles. That meant I’d have to enter the twofer at $350 if I wanted to try for the HR associate position. I barely had $400 left on my cash card.
    “Of course, there’s a kiosk for Quark jobs at the far end of the complex,” he said casually, as if he sensed hesitation in the crowd. “I believe a local restaurant needs a Quark worker to clean toilets for an hour later today. The applicant entry fee is only $25.”
    That did it. I had nothing against Quark jobs, or as they were sometimes called, gig jobs on steroids. Nothing at all. But there was no way on God’s brown earth I would go back to them.
    “Two, please,” I told the young woman walking around with a point-of-purchase device. I waved my cash card at the device with a brisk flick. She printed a receipt and handed it to me. I stared at the big, blocky letters.
    Registrant: Clara Brock
    Years Experience: 6
    Education: Bachelor of Human Resources Management
    Number of Competitions: 2
    If I flubbed this one, at least I’d paid for another opportunity. Not that I was likely to qualify for anything else. HR jobs were few and far between, as I knew too well. Then again, so were most jobs.
    They rolled the lectern to the side of the track.
    “Is everyone ready?” the job announcer boomed.
    There were around fifteen of us left. The rest had wandered off, thinned out by heat, despair, and the smell of simu-bread wafting out of the food tent.
    Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt was gone, as was the heavyset man. The nervous skinny girl was still there, along with my chief competition, she of the perfect hair.
    I gave her a baleful look, but she was already crouched, fists clenched, ready to bolt ahead of the pack.
    “This is a top-three race, people,” the announcer said. “That means only the first three competitors to reach the finish line will be eligible to meet a corporate recruiter.”
    I inhaled sharply. Great, that was all I needed. Only three competitors would be eligible. I’d been told the first ten to reach the finish line usually got interviewed.
    Sweat trickled down my back, gluing my blouse to my skin.
    “Good things come to those who take them,” I whispered to myself. “My only duty is to myself. I embrace selfishness. I embrace greed. I am a winner. I am a champion. I will take my due. I am ready, I am ready, I am ready.”
    According to the race rulebook, other than the weapons ban, there were no rules. You could elbow, trip, kick, slap and punch other competitors. Whatever it took to win. Competition in its truest form, survival of the fittest.
    Nowadays employers didn’t want polite, courteous workers. The types who sauntered in at nine and drifted away at five o’clock, like they had in decades past.
    They wanted fighters and killers, slappers and punchers. People who bared their teeth and attacked everyone and everything who got in their way…colleagues, middle managers, unprofitable customers. That’s what it took in today’s world to be competitive, to make money.
    We were the new breed of employee, lean, hungry, ferocious. It was on me to be whoever they wanted, whatever they needed.
    I hadn’t slapped, kicked, or punched anyone yet, but today could be the day.
    “On your mark,” the announcer yelled.
    “I am a champion. I am ready,” I murmured softly.
    “Get set…”
    “I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.”
    “Go!”
    I wasn’t ready. I stumbled at the start. I nearly tripped trying to make up for lost time. Soon everyone was ahead of me.
    I ploughed on, determined to find my stride. Suddenly I began to soar.
    My legs flew beneath me, and the heels of my pumps sliced into the track like machetes. I’d been training for weeks, even before I arrived here. It was finally paying off.
    Despite my slow start, I slowly edged out front, keeping an eye on Miss Perfect Hair. I wouldn’t put anything past her.
    Blood pounded in my veins, and breath pumped sure and fast in and out of my lungs.
    The finish line was just around the next turn. I, Clara Brock, was in front!
    I was almost there. I was about to steam across the finish line! A champion! A prize! A leader to guide an employer to new heights of success, to turn their competitors green with envy, to--
    The foot came out of nowhere, hooking my ankle.
    I spun into the air like a top and came down hard on the hot track.

Three

The pack flashed by me. I was dizzy with pain. I managed to look up in time to see my competitors round the bend, heading for the finish line.
    There she was, the first to cross it. The nervous, skinny girl with the too-big clothes and sickly smile.
    She slowed to a walk and glanced at me as I lay on the track, stunned and winded. She gave me a triumphant smile of pure evil, as if to make sure I knew it was her who’d done me in.
    Oh, what I would have done for a shiv right then!
    I got to my feet, wincing as I put my weight down on my right ankle. The front of my blouse was coated in grit, and my slacks were torn. They were my only decent pair. When I saw the gaping hole at my knee, I had to clench my teeth to stop myself from bursting into tears.
