Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Children of the Pebble ❯ Getting Up in the World ( Chapter 8 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
Children of the Pebble
By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.
Disclaimer: “Trigun” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.
Comments and criticism welcome.
Chapter Eight - Getting Up in the World
---
The Compton Industrial Building was a relative newcomer to the skyline of December. Twenty years ago its architects had bucked the trend toward ever taller buildings that had driven the construction of the midtown business sector for decades, striving instead for practicality in the choice of lots. Yet from its foundation high on the south ridge of the scar, the edifice acquitted itself with honor in the company of its giant neighbors.
Meryl Stryfe, division manager of the Stryfe Consultants' accounting department, had no reason to complain. If long elevator rides and the status of altitude were more important to their clients and competitors than sensible rent payments, so be it.
One hundred and five feels straight down and six blocks north of her office the three-floored Bernardelli Building huddled behind another skyscraper like a shy child clinging to its mother's leg. The massive slate obelisks standing guard at the front steps were no larger than thimbles, the people passing between them no more than ants. A dark-suited figure that may or may not have been Mr. Bernardelli scurried like a sand roach down the steps and disappeared into a limousine.
Meryl sipped her tea. The view from a high-rise office at twelve-thirty on a Friday afternoon could be lovely indeed.
Meryl carried her cup and saucer back to her desk and sank into the comfortable swivel chair. Her staff wouldn't be back for another half hour. A long lunch was small reward for finishing the Thompson account estimates three days early and she'd have to think of a more suitable way to express her gratitude. Next Friday afternoon off with pay, perhaps.
From their framed photograph on her desk a bride and groom smiled at her. Meryl liked Friday afternoons for her own reasons.
---
Father had never approved of Meryl's weekend excursions. Her promotion to section chief had been accompanied by a lecture that made it clear to Father's newest manager that leaving work on time was the same as leaving early. It was a leader's obligation to set an appropriate example for those whom he or she led.
“Never let your people work harder than you do,” Father said, “and they'll work wonders for you.”
Meryl did not dispute this wisdom. She'd spent many a late night at her Bernardelli office catching up on reports only to see a light under the Chief's door when she left. Such dedication had much to do with her loyalty to Bernardelli in general and the Chief in particular. But at Bernardelli, except for an occasional coffee or dinner with Milly or Karen or one of the other girls, she'd been alone. The single life had its advantages, but there were nights, curled up on the couch with a good book or a dish of ice cream after a horrible day, that she'd envied her dating and married colleagues.
That the telegrams did not always come was an added frustration. The nature of Vash's work didn't allow him to abandon the agreement they'd made in Inepril, and if Vash was strong enough to surrender personal considerations for the sake of so important a job, so was she.
She and Vash had left New Oregon, heading home for December. Vash had insisted on separate cabins, saying that there was still danger in their being spotted together. She'd agreed, clutching the key to his first class room to her chest.
When the city council learned of their arrival in Inepril the chairman had summoned Vash to his office. When Vash returned he explained his plans to her. It all boiled down to one point: the city council of Inepril had made Vash an offer he couldn't refuse. The next morning, after a night full of comforts and reassurances, she said goodbye to him on the steamer dock.
“Better than you being a jobless drifter, I suppose,” she said through the heavy ache in her chest.
“It'll get easier,” Vash said. “I'll contact you as soon as I can, I promise.”
“Don't make me hunt you down. I can do that, you know.”
“I'll be right here waiting for you,” he said, and then she was in his arms. “Come see me when I send word, insurance girl.”
“Only if you say please, you broomhead jerk.”
And that was that, until on a normal Friday afternoon in the accounting department a young man wearing the smart blue uniform of a telegraph courier stood beside her desk. He handed over a manila envelope that all but disintegrated under her desire to read the message inside. She gave the boy a generous tip—no wonder they're always smiling—and waited until he was gone to open the folded paper.
Please.
