Four
FOUR
Messages flood in.
Former colleagues from Astrocom, kith members she barely keeps in touch with, Companynet reporters, other atiers she hasn’t heard from in years.
Holy shit. Just saw what happened. Did you know he was going to do that?
If you haven’t resigned yet, please let me know, would love to get together before you do.
You and your client are heroes to everyone who champions space exploration. We will fight on!
[System notice: Your message to Dragonfly Martim could not be delivered.]
Not sure if you remember me, but I really enjoyed working with you on the water reclamation contract. I learned so much from you and you’ll always be an inspiration to me.
I’m a writer for the Tenacity Times and would like to ask you a few questions.
Hope you sign another contract soon, but if not, please let me know because I’d be honored to witness.
She balks at the prospect of replying to any of them.
She can’t reassure anyone that she’s okay or that she has a plan.
The thought of putting on a mask of confidence and optimism makes her want to vomit.
All these people who suddenly want to connect, the guiltily absent acquaintances, the curious voyeurs drawn by disaster, everyone who now wants a piece of her time as if it’s about to become a collector’s item—where were they these past three years, when she was fighting for her division’s survival?
She didn’t want to talk to them back then; why would she now?
An old friend of hers, Rain Kob, sends the only genuine reaction. Well, fuck. I’m sorry, Isa.
She hasn’t spoken to Kob in a long time. Heard wild rumors he wasn’t even on contract anymore. He’s a veteran atier just like her, though. He understands how screwed she is.
Her client lost the war and publicly ended his own life.
No one’s going to offer a new contract to an atier who fails that dramatically.
Especially not one who’s been on an Exclusive, whose experience for the past dozen years is in a division that no longer exists.
She’s fifty years old and commands exorbitantly high Agency fees.
You could hire a younger, more energetic atier in the prime of their career, or a whole team of midtracs, for less.
And the Agency would much sooner see Isako starve than set the unprofitable precedent of cutting her rates.
To make things worse, Greves condemned the Executive and the Board of Directors in front of the entire cityhab before he walked into the Vastness. That’s not a good look for her either. She’s political poison.
She scrolls past the bland expression of support from her ex-husband. Hope you’re okay? Call me if you need to. She doesn’t need to.
The only person she answers is Maya, whose message comes later than the others. Mom, you work for Astrocom, right? Was that your client who just resigned? What does that mean?
Don’t worry, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re still free for lunch, right?
Another message arrives, this one marked high priority and urgent.
It’s from the office of Savannah Minto, director of Satellite Operations, member of the Board of Directors. The woman who prevailed over Forest Greves and will take over the remnants of Astrocom.
Isako is being summoned to meet with the victor of the war.
SatOps is housed in a magnificent tower of glass and steel, triple spires reaching for the starry heavens it’s long been tasked with watching.
The division’s mission slogan is carved on a massive arch of quartz-speckled black marble that curves over Isako like the transcribed orbit of a moon as she walks through the cavernous entranceway.
All Eyes on the Future.
It reminds Isako of Astrocom’s mission slogan. Voice to the Heavens.
The eyes and the voice were meant to work together.
Astrocommunications and Satellite Operations are both ancient divisions dating all the way back to the Great Ships.
For centuries, they were linked by aligned priorities, the common interests and skills of their wagefolk, marriages and transfers between their major kiths.
Thirty years ago, no one could’ve imagined they’d go to war.
If anything, Astrocom was the larger, more strategically positioned division, SatOps more of a service subdivision.
How times change.
Two guards in black uniforms intercept Isako when she steps out from under the elaborately grand scangate. She’s expecting basic security midtracs armed with shock batons and range tasers. Instead, she’s surprised the two young men are wearing the novice triggersheaths of atier apprentices.
“I was asked to meet with Director Minto,” she tells them.
One of the apprentices checks the scangate display screen, verifying Isako’s identity and confirming that she’s not carrying any explosives, projectile weapons, blades over forty-eight centimeters, recording devices, or other prohibited items. He turns back and looks her over with wary admiration.
