April 18 AC 201
"Wen, I need ideas from you and Nicole for an add campaign for those new light-weight space suits-by noon, if at all possible. If not, no later than two."
Perceiving the irritated look cast in her direction by the young Chinese graphic artist, Dorothy placed one elegantly manicured hand on her hip and held the other out in a slightly defensive gesture that was both peremptory and apologetic. "Look," she said, meeting the man's gaze directly. "I got the word that they were moving up the release date about two minutes ago. I didn't do this to inconvenience you, and I'm sure the people in production didn't either. So I'm sorry, but we'll just have to make the best of it."
"I have three such tasks at the moment," Wen replied in a characteristically haughty tone. "I'm certain the people in production"-he half spat the word with a contempt that Dorothy shared, although she would not allow herself to express it-"can hold off for another day or so."
"Look, Wen--"
"These are prior assignments, Ms. Catalonia. I will not divert them simply because Jim Thompson feels the need to demonstrate his power and prestige as a designer by rushing the production of a suit model that you and I both know has not been thoroughly tested."
She allowed herself a slight smile of agreement, but almost instantly replaced it with a grimly determined expression. "Leave that up to production, Wen. You're a graphic artist, and the boss said "design a tentative add by the meeting this afternoon." I agree that Jim's not easy to deal with, but he's both of our superior and we don't have much of a choice in the matter."
Wen's scowl eased somewhat, but he continued to look sullen as he nodded silently, pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully toward his office. Dorothy sighed, and recommenced her customary morning rounds. She had only been head of this department for a month, but she had already established several precedents, one of which was her rounds. She'd been working in advertising for slightly over three years, and she didn't want her staff to become resentful of the fact that she had been promoted so quickly. Ordinarily her objective was merely to greet some of the artists, secretaries and designers as they arrived, without deliberately seeking out anyone in particular. However, the unexpected message waiting on her machine that morning had prompted Dorothy to modify her usual procedure.
That man is impossible, She thought. Sometimes I wonder why Pavlov promoted him to assistant director. Nicole would have been a better choice. She's just as competent, and far less obnoxious. "Good morning, Afza."
"Morning, Dorothy," replied the young Arab woman with a cheerful smile. "You look like you need some coffee. There's some in the pot if you want it."
Dorothy grimaced. "No, I don't need coffee. I need patience."
The other woman's smile grew even wider-a circumstance which never failed to surprise Dorothy. She could never figure out how someone with such a perpetually cheerful expression could possibly smile more..
"Had another run-in with Wen?" Afza inquired sympathetically.
"How'd you guess?" Leaning back against the wall, Dorothy began to swipe irritably at several errant strands of her platinum blond hair. "That man is unbelievable. It's not what he says. It's what he doesn't say." She shrugged, and straightened. "Sorry to disappear so fast, Afza, but I'm already running behind."
"I still think you should have some coffee," replied Afza. "And for future reference, he doesn't dislike you as much as you think. Believe me-you got chosen to fill Pavlov's position even though he had seniority. If he didn't like you at least a little, he'd be making your life miserable on a daily basis." She chuckled. "Well, more miserable, that is."
"Thanks,' replied Dorothy with a wry smile. "As for the coffee, it'll just make me more hyper. Hello, Connie. How was L2?"
And so it went, until finally she was able to return to her own office. Shutting the door firmly, she leaned back against it and exhaled. What am I doing here,, she asked herself for the millionth time.
I'm not a bureaucrat. Come on, Dorothy. It's a job. Remember that. There's not much else the daughter of a dead aristocrat from a by-gone era can do for a living.. Think about the trouble you went through learning to keep yourself alive.
She snorted, remembering those first few months of trying to cook for herself.
Dorothy crossed the office to it's one rectangular window, carefully avoiding piles of sketches, story boards and old memos. She pushed open the sliding panel and took several long breaths of the colony's cool, only somewhat bland air. There were mornings when she wondered why she had bothered to find that escape pod, others when she berated herself for not ending her life during those long months of recuperation in a Moscow hospital.
What's it all for, Dorothy? Why do you bother? What did being a rebel-a warrior-what did it get you?
"Stop it," she commanded herself aloud. "You're alive. Make the best of a well-paid position and a comfortable apartment in the most elegant district of New Cairo." Her grandfather's assets had been seized by the new government. She had still been in a coma at that point, and by the time she had recovered enough to consider reclaiming them all the property had been sold and the money used to aid in the reconstruction effort. She had let the situation stand-"Be honest with yourself, Dorothy. You were happy to be rid of all that."