    Not only had I lost my one chance at a decent full-time job, now I had no pants.
    With superhuman effort I plastered a cool, detached smile to my lips and limped toward my tent.
    Someone might be watching, marking down my reaction. They did that here, watched your behavior and made notes on your file. Nothing would be more fatal than a show of emotion, especially weakness.
    Employers hated emotional people. They expected you to be calm and collected. Like robots, except with great dress sense and functioning sex organs. In case the boss wanted a little hanky-panky.
    I’d nearly made it to my tent, where I planned to ice my ankle, scream into my pillow, and prepare for my future as a Bike Ripper concubine, when I spied my neighbor, Raylene.
    She was lounging in front of her tent wearing her usual uniform, ragged jean shorts, a skimpy t-shirt, and bubblegum-pink flop-flops.
    My lips tightened. I limped past her, heartache drowning in a wave of resentment.
    “What happened to you?”
    “Nothing,” I said through gritted teeth.
    “Someone tripped you, did they?”
    I didn’t reply. If I did, I’d blub in front of her or rip her head off. Of the two I preferred the second option, but I suspected ripping your tent neighbor’s head off was an expellable offense.
    I knew three things about Raylene Spencer: we were a month apart in age, we’d both grown up in Futria City, and I couldn’t stand her.
    For one, she was a pinko. She was forever ranting about this injustice or that, tax breaks for the rich, corporate despotism, environmental breakdown, yadda yadda. She could go on for hours, until you wanted to throttle her, if only to shut her up.
    Even worse, she was tall, and despite sitting around eating junk food all day, toothpick-thin. I was barely average height and hadn’t met a potato chip that didn’t pack on five pounds.
    What I hated most about her, though, what caused me to avoid her or speak to her through stiff, hateful lips, was that she wasn’t here to look for work. She had a job, even if it was an awful, stupid one.
    The thought of it often woke me in the middle of the night, fantasizing about stuffing her flip-flops down her throat.
    Raylene Spencer was employed, and I wasn’t.
    I’d overheard her on the phone one day, talking to her boss. She was nothing but an imposter, a liar and a spy, working undercover for that commie newspaper, the Futria Star.
    I’d thought about ratting her out, then decided against it. Having her around meant there was one less person to compete with for a job. I only wished she wasn’t in the tent next to mine.
    “I heard their big gun at the pulpit, going at it,” she said.
    “Their what?”
    “Their head fluffer. The one who yaps like a preacher before they shove their hands in everyone’s pockets.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said stiffly, although of course I did. The job race announcer.
    I admit, it was over the top, but I liked it. I liked the encouragement, the sense of having someone on my side. So what if it was followed by a demand for money? The Fulltime Universe of Jobs wasn’t a charity. It was a business and the only place in Futria City that offered full-time work for people like me.
    That was the difference between me and the Raylene Spencers of the world. She looked at the job race announcer and saw a con artist and scammer. I saw someone trying to help.
    I sniffed. She was one to talk, given her own lies and deception.
    I was about to tell her so when the door to one of the units in the nearby high-rise slid open. A man and a woman walked onto the terrace.
    They sauntered to the edge and gazed down at us. They were sipping frothy drinks from fluted glasses. The soft strains of upbeat, jazzy music wafted through the open door.
    I closed my eyes. I could almost feel the cool air escaping the apartment, clinging to my own sweat-drenched body.
    I imagined the décor—late transitional, with a bohemian flair. Lots of plants, huge, unframed pictures on deep gold walls. A modern kitchen in shades of white and grey. I could hear the tap of fine glassware against marble countertops as they poured themselves chilled white wine at the end of each day.
    The woman wore a casual, off-white top that probably cost more than I’d made last year. She saw me looking at her and pointed me out to her companion. His gaze flashed to me. Together they grew still, their faces intent, expectant.
    I preened a little, gratified by their attention. The women gave a sudden shriek of laughter and the man guffawed, and started clapping.
    I looked around, bewildered. My puzzlement turned to rage. It wasn’t me who’d grabbed their attention at all. It was Raylene.
    She was standing on top of a milk crate in front of her tent, her shorts dropped to her knees. She was waving her bare fanny at them like a flag in high wind, up and down, over and over.
    “What are you doing?” I shrieked. “Have you lost your mind? Stop it! Get down!”
