Five #2
Isako tries to wrap her head around such a staggering level of wealth. Only the upper crust of the Company, the Executive and senior directors, the scions of the major management kiths, can get away with this sort of shit. They have the power to grant life and death on this forsaken planet.
She’s trapped. As captive as the animals that will never leave this room.
“What work do you require of me, Director?” Isako asks through gritted teeth.
Minto bends down and strokes the creature’s head, her jerky movements like that of a marionette manipulated by strings.
Isako thinks of how Maya used to have a stuffed cat she carried around when she was a child.
This is the weird inverse—a doll playing with a living being.
She wants to reach out and touch the cat, to see what its fur feels like, but she forces herself to stand and wait attentively, radiating the professional calm of an atier attending her client.
Quietly, she seethes. It’s absurd , at her age, with the career she’s had, to have her own resignation held hostage. Minto couldn’t possibly appreciate what it means to accept death, because second stagers are experts at cheating it, at buying it off with money and science.
From what Isako’s heard, synthbodies can sense temperature, texture, pressure, just about everything that organic bodies can, but they don’t feel hunger, bodily fatigue, or pain.
They must be maintained and occasionally repaired or upgraded, but they don’t get sick or age.
Their knees never hurt the way Isako’s do.
They don’t suffer joint and muscle deterioration, heart trouble, high blood pressure, hormonal imbalances, or any of the cascade of physical ailments other aging people have to put up with.
They die only when their minds finally fail at around a hundred and fifty years—the natural limit, it seems, for a human brain to survive, even with the most advanced science available.
Isako can understand the appeal, but she can’t see past the grotesquery.
Minto stands up with the cat in her arms. “In twenty-six days, the BoD will hold a confirmation hearing prior to the final vote on whether to accept a nominated candidate into its ranks.” Minto’s glass eyes manage to convey burning insistence.
“Sandbar Uchi must not ascend to the Board of Directors.”
Isako blinks in surprise. Her own client vehemently opposed Uchi’s nomination.
Yet even Greves reluctantly accepted the foregone conclusion that the director of Southern Continent Gas Production—one of the largest, fastest-growing, most important divisions—would be brought into the Company’s highest governing body.
“We’re in a fraught time, atier Isako. The Board will soon have to make decisions that will determine the very course of our existence.
” Minto turns toward the wall of windows and the expansive view of the cityhab.
“Sandbar Uchi’s confirmation would irrevocably tip the balance of power in the Company, in a way that could be disastrous for our future. ”
“Confirmation to the Board requires a two-thirds majority vote of the existing members, doesn’t it?” Isako points to the small silver key hanging from Minto’s neck. “You’re already in a position to influence the vote.”
The second stager’s face moves in an unpleasant approximation of a grimace.
“Unfortunately, while we reunionists have been fighting each other, the terraformists have taken the opportunity to strengthen their alliances. Uchi has all but locked down the requisite votes he needs to sail through the confirmation. In order to mount a viable opposition among the Board members, I would need something to change, some new information to influence the swing voters.”
“With all due respect,” Isako says, “didn’t you just point out that sometimes the winds shift so strongly that even the best pilot can’t steer against them?”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Minto smiles at her.
Jarbrain smiles are creepy as fuck. All smooth and porcelain.
“But that didn’t stop you and your client from trying, did it?
The odds of success may not be high, but the stakes are.
You can take comfort in the fact that Greves would be fully supportive of my request of you. ”
True enough. “So you want me to open Uchi’s closets.”
Even in peacetime, directors are always trying to find dirt that’ll damage their rivals or blackmail them into cooperation.
Anyone that high up and powerful in the Company has skeletons in their closet.
A few strategically publicized documents might incite a workers’ revolt, cause a division’s budget to be slashed, or even rouse the ire of the Executive in the Sweetsea and get someone demoted or replaced.
Closet-opening is routine espionage commonly assigned to contractors.
This is no routine job they’re talking about, though, and no ordinary target.
“Is there anything you can give me?” she asks. A lead, any suggestion of where to start digging.
Minto puts the cat down. It wanders off into the garden, tail curved high like a question mark.
The director absently pinches away a couple of browned leaves from a plant with beautiful three-petaled white flowers that smell incredible, like sunshine and fruit.