At one minute after five o'clock Meryl locked her desk. In the locker room she changed clothes and grabbed the small overnight bag full of sundries she'd kept for this occasion.
Father was less understanding, if more theatrical. He must've practiced that disapproving glance in the mirror for years, not to mention that pose he struck when he looked at his watch. That look and posture were enough to silence even the most rancorous business meetings or restore the most ardent layabout or gossip to full productivity.
Meryl waited for the regular employees to file out.
“Goodbye, Father,” she said when they were gone, and hugged him. “See you Sunday.”
“You be here bright and early Monday morning, Miss Stryfe,” he said, hugging her back. “Not one second later than a half hour early, you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” she called over her shoulder, and waved. A short drive to the edge of the city later, convertible stored in the terminal parking garage, first class ticket in hand, Meryl walked up the boarding ramp of the Beluga.
A delicious meal and a good night's sleep after that, the city of Inepril lay beyond her porthole. An orderly served her tea and toast in her cabin. After breakfast Meryl freshened up in the first class bathing facilities, vowing never to travel in lesser accommodations again. Father didn't pay her any more than the other section managers—nepotism wasn't even a concept in Father's mind—but her parents weren't charging their only daughter room and board just yet. When Meryl had asked them upon her return from New Oregon if she could live with them a while longer until the homestead was ready, they'd been too delighted to haggle.
Meryl arrived at the restaurant just as Grams was opening for business. Green, white and blue streamers lined the eatery's windows. Flower arrangements of the same colors stood on the tables. Today was Foundation Day, the biggest holiday on the Federal calendar.
Grams brought Meryl a cup of tea and a slice of white cake topped with swirled blue and green frosting and sat down to join Meryl in her own repast. The sand cleanup after the Plant's repair had been finished two days ago and to celebrate the whole town was preparing for the biggest Foundation Day festival in recorded history. The chairman and his council had promised the city the largest and loudest fireworks display on the planet, and Gram's son, the lead pyrotechnician on the project, had told her it was no mere campaign boast.
Meryl said she was looking forward to it. Grams motioned her to lean close.
“He comes in right at noon, like clockwork, even,” Grams said. “Never seen a man put away so much goldang food. Like to put me out of business some days.”
Meryl chatted with the wise old woman until Monica Allen, dressed for work at her own diner, passed the front window, stopped, and waved to her. Meryl beckoned Monica into the restaurant and in the middle of their discussion of Meryl's new career and Inepril's economic boom Monica surprised Meryl with a request to set her up with a job or at least an interview. The work at the diner was easy, the tips were good and getting better, but…
“But I want something more out of my life,” Monica said. “I love Inepril and the folks who live here, but I want to see more of the world, if you take my meaning, Miss Stryfe.”
“I do, Miss Allen,” Meryl said, “more than you can guess.” Meryl promised to look at Monica's record and résumé when she returned to December.
As the first stroke of noon boomed from the bells of the church at the center of town, Vash appeared at the door. Meryl took no notice of him, watching him in glances. Old Grams was right about his appetite. After the last salmon sandwich and a long final pull on his mug of beer, Vash slapped down a tip that even from this distance Meryl could tell would cover the price of the sandwiches and then some.
Without a sideways glance Vash left Gram's place. After a discreet time, Meryl followed.
His apartment was a studio flat on the top floor of a small complex a few blocks from the Plant, visible from the single broad window that filled the outside wall of his home. Meryl closed the door behind her.
“Hi,” he said, and extended his hand.
“Hi,” she said, and took it. What furniture Vash kept in his home was sparse and functional. Not even a dining table or a hot plate, only a simple desk with a drafting lamp, a single chair and a telephone. Vash took the earpiece off the hook and led her to his bed.
The springs creaked when Meryl sat down. She leaned back on her arms and kicked off her pumps.
“How's the job?” she said.
