The God Hunter by Tim Lees Read Free Book Online

back at me. I wanted to see me, just as I was, not the temporary hideout of some awful mass of ancient energy that had no right to wear a human form, especially not mine.
    So I transferred. Some pains were taken to dissuade me. I was told I was a skillful operative, talented, and needed by the company. This even translated into the promise of a pay rise. But I was obstinate. I moved to HR, and for eighteen months I shuffled papers, typed reports, and sat on panels hearing the grievance of a certain worker A, who insisted that, six weeks earlier, worker B had used an offensive term to him; or worker C, unfairly graded at a level 4 (he claimed) because his manager disliked him; or worker D, caught, incontrovertibly, watching porn on a work computer during work time but somehow fighting the case and claiming it had happened by “mistake” or been foisted on him by malicious fellow workers who (again) disliked him . . .
    Hard to believe that ­people cared about all this. At least that they cared as much as they did.
    I did other things. I moved around, one department to another. None of it worked out.
    I asked for a transfer back. To real work. Work with an end product that you could actually see and chalk up on your private wall of triumphs. Then, if you were lucky, that you could go home and forget about.
    There’s worse in life than Field Ops. Much, much worse.
    Still, my little holiday had taught me much. It had brought home just how big the organization was; how many departments, sections and divisions it contained, how many offshoots, side-­shoots, teams and crews and units and committees; for purchasing, for servicing, for printing, manufacturing, for media and publicity and all the rest.
    Then there was Outreach and Development.
    Shailer’d scarcely been in sniffing distance of it then. Now here he was, a few years later, Deputy Department Head. Well, who’d have thought . . . ?
    This is something that I noticed, working in HR. And it must be true of any major company, any large organization.
    You get the folks who are their jobs. Field ops tend to be like that; they eat, sleep, and drink the business. They may not like it, but they’re stuck with it, and, by and large, they’re good at what they do. “You couldn’t do it,” is a standard op response to criticism. And it’s true, too, in the main. They’re good at it, and not at too much else. I know these ­people’s private lives. The wreckage stands at roughly one for one. Mine included.
    Then you’ve got those for whom it’s just a job. They could be working anywhere. Some of them are good, some less so. They may gain pride from the prestige of their positions, but nothing that they wouldn’t get from Ford or Kellogg’s or Pfizer. It’s a job. It buys a house, supports a family, whatever else. Fine, fine.
    The third type, also, could be working anywhere. Because at root, they really do not care what we produce or what we do.
    They care about themselves. Their own trajectory through life. Which is not unreasonable, really; we’re all like that to some extent. But they could work for Shell, or Greenpeace, or the government, or anything. Because the vital thing isn’t the work: the vital thing is just getting ahead. And I don’t mean going for a few quid extra, better work conditions, all of that; those are things we all want. I’m talking about drive, obsession, total dedication to a single end.
    They could be one of the boys; oh yes, they could fit in. Except they’re always looking to the bigger boys, wanting to join their club, always hankering to move on up. They’re competitive. They don’t prosper out of talent or ability or dedication; they prosper out of drive. Creatures of will. Like gods. And Shailer now seemed very much a small god in himself. He relished the attention, knew the way to milk it, focus every eye upon himself. Like an actor,