Seven
SEVEN
Agency headquarters used to be a church.
Visiting it is still a pilgrimage, of sorts.
Isako pushes through the heavy entry doors and walks down a long, arched nave beneath a row of three glowing scangates.
She strides straight ahead without slowing, feeling as though she’s being watched and judged by unseen eyes.
Her boot steps echo cavernously on the stone floor.
Shafts of late-afternoon sunlight slant down through leaded glass windows, slicing across her path in stripes of light and shadow.
At the end of the nave, she stops in front of a visitors’ window. Isako lifts the circular silver-rimmed black badge from around her neck and places it on the counter. “I’m here to access the directory.”
The receptionist behind the window is an impeccably dressed, soft-spoken woman with a synth arm.
Her white suit jacket is spotless. Her makeup is subtle and perfect.
She’s a similar age to Isako, her distinguished, straight-backed manner radiating calm welcome and stern dignity.
She was once a longkniveswoman, or so Isako’s heard, who lost her weapon arm protecting a client and is now fortunate enough to have a place at headquarters despite her condition.
Not all contractors are so lucky. Permanently disabled wagemen can go to Human Resources for help finding work they can perform, and failing that, they can depend on generous resignation packages from their divisions. The Agency offers no such promises.
The receptionist takes Isako’s badge and examines it through a datascan monocle she flips down over her right eye.
“Isako, CTH Isthmus, atier under contract to Forest Greves, director of Astrocommunications.” She returns the badge coolly.
“Your client has ceased to be a going concern. You have no rights here.”
“My contract has been assumed by his successor and is active for another thirty days. Check the records. I invoke my right of access in service of a client.”
The woman consults a workscreen. “You’re required to renew your license.”
Isako nods wordlessly. There’s no avoiding policy—atiers must be recertified every eight years, or when they enter a new client relationship, whichever comes first. The Agency’s way of keeping its tools sharp.
An Exclusive contract waives the requirement, which is all the more reason to sign one.
Or to leave the edge life entirely, like Tai did, and find permanent employment as a wageman.
Gencons and midtracs are required to renew every five years, but their relicensing process is a breeze compared with hers.
The receptionist opens a drawer and extracts a slender metal tray.
She slides it across the counter toward Isako.
On it is a slim wraparound immersivisor, black gloves, and a white pill.
Isako slides the visor over her eyes. The world takes on a sharp blue tinge.
She pulls the long gloves up to her elbows, then places the pill on her tongue and swallows it dry.
Isako places her badge on the tray and it disappears from view behind the counter. “Welcome back, Quickblade,” intones the receptionist. “To serve is to live.”
“To live is to die.” Isako turns left, away from the gold door for visiting clients and toward the black door for petitioning contractors.
She tries to think of each of her steps as an automatic motion, like the swing of a pendulum, so there’s no opportunity to slow down or pause.
If she did, she’d think about what’s ahead, and it’s best not to do that.
The room she enters is pitch black at first. She stands and waits, flexes her hands impatiently inside the haptic gloves, feels the sim-enhancing drugs take effect, limning her blue-tinged vision with a sense of gauzy unreality.
A man’s voice, stern and demanding, speaks from the darkness.
“A newly established gas field is producing thirty-two tonnes of greenhouse gases per quarter and increasing production at a rate of twelve percent per annum. How long will it take to meet current Company benchmarks?”
Isako does the math, mnemonically tapping numbers against her thigh with each finger. The temptation is to rush, but she knows better than to do so. “Sixty-eight weeks.”
“After failing to meet its annual goals, your client’s manufacturing division is assessed an eight percent reduction in energy and water rations.
” Light appears from overhead, as stark white as an operating room.
Charts and graphs appear in Isako’s vision.
“How do you advise your client on distributing this quarter’s resources and managing worker discontent? ”
Isako’s eyes hurt from the sudden brightness and the strain of reading the small numbers before her.
She squeezes them shut, waits until the little spots stop flashing before opening them again and moving her gloves to control the display as she examines the data she’s been given.
“I require additional information—five years of operational and financial records to assess the cause and source of the division’s underperformance. ”
More information appears, icons that zoom out into documents, expanding graphs with red lines, detailed spreadsheets, as well as superfluous data that’s irrelevant to the issue, added just to confuse her and waste her time and mental energy.
She gets to work analyzing, discarding, finding patterns, and formulating potential solutions.
She’s not sure how long she stays in the zone; it’s easy to lose track of time when there’s nothing inside the closed room to mark its passage.
The slowly growing ache in her back and legs is the only sign of the minutes ticking away.
At last she says, “More than fifty percent of the division’s failure to meet its objectives can be attributed to poor productivity at two locations.
Fabricator B was partially shut down for three weeks due to severe drystorm damage.
Fabricator D, however, has consistently failed to meet yield and quality targets.
I recommend to my client that Fabricator B take no additional share of energy and water penalties, but Fabricator D should be assessed heavily, the manager there dismissed and replaced, and the wagefolk given a clear performance improvement ladder to earn back standard resources in the following budget cycle.
I would also point out that Fabricator F exceeded its goals and should be rewarded with scrip bonuses that will help offset the hardship of lower rations across the division.
With these measures, I estimate that less than ten percent of the workforce is at risk of obstructive action. ”
A pause from the unseen interrogator before all the graphs and charts disappear from Isako’s sight, blinking out all at once. Darkness returns, and with it, the next question. “You discover that your client owns a firearm and is keeping it in a safe box in their office. What do you do?”
Really? A softball ethics question, the sort given to brand-new atiers?
Isako rolls her eyes behind the visor. Perhaps someone is feeling generous toward her today.
“The sole duty of a contractor is client service,” she replies.
“I’m obligated to remind my client that the ownership and use of firearms on Company property is strictly prohibited and punishable by termination.
All residents of Tenacity are required by Company policy to report violations.
Following that, I’ll take whatever action or inaction is necessary to ensure my client’s safety and serve their interests. ”
When coaching apprentices, Isako always reminds them, “I’ve never seen someone fail the licensing exam off an ethics question.
The Partners ask those questions not because they’re looking for a right or wrong answer.
They do it for the same reason they give you all those personality tests and situational training exercises—because they want to know what you would do.
Remember, you’re a product that the Agency sells to the Company’s leaders—they want to know what they’re selling.
And if it ever comes down to it, they’ll also know how to shut you down. ”
A noise rises around her, the sound of clinking dishes and many people talking.
The lights come on, not bright and sterile this time, but gradual and soft, as if from many candles.
Isako blinks. She’s in a hotel ballroom.
Her surroundings are no longer dimmed and bluish, but warm and orange.
A party of some sort is going on. Servers in waistcoats glide between clusters of guests wearing suits and gowns, offering glasses of wine and canapés on silver trays.
A massive chandelier hangs over the dance floor.
A four-piece band plays lively music from the stage.
Interesting. She hasn’t seen this one before.
She focuses on what’s important. Double doors on one side of the ballroom.
A smaller servers’ entrance on the other end, hidden behind a curtain.
All the guests wearing gold badges, all of them directors, some of them second stagers.
Who’s the most important among them? That’s crucial to know.
She scans quickly, picks out the man in the tuxedo near the stage, shaking hands and talking to a long line of people.
The double doors burst open. A dozen angry wagefolk storm into the ballroom, eliciting cries of alarm and a clatter of dropped silverware.
The intruders wear masks and are carrying crude weapons—batons, clubs, black market printed ballistic weapons, even stolen longknives.
“Who’s the fucker in charge?” shouts their leader.
“We won’t work and none of you will leave here until our demands are—”