Vash unlaced and took off his boots. “Terrific,” he said. The chairman's plan to build a cadre of Plant engineers independent from the Marius Breskin Kantackle Industrial Union was proceeding on schedule. The first class of apprentices was top-notch and was taking to the training and class work like migrating thomases to water. When they were fully trained the new engineers would train the following class and so on, with Vash serving as an advisor and consultant when needed.
“But that won't happen very often,” Vash said as he leaned back on the bed. “I'll charge too much money for that.”
Meryl loosened her tie. “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” she said.
“Pretty much, but there is one thing I don't understand.”
“What's that?”
“What happened to Derringer Meryl?” Vash said, unbuckling his belt. “You're not wearing your cape.”
“My fancy shooting days are over,” Meryl said, unbuttoning her blouse.
“It isn't safe for a lady to travel unarmed.”
“I have a weapon.”
Vash removed his shirt. “Really? Where?”
“You'll find it,” Meryl said as she laced her fingers behind her head and laid back. “All you have to do is look.” She held her body and breath still as Vash's hand brushed her leg and vanished under her skirt. It reappeared, derringer and holster dangling from his fingers by its thin leather strap.
“Thigh holster,” he said. “Very nice.”
“Didn't even feel that.”
“You know how good I am with my hands.”
“Pervert,” Meryl said as he demonstrated his skill with her skirt zipper and brassiere clasp in rapid succession. “What else are you good with? Dare I ask?”
“You'll find it,” Vash said, finishing at last what she began with her pumps. “All you have to do is look.”
---
“You found it.”
“It wasn't hard.”
“That's not what you said the first time. Or the second.”
“No, I mean it wasn't difficult—oh, be quiet.” Meryl kicked an empty cardboard food container off the blanket over her feet. It rolled onto the floor to join its fellows. Their post-lunch lovemaking had left them exhausted, and after a refreshing afternoon nap Vash had ordered takeout for dinner. The debris of their meal, scattered by two exuberant helpings of dessert, lay about the bed.
A flash of green light filled the dim room. A distant explosion followed.
“Is everything a joke to you?” she said.
“Are you always so literal?” Vash said.
“Are you always so annoying?” Another flash, red this time. A loud pop.
“Do you always answer questions with a question?”
“I'd stop if I ever got a straight answer from you.” Gold, followed by a cascade of white ripples that hissed like sand against a window.
“Maybe I need a straight answer from you.”
“Maybe you do,” Meryl said. A brilliant volley of multicolored incandescence splashed over her lover's face. His expression matched the pensive violet mood of dusk. “We need to talk.”
“It's only for a little while.”
“What about after?”
“You don't want to leave your job, I take it?”
Meryl rose on her arms. Her body blocked the next salvo of firework light and kept Vash's face in shadow.
“Don't you dare ask me that,” she said. “My father needs me, my mother needs me—”
“After all this time you still think the worst of me,” Vash said, sitting up. He was smiling. “I have a good job that pays well, more than enough to provide for us both. And I'm safe here.” Vash touched her face. “I just want to be worthy of you.”
“Give me a break.”
“I want to make you happy.”
“Would you just stop, already?”
“I want to keep you safe.”
“If you're trying to make me cry, broomhead, it isn't working.”
“I think we should get married.”
“Married? Boy, if you can repeat what you just said in front of my parents you won't have to ask for permission. Hell, Mother'll beg you to marry me.”
“Good to know at least one of your parents will be on my side.” Vash opened a desk drawer and withdrew a square velvet box. He extended it to her on his palm. “Not everything's a joke to me, Meryl.”
“Vash, what—”
“Just open it.”
Meryl obeyed, and what the joyous firework brilliance that bathed the city did for the diamond ring inside, the ring did for her heart, light and sound together.
---
“Mrs. Stryfe?”
“Hmm?” Beyond the glass walls of her office members of her staff were returning to their desks. “Yes, Miss Allen?”
“Mr. Stryfe would like to see you in his office,” Monica said. “At your convenience, ma'am.”