It all belonged to some strange world called her past.
I don't understand any of this. I was a political figure from the time I was thirteen.. I knew the most important players on the diplomatic scene-and then it all disintegrated. Was Milliard Peacecraft crazy? Was he right? Is the Earth truly the cause of mankind's wartorn history-no. That was the Zero System talking.
"no." He hadn't been right. But then, neither had Treize. Relena-looking back, Dorothy supposed that Relena had been the closest to the truth, from an idealogical standpoint. I couldn't except it then...and even now, it's foolish to presume that throwing aside weapons could possibly end humanity's predilection for bloodshed. That's why I sided with Milliard. His crazy scheme to teach the earth sphere a lesson was effective, if nothing else.
On a more selfish level, with all that fighting came political intrigue-it was all I knew. I was powerful. Or at least, I thought I was. Power and victory were everything...and justifying what happened to Papa.
She sighed. This was getting her nowhere, and she still had an unbelievable amount of work to do. Letting fall the curtain, Dorothy strode purposefully back to her cluttered desk and began to hunt around for a sharpened, reasonably substantial pencil stub. "Note to self", she said, flicking a rocker switch on the machine that doubled as both phone and personal organizer. "Go ask Anna for a new set of writing utensils."
I'm almost out of pens and a hundred other things. Might as well take matters into my own hands-sending a memo will be less than useless.
Impatiently jerking open the lap drawer, Dorothy began to rifle through it's contents. Suddenly, her hand came in contact with the cool rounded surface of a data cylinder. Dorothy's lips twitched.
This is what it's all for, she reminded herself, fingering the small object. You're not out of the arena. Just taking a respite.
A loud knock on the door made her jump. Hastily sliding the drawer shut she checked her appearance in the tiny mirror hanging above her desk. "Come," she called, making no effort to conceal her irritation. She reached for the now cold cup of coffee that had been waiting conspicuously on her desk.
Afza slipped into the room and gently closed the door. "I see you found the coffee. I'm sort of acting as secretary," she said with a mischievous grin. "Mr. Winner's here to see you."
"Wen, I need ideas from you and Nicole for an add campaign for those new light-weight space suits-by noon, if at all possible. If not, no later than two."
Perceiving the irritated look cast in her direction by the young Chinese graphic artist, Dorothy placed one elegantly manicured hand on her hip and held the other out in a slightly defensive gesture that was both peremptory and apologetic. "Look," she said, meeting the man's gaze directly. "I got the word that they were moving up the release date about two minutes ago. I didn't do this to inconvenience you, and I'm sure the people in production didn't either. So I'm sorry, but we'll just have to make the best of it."
"I have three such tasks at the moment," Wen replied in a characteristically haughty tone. "I'm certain the people in production"-he half spat the word with a contempt that Dorothy shared, although she would not allow herself to express it-"can hold off for another day or so."
"Look, Wen--"
"These are prior assignments, Ms. Catalonia. I will not divert them simply because Jim Thompson feels the need to demonstrate his power and prestige as a designer by rushing the production of a suit model that you and I both know has not been thoroughly tested."
She allowed herself a slight smile of agreement, but almost instantly replaced it with a grimly determined expression. "Leave that up to production, Wen. You're a graphic artist, and the boss said "design a tentative add by the meeting this afternoon." I agree that Jim's not easy to deal with, but he's both of our superior and we don't have much of a choice in the matter."
Wen's scowl eased somewhat, but he continued to look sullen as he nodded silently, pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully toward his office. Dorothy sighed, and recommenced her customary morning rounds. She had only been head of this department for a month, but she had already established several precedents, one of which was her rounds. She'd been working in advertising for slightly over three years, and she didn't want her staff to become resentful of the fact that she had been promoted so quickly. Ordinarily her objective was merely to greet some of the artists, secretaries and designers as they arrived, without deliberately seeking out anyone in particular. However, the unexpected message waiting on her machine that morning had prompted Dorothy to modify her usual procedure.
That man is impossible, She thought. Sometimes I wonder why Pavlov promoted him to assistant director. Nicole would have been a better choice. She's just as competent, and far less obnoxious. "Good morning, Afza."
"Morning, Dorothy," replied the young Arab woman with a cheerful smile. "You look like you need some coffee. There's some in the pot if you want it."
