The cavalry stopped short at the castle wall; and by castle wall, I mean Petunia, keeper of the minutes.

  Being relatively new at Immortality-Corp, my exposure to Petunia had been mostly exuberant affirmation from colleagues during daily affirmations—mostly pointed at her rule-based precision.

  “Seymour,” I nudged him gently in the side; he giggled. “Seymour, I am not playing. I need information.” He put his train aside carefully, tucking it neatly into a metal box.

  He eyed me with obvious excitement. Information obviously meant espionage in his mind, which wasn’t far off.

  “What do you know about Petunia?” As far as I knew, lobsters couldn’t retract into their carapaces, but he sure tried.

  “Stay away from her, Keith. She’s given me four infractions for ‘excessive diffusion of bodily odor.’”

  I silently acknowledged the infraction; even if I wasn’t perfectly aligned, I understood.

  “I can’t help it, Keith. The TV adverts tell me to bathe in lemon, but it doesn’t seem to work.”

  I had noticed the lemon. He had recently started emitting the odor of a seafood platter. That had been left out in the sun. For three days. In July.

  “Anything else?” I asked hopefully. Anything would do.

  “Not really, Keith. I know she has a thing for forms.” I lit up.

  “Here, Keith, take this,” he said, carefully handing me the Royal Scot. “I don’t care if it’s not mint; it’s for safe travels.”

  For a moment I couldn't speak, and I fought to keep control of a small lump that was forming in the back of my throat.

  It was then that I decided to go to battle not just for Marketh, but for Seymour.

  I embraced the new action-packed Keith, and went straight to her desk, arming myself with Form 39-F, Request for Minutes, and Form 78-F, Request for Anonymity of Action under the Persecution Clause, where an employee could access named minutes without identification based on the fear of significant bodily harm. I am confident that lobotomy fills this niche adequately.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “And why,” Petunia’s voice dripped with contempt, “would I consider your application, let alone give you access to my documents?” I stood my ground. Apparently, Immortality-Corp’s joy KPIs did not extend to gatekeeper roles.

  “Well, Petunia,” I added as much venom to my voice as I could, spitting her name out as if it were an unwelcome olive pit. “You will because I will make you, procedurally.” She cocked an eyebrow.

  I had one horse in this race. Immortality-Corp had relegated me to a support desk, being either unaware of or disdainful of my professional history.

  “Name your terms, employee 113-F.” Her voice had changed—more formal now. She was good; she had not looked at any documents to recall my employee ID.

  “A form-off,” I replied coolly. “Right now.”

  “Agreed.” She motioned me towards a desk. “Do you need a pen?” she asked, obviously goading me.

  The battle began.

  My pen hand quivered; years of cultivated skill had brought me to this point. I stared at my opponent. Petunia looked cool, unfazed, but I could already see three holes in her technique.

  Her pinky was crooked on her pen hand. That was begging for a repetitive strain injury.

  The bend at her wrist? Carpal tunnel.

  Her pen-hold was uncoordinated. I did the math: she could achieve a maximum of 66 signatures in one minute, assuming a form flip of 0.3 seconds and a signature of 0.6. Amateur.

  That’s not accounting for the mental gymnastics of bureaucracy. The performance started.

  My hand blazed, tossing forward and signing 11B: Notice of Request for Company Minutes Under the Clause of Anonymity.

  With admirable speed, she returned with [11B - Rejection]: Denial of Request, rubber-stamped.

  I winked and whipped out a Notice of Appeal, folding it into a neat envelope and enclosing it with a wax seal.

  I stared at my opponent. Her chest heaved. She reached for the letter opener and fumbled; it clattered to the floor.

  From nowhere, I produced Form A12-C, Notice of Damage to Office Property, and handed it to her.

  Her rebuttal: Form 33-D, Self-Reporting and Repayment of Damage, signed in duplicate.

  A power play. She controlled her own space.

  But could she handle this? I produced two separate forms:

  Form 72-K: Notice of Procedural Inconsistency.

  Form 73-K: Notice of Procedural Error.

  Her previous form should have been in triplicate, and her pen was the wrong shade of blue.

  I noticed a small intake of breath. Her lips parted, her pupils dilated, and she looked at me hungrily. My pen—a finely balanced instrument of bureaucratic dominance.

  Well now, isn’t that interesting. I smiled to myself. Administration is nothing if not... flexible.

  I flicked my pen up. It arced through the air; and before it landed, I presented her with Form 19-D, Intent for Inter-Office Dalliance.

  Her eyes glazed over. And she was done. The pen fell neatly back into my palm in a perfect grip.

  I held out my hand to Petunia. She accepted.

  “Well, 113-F.” Her breathing was erratic. “You have earned your document, and right to the minutes with full anonymity.”

  She dropped a thumb drive into my hand, and I pocketed it.