“Thank you.” At your convenience. Translated from Fatherspeak the phrase meant Right the hell now. From its hook on the back of the door Meryl grabbed her gray blazer, her only badge of authority apart from the standard office uniform, and slipped it on.
“How do you like working here so far, Monica?” she said.
“I like it just fine, ma'am,” Monica said. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
“Not at all, you're doing just fine.” Meryl followed Monica out of the office. “Oh, Monica?”
“Yes, Mrs. Stryfe?”
“It's perfectly all right if you slip up and call me Meryl once in a while, okay?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Right, Meryl thought as she turned toward Father's office. Formality had its place in one's personal professionalism but it could get oppressive.
Father's office door was open. Meryl knocked on the frame.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, Meryl,” he said, and waved her in. Her father's head poked up over the stacks of paperwork that ringed his desk. “Please, my dear, sit down. Give me a second to finish this and I'll be right with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Meryl regarded the seemingly random stacks of folders and paper on every spare horizontal square ich of Father's office with amusement and curiosity. How had the man built this business being so disorganized? Meryl promised herself that if and when she took over someday she'd never allow her office to reach this level of chaos.
A pair of hands slipped between the two stacks closest to Meryl and spread the document towers apart.
“I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here,” Father said.
“Not to straighten up your office, I hope.”
“You know, I tried that on Mrs. Hammersham the first day she worked for me, and the first document she ever typed for me was her resignation. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Yes, Father.” Many times. Too many times.
“Anyway, I won't waste your time. Mr. Beedle tells me that you're working wonders in your division.”
“Mr. Beedle is kind, sir.” About time that old fool noticed. Bex Beedle, head of the accounting department, could crunch numbers faster than any human being she'd ever known but had no discernible understanding of the value of people.
“He's also right. Your division has completed every assignment given to it for the last six months earlier than scheduled.”
“Thank you, sir,” Meryl said, and explained her plan to thank her division.
“Approved,” Father said. “Okay, now that that's out of the way, here's the good news.” Father came around the desk and sat in the chair beside her.
“You've worked hard for me, honey,” he said and patted her hand. “I'd like to offer you the chance to work harder.”
“A chance to work harder? Gosh, where do I sign up.”
“You've heard that Mr. Torix is retiring next year, correct? Before he leaves I'm going to need a replacement. I want you to take over for him when the time comes.”
Meryl resisted the temptation to run for the Machete Hills northwest of the city. What the hell was Father thinking?
“So what's the good news?” she said.
“That was the good news.”
“Which part?”
“I think you can do it, Meryl.”
“Sir, there's bound to be someone in Engineering who can take his place.”
“I'm sure there is but I want you.”
“Father…sir, I don't think—”
“Your math and science grades in school were almost perfect. You graduated a year early.”
Meryl looked at her lap, avoiding his eyes. “You know why I did that.”
“And I don't care. You've got the skills, you've got the brains. All you need is experience.” Father stood. “As of next week I want you to start sitting in on our client and policy meetings. I want you to get to know all the department heads and start learning how the company really gets things done. To further facilitate your education you will be transferred to Engineering and start as an assistant section leader.”
“What!”
“It's not a demotion, Meryl. Your extra duties as well as your transfer merit a significant pay raise. You're not climbing a corporate ladder here. I get to choose who will take over this company someday. I want it to be you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. Of course I do.” Meryl watched her free time evaporate like a drop of ether on a hot plate.
“Good.” Father stood. “I'll make the transfer effective next Friday. You can tell your people then. And give me the short list of possible replacements for you.” Father settled behind his desk, hidden amongst the document towers. “Speaking of possible replacements, when's that husband of yours due in?”
“Very funny,” Meryl said. “Ericks is coming back on the afternoon steamer.”
“We're still on for dinner tonight, right?”
“Father, don't you ever write this stuff down?”
“I do, but then I lose track of it for some reason—”
Meryl raised her hand. “And with that I move this meeting be officially adjourned.”