    What if someone saw her and reported her behavior? Luckily, the only other person in sight was a disheveled middle-aged man. He’d emerged from his tent in time to see the show.
    “Atta girl!” he called out in a rumbling voice. “If they allowed guns in this place, I’d shoot every one of those bastards.” He lifted a half-empty mickey to salute her and crawled unsteadily back into his tent.
    To my relief, she pulled up her shorts and zipped them with a flourish. Still laughing, the couple above us drifted back into their apartment.
    “What was that?” I said angrily. “Those people could report us, you know. I don’t care if you get thrown out, but they’ll pitch me out of here too, and it will be all your fault.”
    She hopped off the crate. “They won’t say a thing,” she scoffed. “Who do you think lives in an expensive apartment overlooking a refugee camp for the jobless? Sadists, that’s who. They’re there for a daily reminder that they’re rich and we’re not, and hallelujah for the way it worked out. They’re probably rooting around in their custom kitchen right now, looking for peanuts to throw at me in appreciation of my Black ass.”
    “What do you care?” I retorted. “Why act like you’re defending this place? You’re not even looking for a job. I know what you’re doing here. You’re working for that…that—"
    I was about to say “that pinko rag,” but she’d probably take it as a compliment. “I know you’re working for the Futria Star, trying to gather dirt on this place,” I said triumphantly instead. Now watch her squirm!
    She shrugged. “Whoopee, you know I work for the Star. So what? Someone’s got to let the world know what’s going on, even if the world’s going to hell, the environment’s in tatters, and the so-called government’s nothing but a bunch of rich fucks milking every last cent out of everything before the whole thing goes tits-up.
    “And yeah, I know most people are too worn out to give a damn about anything anymore. It doesn’t matter. You keep trying to right wrongs until you can’t. And this place is a total scam, nothing but a scheme to prey on the desperate. They don’t even know how to spell full-time, let alone help people get full-time work.”
    I gasped. “It is not a scam! How can you say such a thing? Are you dumb, deaf, and blind? This is the only place in the entire city that offers full-time work! Of course they charge an entry fee. They have to make money, don’t they?”
    She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Really? Is that why they turned this place into some kind of psycho boot camp, making people run those stupid races and live here to get a job? Live-in job fair, my arse. Live-in rip-off, more like it.”
    “Employers nowadays want instant access to people! You know what they say: recruit today, start tomorrow.”
    “Bullshit.” She sat down in a stately manner, as if her tattered canvas chair was a throne. “They set it up this way because once they have you here, captive, they can charge an arm and a leg for everything…showers, tents, food, even toilet paper. Think about that. They make you pay to wipe your ass!”
    “Is that so?” I said, unsure what I despised more, her attitude or her vulgarity. “What about the fact that people get hired out of here? Into real jobs? Jobs with a future. That doesn’t happen anywhere else.”
    “Also bullshit. They give those jobs great titles, but it’s crap. Most of them are entry-level shit-pay go-nowhere nothings. Other than the construction jobs, they’re little better than Quark work. Besides, there’s something fishy about those construction jobs.”
    “First, you don’t know anything,” I fumed. “And second, what about your so-called job? You call sitting around half naked, spying on people and chatting them up under false pretenses a job?”
    “Absolutely. Someone has to protect society from places like this,” she said. She pulled a tablet out of a bag beside her chair, as if to signal our conversation was at an end. The dismissal irritated me more than anything she’d said.
    “It shows how little you know,” I said loftily. “‘There is no such thing as society, there is only the individual.’”
    She gasped and put down her tablet, glaring at me as if I’d stabbed a bunny. “Did you just quote Margaret Thatcher at me?”
    “Who?” I asked with a frown.
    “A British prime minister during the…oh, never mind. I can’t believe you’re spouting that neoliberal claptrap at me.”
    Neo what? I had no idea who Margaret Thatcher was, or what this unhinged communist found so upsetting about her.
    I was simply quoting a line I’d read in the book Winner’s Way. They sent you a copy when you signed up to QWorld, the app for Quark jobs.
    The book’s real title was Humanity Is for Pussies: The Winner’s Way to Taking What You Want and Feeling Good About It No Matter Who or What Gets in Your Way, but everyone called it Winner’s Way. It was shorter and sounded more winning.
    “I don’t have time for this,” I said hastily, to forestall a lecture on the evils of capitalism. “Some of us have to look for real work.”
    My grand words were wasted on her. Her phone rang, and she leapt to her feet. A moment later she flip-flopped away.