Dorothy grimaced. "No, I don't need coffee. I need patience."
The other woman's smile grew even wider-a circumstance which never failed to surprise Dorothy. She could never figure out how someone with such a perpetually cheerful expression could possibly smile more..
"Had another run-in with Wen?" Afza inquired sympathetically.
"How'd you guess?" Leaning back against the wall, Dorothy began to swipe irritably at several errant strands of her platinum blond hair. "That man is unbelievable. It's not what he says. It's what he doesn't say." She shrugged, and straightened. "Sorry to disappear so fast, Afza, but I'm already running behind."
"I still think you should have some coffee," replied Afza. "And for future reference, he doesn't dislike you as much as you think. Believe me-you got chosen to fill Pavlov's position even though he had seniority. If he didn't like you at least a little, he'd be making your life miserable on a daily basis." She chuckled. "Well, more miserable, that is."
"Thanks,' replied Dorothy with a wry smile. "As for the coffee, it'll just make me more hyper. Hello, Connie. How was L2?"
And so it went, until finally she was able to return to her own office. Shutting the door firmly, she leaned back against it and exhaled. What am I doing here,, she asked herself for the millionth time.
I'm not a bureaucrat. Come on, Dorothy. It's a job. Remember that. There's not much else the daughter of a dead aristocrat from a by-gone era can do for a living.. Think about the trouble you went through learning to keep yourself alive.
She snorted, remembering those first few months of trying to cook for herself.
Dorothy crossed the office to it's one rectangular window, carefully avoiding piles of sketches, story boards and old memos. She pushed open the sliding panel and took several long breaths of the colony's cool, only somewhat bland air. There were mornings when she wondered why she had bothered to find that escape pod, others when she berated herself for not ending her life during those long months of recuperation in a Moscow hospital.
What's it all for, Dorothy? Why do you bother? What did being a rebel-a warrior-what did it get you?
"Stop it," she commanded herself aloud. "You're alive. Make the best of a well-paid position and a comfortable apartment in the most elegant district of New Cairo." Her grandfather's assets had been seized by the new government. She had still been in a coma at that point, and by the time she had recovered enough to consider reclaiming them all the property had been sold and the money used to aid in the reconstruction effort. She had let the situation stand-"Be honest with yourself, Dorothy. You were happy to be rid of all that."
It all belonged to some strange world called her past.
I don't understand any of this. I was a political figure from the time I was thirteen.. I knew the most important players on the diplomatic scene-and then it all disintegrated. Was Milliard Peacecraft crazy? Was he right? Is the Earth truly the cause of mankind's wartorn history-no. That was the Zero System talking.
"no." He hadn't been right. But then, neither had Treize. Relena-looking back, Dorothy supposed that Relena had been the closest to the truth, from an idealogical standpoint. I couldn't except it then...and even now, it's foolish to presume that throwing aside weapons could possibly end humanity's predilection for bloodshed. That's why I sided with Milliard. His crazy scheme to teach the earth sphere a lesson was effective, if nothing else.
On a more selfish level, with all that fighting came political intrigue-it was all I knew. I was powerful. Or at least, I thought I was. Power and victory were everything...and justifying what happened to Papa.
She sighed. This was getting her nowhere, and she still had an unbelievable amount of work to do. Letting fall the curtain, Dorothy strode purposefully back to her cluttered desk and began to hunt around for a sharpened, reasonably substantial pencil stub. "Note to self", she said, flicking a rocker switch on the machine that doubled as both phone and personal organizer. "Go ask Anna for a new set of writing utensils."
I'm almost out of pens and a hundred other things. Might as well take matters into my own hands-sending a memo will be less than useless.
Impatiently jerking open the lap drawer, Dorothy began to rifle through it's contents. Suddenly, her hand came in contact with the cool rounded surface of a data cylinder. Dorothy's lips twitched.
This is what it's all for, she reminded herself, fingering the small object. You're not out of the arena. Just taking a respite.
A loud knock on the door made her jump. Hastily sliding the drawer shut she checked her appearance in the tiny mirror hanging above her desk. "Come," she called, making no effort to conceal her irritation. She reached for the now cold cup of coffee that had been waiting conspicuously on her desk.
Afza slipped into the room and gently closed the door. "I see you found the coffee. I'm sort of acting as secretary," she said with a mischievous grin. "Mr. Winner's here to see you."