“You’re really Isthmus Isako,” he says. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be. ”
Isako tries not to roll her eyes. Rumors make her out to be a giantess just because she can look most men in the eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
The other guard keeps a little more distance.
He’s slightly older than his colleague, mid-twenties maybe.
Isako likes the look of him, the way he doesn’t move too much.
His expression is alert and he keeps his arms relaxed and open by his sides.
He asks, “Are you as fast with the longknife as they say you are?”
“Faster.” She doesn’t crack a smile.
She’s not sure the answer’s as true as it used to be. If she were to face off against her younger self, she’s confident of how it would end for Older Her. But she has a reputation to uphold for as long as she possibly can.
The apprentices escort her through a lobby echoing with the footfalls of wagefolk passing in both directions.
Freeday’s the one official day off for most divisions, but satellites never stop moving, and neither does SatOps.
An enormous globe of Aquilo hangs overhead, symbolically illuminated by thousands of white lights circling it like a protective swarm of insects.
A glass elevator whisks Isako and her two escorts up to Director Minto’s office at the top of the tower. Isako’s stomach shifts uncomfortably as she ascends. Her hands feel cold and clammy.
She’s not afraid, but she hates not knowing what she’s in for.
The elevator stops and opens onto a long hallway that ends in a set of double doors. A secretary seated at a wraparound desk blinks a confirmation into his data visor. “Go ahead. The director’s ready to see you.”
The two men fall back on either side of the doors as Isako walks into the suite alone.
She slows as she enters, blinking at the abundance of light.
Windows fill two of the walls, offering a stunning view of Tenacity bathed in the stark-white illumination of the midday sun.
Warmer, yellow incandescent light radiates from the lamps that hang over long containers overflowing with lush, green broad-leafed plants.
There are plants here that Isako has never seen before, has never even imagined , ones with sweet-smelling white flowers the size of her spread hand, plants shaped like gourds, plants with fronds and crawling tendrils.
She breathes in deeply. The air is humid and fragrant and warms her lungs.
She wants to stop and stare, to reach out and touch things, to appreciate the bounty of life that’s crammed into this penthouse, but she remembers why she’s here and proceeds deeper into the office.
Water spills from a wall fountain and disappears into the floor, reappearing in a still pool on the other side of the room.
A ripple of movement in the clear water—there are fish in the pool.
Real fish of different sizes and colors, gold and orange and white, swimming around with far too much lifelikeness to be projections or simbeasts.
She does a double take at the sight of a hanging cage with two live, chittering red songbirds.
Greves enjoyed his luxuries, as all wealthy Company men do.
The antique telescope in the Observatory was his most prized possession.
His office in Astrocom headquarters was finely appointed with beautiful furniture, expensive pieces of art, framed star charts, bookshelves of rare tomes, historical artifacts.
In comparison to Minto, he was a simple miser.
The top office of SatOps is a personal greenhouse.
No, nothing so orderly and purposeful. Not a greenhouse. A garden.
A garden like those on the lost paradise of Earth, the homeworld where human civilization reached its apex and where devoted Purgatorists believe repentant and worthy souls will be reincarnated.
On Earth, plants and animals of every type—those preserved in the Genebank and many others that exist only in the collective memory of stories—roamed under an open sky that was gentle and warm.
Oxygen and water were so abundant that they weren’t measured or priced.
Billions upon billions of living beings could use as much as they wanted to and never run out.
Director Minto is re-creating heaven in a room.
No wonder the wealthy want to live as long as they possibly can, when they can have things like this.
Minto is seated in a high-backed chair behind a desk of solid true wood, centuries old, preserved from the Great Ship Prosperity .
It should be in a museum, but Minto hangs on to it because it’s been in CTH Savannah for generations.
The Savannahs claim it was the personal desk of Founding Officer Sangiolo, but that might be mere legend.
The desk is purely ceremonial, too valuable an artifact to be used for everyday functions.
No doubt it’s brought out only for special occasions and important visitors.