    Like it mattered if she was overheard.

Four

​I ducked into my tent, annoyed I’d let her sidetrack me. I wasn’t here to argue with dangerous radicals. Thanks to my quarrel with that nutjob, I’d probably missed the second race.
    Not that it mattered.
    There wouldn’t be another HR position. I’d blown my one chance. It was time to accept reality. I’d never find full-time work. I’d spend the rest of my life working Quark jobs.
    I toyed with the idea of tossing my phone in a corner, burying my head under my rented pillow and screaming myself hoarse. It had more appeal than scrolling through a list of jobs I’d never get.
    Most were in construction. Raylene was right about that. It was odd that they advertised so many jobs in construction when no one was building anything anymore.
    With a sigh, I hit the Fulltime Universe of Jobs app on my phone, like a bad habit I had yet to break. I read the listings with a curled lip.
    The words seem to fly up at me, and the world stopped.
    Friday, September 13: Race 2
    Job Title: Engagement Associate.
    Job Status: Full-time.
    I couldn’t move, or think, or breathe. Eventually I took a gulp of air.
    Engagement Associate. Full-time.
    They couldn’t be referring to employee engagement, could they? It was an old practice, long abandoned by employers. They’d used it to build commitment and motivate staff to work harder and better.
    Nowadays there was no need for it. Why pay for programs to motivate staff when they were grateful for any work at all?
    Still, outdated or not, it was definitely part of the HR field.
    Which meant I was qualified!
    I looked at the time and gasped. The race started in two minutes!
    I spun around in a circle, trying to decide what to do. With my torn pants and filthy shirt, I knew I looked a fright, but I had nothing else to wear. The only other suitable garment was a black pencil skirt, hardly built for running.
    I spied a roll of thick black electrical tape in the corner of the tent, that I used to string up a line for my laundry. I groaned. I had no choice.
    Thirty seconds later, I limped toward the track at top speed, a strip of electrical tape across my pant knee. My ankle was on fire and my knee was killing me, but what choice did I have?
    It took forever to reach the track. When I got there, I halted in disbelief.
    The track was empty. I was too late.
    The white recruiting tent billowed and flapped at the far end of the field, as if to remind me I’d never pass through its entrance.
    Hot, angry tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t believe it. My last chance.
    “Excuse me, are you here for the engagement associate job?”
    I whirled around. It was the young woman I’d gotten my receipt from.
    “If you’re here for that job, it’s an open race,” she said. “Anyone who makes it to the finish line can apply. You’re still eligible.”
    “Really?” I swatted at my face to dry my tears, hoping she hadn’t seen them. “I thought, once they were run…”
    “Not this time. Just head over to the application desk,” she said with a big smile.
    In a daze, I wobbled down the track, past the finish line, to the recruiting tent entrance. I pulled out my receipt and handed it to the young woman who sat behind the desk.
    “I’m here for the engagement associate job,” I said breathlessly.
    She punched my ID into the computer and brought up my profile. She gave me a bright smile.
    “Of course, Miss Brock!” she said. “I see the position is still open, and based on your resume, you’re qualified. Would you follow me, please?”
    I blinked. Was this real?
    “This way,” she said with an encouraging smile when I didn’t budge.
    Her words made no sense. She had invited me inside.
    Into the recruiting tent. To meet a recruiter. About a job.
    If it was a dream, it was the best one I’d had in years.
    We entered the tent. My eyes darted everywhere as I tried to take it all in.
    I’d imagined this moment for so long. I wanted to savor every second, to cement it to memory, to revel in it for years to come, and it was…it was…
    Okay, if I’m honest, it was pretty shabby.
    Aside from a cheap plywood floor that covered the rough dirt of the complex grounds, it was nothing but a giant tent. Tables and chairs like you’d find in a soup kitchen or army barracks lined the perimeter. Most were empty.
    About a dozen people stood in the middle of the tent, shifting from foot to foot or gazing blankly ahead of them. They were dressed like me, in slacks and blouses or business shirts.
    My competition.
    In the muted light of the tent, they looked pale and anxious, nothing like those snarling killers out on the track.
    Their gazes shifted to me as I followed the young woman. I expected her to lead me to join them. Instead, she continued across the plywood floor toward a wide metal door on the far side of the tent.
    The breath whooshed out of me.
    That door led to the main building. The main building was where they brought people they’d decided to interview.