“Seconded. Now get out of my office and get your lazy butt back to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Meryl said, and retraced her route back to her office. As she passed the desk of her department's most junior apprentice she made a request.
“Miss Allen, the next time you go for coffee could you bring me some tea, please?”
“Right away, ma'am.”
“No, I mean—thank you,” Meryl said, resigned as Monica jumped from her desk. Giving their apprentices the most mundane errands and menial jobs had a purpose, namely to get them familiarized with the office layout and company hierarchy, with the ancillary purpose of teaching the simplest lessons on time and task management. Meryl's unintended lesson had to be unlearned in a hurry.
Meryl removed and hung up her blazer. Like most apprentices Monica was willing to learn and eager. Such eagerness offered temptations to any manager, no matter how skilled or professional, to exploit new people and make them little more than slaves. Such was often the case at Bernardelli.
Monica appeared at the door, cup and saucer borne on a tray.
“Your tea, Mrs. Stryfe,” she said, setting the tea on Meryl's desk near her right hand. Monica flipped the tray in her hand and tucked it under her arm, an expert in a familiar situation.
That explains it, Meryl thought.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said. “Miss Allen, I'd like a word with you. Would you please shut the door? Thank you. Now please, put down the tray and take a seat.”
Monica did, sitting ramrod straight in a chair designed to impart comfort, not fear. She bit her lip and clicked her thumbnails together.
“Miss Allen, I owe you an apology. I made a request that a new person such as you could easily misinterpret as an order. For that, I am very sorry. I won't let it happen again.”
“No need to apologize, Mrs. Stryfe,” Monica said. “I didn't mind at all. In fact, I—”
“And you can stop right there. I'm going to tell you something you'll learn anyway, but this will be faster and clear up any misunderstandings that might stand between us.” Meryl sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms.
“The owner of this firm has it in his head that I'm to take over for him someday. Knowledge of this has lead certain employees—both in my division and others—to believe that overt politeness toward me and currying my favor will advance their positions in this company as well, if and when that happens. If you, Miss Allen, are one of these or are contemplating becoming one, I want to assure you right now that sucking up to me, now or ever, will get you nothing but a pink slip and an escort to the front door. Do I make myself clear, Apprentice Allen?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Monica said, looking at her hands.
“My father built this company by hiring the smartest and most skilled professionals he could find. Your apprenticeship and continued employment at Stryfe Consultants should inspire in you nothing but pride, both in your work and in your bearing. Do you know what that means?”
Meryl slid into the chair next to Monica's.
“Monica, please look at me. I want you to hear this, from one ex-waitress to another.” Monica's blue eyes were glazed with forming tears.
“It means,” Meryl said, “that you'll be getting a lot of scut work at first. That would be true at any other company or guild or union, that's how you learn. That's how I learned, and how I'm still learning. But I am no one's slave and neither are you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Meryl,” Monica said. “At least I think I do. No one's ever talked to me that way before. In a good way, I mean.”
“Get used to it.” Meryl took the box of tissues from her desk. “You may take whatever time you need to compose yourself.” She picked up the tray. “In the meantime, Monica, may I offer you some coffee?”
A teary smile spread across Monica's face.
“Yes, please. I'd like that. With cream and two sugars.”
“Coming right up.” And if that wasn't good enough for her then nothing was. Meryl prepared the coffee, returned to the office, and extended the cup to her. Monica thanked her, nodding approval after her first drink.
“Nice view,” Monica said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said it's a nice view. From your office, I mean, ma'am.”
Meryl nodded agreement. Her new office in Engineering would have no windows but it would be one floor higher. Her paycheck would be a few double dollars larger. And one day the spectacular view from Father's glass-walled corner office would be hers…along with the leaning towers of paperwork.
Meryl had the feeling she'd get a chance to deal with the whole mess whether she wanted to or not.
---
But not tonight.