Isako wonders if synthbodies can smell or taste. She’s never bothered to ask.
“Director Uchi has been acting erratically as of late,” Minto says. “His behavior is some cause for concern. It might suggest mental or emotional instability.”
“He went through recorporalization recently,” Isako points out.
It’s the only reason Uchi wasn’t nominated to the Board even sooner.
Second stagers keep their little clubs exclusive.
The way they see it, a candidate is only experienced, accomplished, wealthy, and wise enough to join the Board once they’ve shed bodily hindrances.
It’s a little unusual for someone as young as seventy and so recently through recorporalization to be nominated for the Board—typically, they wait a few years—but Uchi is an exception, a Company superstar.
“It takes some people months to adjust to second stage.”
“I only took six days of personal leave,” Minto scoffs.
“And I was older than Uchi at the time. I’m told the Process is even easier these days, with the proper mental preparation.
” It’s impressive how she manages to convey scorn without moving her face.
“The Board of Directors will face the most difficult issues of our time. It’s imperative that every voting member be of unimpeachably sound mind. ”
Isako frowns. It’s not much to go on. Minto’s grasping at straws.
Or maybe not. The Process doesn’t always go smoothly.
One in fifty cases requires a prolonged recovery period of up to a year.
One in a hundred fails outright; either the patient dies on the operating table, or ends up vegetative, demented, or on a course of rapid mental deterioration.
In those cases, there’s no choice but termination.
A gentle one, but a termination nevertheless.
“It’s the responsibility of the Company to fully investigate any candidate nominated, and our duty to bring forward any concerns,” Minto declares. “Even if Uchi’s going through a mere adjustment period, as you suggest, there are other aspects of his track record to scrutinize.”
That’s putting it mildly. Uchi has plenty of enemies, some of whom have tried to kill him.
Not just political rivals or militant big-Es either.
Many believe him to be responsible for the Field 93 disaster.
But success is a near-impenetrable shield.
If the controversy Uchi’s already endured hasn’t derailed his momentum, Isako doubts she could find anything more to turn the opinion of the majority of the Board and the Executive against him.
She glances at Sherae. The younger atier has retreated to her spot on the other side of the desk, and her eyes are directed at the ground, her expression closed and unreadable.
“I expect you to accomplish your objective by any means possible,” Minto says. “You’ll be provided with whatever resources or assistance you require from SatOps, so long as you maintain confidentiality and discretion. Am I clear?”
Isako’s client is giving her carte blanche.
When directors want to commit deeds that fall outside policy, they give the job to contractors.
If a mission is compromised and their activities discovered, it’s easy to deny responsibility.
Claim the contractors were never given such orders and were acting outside their assigned purview. Summarily cancel their contracts.
That’s what Minto will do if Isako fucks up.
Isako will accept responsibility for misinterpreting her client’s wishes, resign with the Agency’s permission, and walk into the Vastness with her lips sealed.
Falling on the sword is part of the Code.
The Agency will see to it that she’s eventually buried and that her family quietly gets a generous bonus.
But Isako’s not going to fuck up. She’s an old hand at this work.
If she were still in Astrocom, standing in front of Forest Greves, she’d want to know more.
She’d ask for additional context so she could better understand her client’s long-term objectives and act as a more effective agent on his behalf.
She doesn’t know Savannah Minto. She hadn’t wanted or planned to get to know Minto at all. But she knows enough to go to work.
“Director.” She bows and turns to leave.
“Isa.” Sherae’s voice catches her before she’s gone far. When Isako glances over her shoulder, she sees her former apprentice looking after her with apology in her expressive brown eyes.
No one takes kindly to enemy contractors poking around in their business, and Sandbar Uchi isn’t known for being a forgiving man, even to his own wagefolk. Under other circumstances, Minto might’ve risked her own atier to get what she wants. Now she doesn’t have to. Sherae knows she’s been spared.
Isako really hopes the woman doesn’t try to thank her. That would be awkward.
“Good luck,” Sherae says.
“If you can’t keep your hand steady, don’t let it touch your triggersheath until the instant you draw,” Isako reminds her. “Be sure to teach that to your apprentices.”
She walks out of Minto’s fake paradise.