    Was I about to get an interview?
    My legs threatened to give out, and I almost stumbled.
    Please, please, please, let it be an interview, I begged silently. I glanced back at the crowd in the middle of the floor.
    I felt their disbelief, their envy, even their hatred. It added a spring to my step, made me feel light and airy.
    We reached the door. I went to follow her into the administration building when I thought of something.
    I didn’t know a thing about employee engagement. Nothing.
    I hadn’t engaged a living soul in my life.
    Instead, I’d fired them.
    I fired people for a living, that’s what I did. I was a termination specialist.
    It had been so easy. I was hired straight out of university to work as an intern in the HR department of a midsize company. Firing was huge back then, when companies still had employees.
    My job was to help HR staff fire other staff. Soon they promoted me. I led the division in firings. That’s where I got my nickname, The Terminator. In no time, I helped the company fire everyone who could be fired.
    Then they fired us.
    Managers, clerks, HR professionals with young kids and sick parents and mortgages and years of experience. We stumbled out the door, blinking in the pale noonday sun, security guards by our side watching our every move.
    After that I’d signed up for Quark work and continued to fire people.
    Except now it was piecemeal. I walked around the city with an earpiece, listening to an AI dispatcher. Not even a real person, but a cold, metallic voice that read the announcements:
    Q-Job to terminate male, age 35, in IT department. Estimated Job Duration: One hour, forty-two minutes, seventeen seconds. Pay Rate: Standard, prorated. Address: 682 Nyland Lane.
     
    Or:
     
    Q-Job to terminate female, age 42, in facilities branch. Estimated Job Duration: Nineteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Pay Rate: Standard, prorated. Address: 1642 Baycroft Avenue.
    I wore runners. I rented a moped. I hopped into rickshaws pulled by hollow-eyed, desperate young men fired from all sorts of trades and screamed at them to run until their feet bled. So I could fire more people like them.
    I did whatever it took to be the first on scene, to answer the call, to cash in. I managed.
    For a while I could even afford to live in an apartment with only three other people. A cute two-bedroom with nice furniture and a view of the mountains.
    Until all the Q companies, which meant every company out there, decided they didn’t like the sound of Pay Rate: Standard.
    After that the metallic voice made different announcements. The first part was the same. It was the ending that changed. It went like this:
    Pay Rate: This job is open for bids. Lowest offer accepted. Applicants with a consistent record of high bids will be struck from the Q-Register and ineligible for future Q-Jobs.
    Soon I couldn’t make rent on the cute flat with the mountain view. I moved into that derelict house on the outskirts of Futria City with twenty other Q workers and dreamed of a better life.
    And now I was applying for a job to help employees work better and harder.
    Me. The Terminator.
    I gulped. I shuffled after the girl along a long, empty hallway with closed doors leering at us as we passed. The sound of our heels rapped like hammers on the hard gray tile.
    We passed a bank of elevators in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by a wall of mirrors. I glanced at myself and blanched.
    My face was blotchy and my eyes red-rimmed from dust and fatigue. My hair looked like an advertisement for Hairstyles by Frankenstein. My pant leg was hiked up to midcalf, hitched there by electrical tape that covered the tear in my slacks.
    The breath wheezed out of me. I couldn’t do it.
    I couldn’t go into an interview and pretend I knew how to engage employees.
    I could talk about firing them. I could describe how their faces crumpled when they knew their lives were changing forever. How they yelled and shouted and hurled abuse at you.
    But I couldn’t pretend I was qualified for the job.
    I would leave. I would walk out of here, pack up my things, and go back. Back to the no-future future. Back to the world of Q-Jobs.
    Something twisted, and the words welled up from deep inside.
    Good things come to those who take them. My only duty is to myself. I embrace selfishness. I embrace greed. I am a winner. I am a champion. I will take my due. I am a champion. I am a champion. I am a champion.
    I’d read them a thousand times. I’d recited them hundreds of times. Winner’s Way. The only way.
    I continued to recite the phrases under my breath. My stride lengthened. My back straightened. My chin lifted.
    I was a firer, not a hirer. Definitely not an engager.
    It didn’t matter.
    I would be whoever they wanted.
    I would be whatever they needed.
    We’d arrived at a door with a piece of paper taped to it, printed with the words Engagement Associate. The girl knocked on the door.
    “Come in,” a woman’s voice replied.
    The girl smiled at me. “Good luck.”
    I stepped inside.
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