Meryl leaned back on the bench her grandfather had made, flipped her blanket over her bare feet. When she was a little girl she and Grandpa would come up here on moonless nights, carrying bags full of Grandma's popcorn and canteens full of apple juice, to talk and watch the stars. All through the endless night Grandpa would tell stories his father and grandfather had told him, stories of how their ancestors had seen patterns in the night sky and given them names.
“Are the pictures still there, Grandpa?” she asked him one night around a mouthful of popcorn.
“We're too far away from Earth,” he said, and went on to explain that the stars weren't fixed in their places, that they moved through space just like their world did.
So…not even the stars stayed where they were. Meryl slowed her chewing to ruminate on this incredible idea.
“Can't we make our own pictures?” she said, and for the rest of the night Meryl drew designs on the stars until her arms and eyelids grew heavy and she felt herself borne by gentle, labor-hardened arms to her bed downstairs.
And if this night ended in a similar way, Meryl thought, she would have no complaints.
Vash—the man her parents and the world knew as Ericks—appeared at the top of the fold-down stairs and sat beside her. From inside his own blanket he produced a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She held the shallow crystal basins as he poured the golden, foaming liquid. Vash put down the bottle and raised his glass.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, and drank. The view from the roof was not much better than the view from the ground but certain special occasions demanded the dignity only the outdoors could provide. The fact that she and her husband were stark naked beneath the blankets draped around their shoulders did not, for some reason, detract from it.
“I don't think your father likes me,” Vash said.
“He likes you just fine.”
“He made me sweep the garage after dinner.”
“He made me sweep it when I was six.”
“That must've been rough.”
“Not at all,” Meryl said. “It taught me responsibility, something my husband is finally learning.”
“At least your mom likes me.”
“Mother loves you. She has a soft spot for orphans.” Meryl snuggled closer. “I suppose I do, too.”
“What about children?” Vash said.
“What children?”
“Children in general. Non-orphans. You know…like ours.”
Meryl grabbed her husband's blanket near his neck. “All right, what did Mother say to you?” Vash raised his hands, exposing his body.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “Seriously, I'm only curious.”
“I don't know. Maybe someday. Right now my work, my parents and my marriage to a former legendary outlaw are about as much as I can handle.”
“Yeah…”
“What's the matter?”
“Tonight? Not a single thing.” Vash raised his glass. “To my wife Meryl, the best engineering manager in the world. May she conquer the world someday.”
“I'll drink to that,” Meryl said, and did. She set the glasses aside. All that was left was the moons and the stars and the silent wastes pale as polar frost.
“This reminds me of our honeymoon,” Vash said.
“Except it was never dark,” Meryl said.
“Remember that morning we decided to go for a walk?”
“How could I forget? We both nearly froze to death.”
“The crunching sound of our footsteps, my old bedroll…”
“Yes, I remember. How I ever let you talk me into—oh, no. Oh, no you don't, Mister Vash…”
“It's not nearly that cold,” Vash said, “and these blankets are nice and warm.”
“I don't care,” Meryl said. “What if some pervert in the city has a telescope?”
“Yeah, he could be watching us right now.”
“God, you're twisted. At least let's go inside, I have to get up early.”
“Tell your mother I'd rather sleep in.”
“It wouldn't kill you to go with us just once,” Meryl said. “We were married in that church, in case you forgot.”
“So let God watch over your soul,” Vash said. “I'll look after your body.”
“I think you've seen and felt quite enough—Vash! You give me that blanket right now!”
“Ha! Come and get it, insurance girl!”
“You're damn right, I will!” Meryl said, and when the coming and the getting it happened the other way around, she had no complaints.
---
Author's Afterword
A little more fun before the angst. I had originally planned on having Maryanne's first scene at the beginning of this chapter, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't make it fit. And if the scene doesn't fit, you must ed-it.
Ahem. Sorry. Anyway, we'll be seeing Maryanne and Elizabeth next chapter. See you then!