Eight
EIGHT
Three Partners of the Agency are seated on the other side of the rectangular black marble table that dominates the small antechamber. Isako recognizes two of them, but only one she’d call a friend, of sorts.
Ocean Constance is in her late seventies, ancient.
She and Isako go way back. Constance was Isako’s mentor, once upon a time.
So long ago that Isako finds it difficult to think of herself as ever having been the raw, arrogant young trainee whom Constance took under her wing.
When Constance became a Partner many years later, she handled the Astrocommunications account and negotiated Isako’s contract to Greves.
“Not everyone is lucky enough to have a client who asks for them by name and is willing to pay top rates,” Constance told her.
“If I can’t convince you to pursue Partnership, an Exclusive with a rising director is the next best thing.
” The woman was right; Greves was a good client and Isako had a good run with Astrocom, the fact that it ended in total defeat notwithstanding.
Constance is the one person Isako would say she trusts at the Agency, insofar as the Agency can be trusted to promote its tracs, if not protect them.
Age has softened Constance’s strong chin and cheekbones, turned her auburn hair white, and etched wrinkles around her piercing eyes and the wry tilt of her mouth.
But it hasn’t diminished the manicured self-assuredness that encases her like armor.
The woman is always impeccably poised, frighteningly competent, dignified yet approachable, compassionate yet coldly pragmatic.
It’s no wonder she’s one of the rare few among their kind to become a Partner.
She’s wearing a white wool cardigan and a knitted blue scarf, looking entirely comfortable and cozy in the stately, dark-hued room.
Orange wall sconces give the windowless chamber the air of a villain’s library, the sort of place where plans and alliances are forged by wealthy conspirators.
From what Isako knows of the Agency, that’s not far from the truth.
She stops and bows before the table.
A small smile tugs up the corners of Constance’s lips. She inclines a nod toward her former apprentice, motioning for Isako to take a seat in front of the table. “It’s been a while, Isa. Not that I had any doubt you’d be relicensed, but it’s good to see you’re as fast with the longknife as ever.”
An overly generous assessment. All the chairs in the room have shortened, narrow bench-like seats, designed for formal sitting.
Isako pulls out the one meant for her and stiffly lowers herself zanshin.
“I have some feedback for the simulation developers.” She’s still trying to get her bearings back.
There’s an invisible tremble in her legs, but she projects calm, critical indifference as she lays the visor and gloves on the table, pushing them into the pool of light cast by the glass chandelier overhead.
“The render distance was poor. The edges of the room were blurry and glitchy, especially after the fighting started.”
The man sitting to Constance’s left makes a face. “It’s a new sim,” he admits in a grumble. “Thanks for letting us know that it’s not up to atier standards yet.”
“It was creative,” Isako offers in conciliation. “I fell for the misdirection at first.”
Constance chimes in. “I’ve neglected introductions. Isa, I don’t believe you’ve met Island Garik.”
Garik was recently promoted into Partnership, Isako guesses.
He has a muscular build and a burly, tan face shadowed by dark eyebrows and stubble.
He looks too young to be a Partner, she thinks, but then again, a lot of people look too young to her these days.
Island —a geographic feature of the homeworld, a piece of land surrounded by water—is an old kith name of the administrative and security professions, like Ocean and Isthmus.
There’s been so much transferring over the centuries that names don’t really mean anything anymore.
Plenty of people from kiths like Rain and Tide work in fields outside of science and engineering, and others with names like Otter and Fern have risen from their ancestry in the service and labor occupations.
Still, Isako would bet scrip that, like her, Garik comes from a line of longknivesmen.
She inclines her head. “Partner Garik.”
Constance gestures to the third Partner, the man to her right. “You know Marsh Elias, I presume.”
Isako glances reluctantly at the man who’s been silent thus far. “Of course.”
Elias is tall and slender, with rich, ebony skin and an aloof, imperious expression on his narrow face.
He sits with his long, elegant fingers steepled in front of him.
At times, he appears so still and imperturbable that it occurs to Isako that he’s the only man she’s ever met who could practically pass for a second stager while still in an organic body, a distinction made stronger by the fact that she can’t even guess how old he is.
He has an unlined face and no touch of silver in his hair or short goatee, but his aged eyes are watchful, wise, and haunted.
Underneath the flap of his steel-gray suit, she can see the dual shoulder holster and the bulge of the handguns that Elias alone carries.
Nothing like the primitive double-shot pistols printed by dealers on the black market.
They’re custom-made, 9mm-caliber semiautomatics with a capacity of eighteen rounds each.
Ever since heavy gunfire in the disastrous final battle of the Prosperity Revolt brought down the airshield’s control center and wiped out half the colony four hundred and sixty-six years ago, firearms of any type are prohibited on Company premises— except by special permission from the Executive.
Out of the thousands of contractors in the city of Tenacity, Marsh Elias is the only exception to policy, because of the very specific work that he does.
If someone like Isako were to go rogue, if she refused to resign and went off contract past the two-year grace period, if, despite all her years of Code-abiding service, she was deemed by the Agency to be a drain on society or a threat to Company order, the Partners would order her termination.
But they wouldn’t send a fellow longknivesman who might fall to her blade.
They would send the man with the guns, the one they call Ronin Killer.
The legend, as she’s heard it, is that as a young man, Marsh Elias distinguished himself above all others when the Executive chose him to handle the Sweetsea Civil War and ensuing Board Purge of 467.
Isako has her doubts. She was only seventeen years old at the time, and she can’t imagine that Elias is much older than she is.
She’s heard other stories, as well. He stays unnaturally young with special serums derived from the Genebank, he has a personal armory that could turn him into a one-man army, he’s never failed a mission.
She suspects most of them are bullshit that the Agency allows to proliferate because it’s in their interest to embellish the reputations of their atiers and to discourage any contractor within their ranks who might think to go against the Code.
“Your reputation precedes you, Partner Elias.” Isako resists the urge to stare at him with morbid curiosity.
He is, after all, a near-mythic figure among contractors, the reaper of reapers.
She can’t help but wonder about his firearms. She’s never touched a gun.
How many does he have? How heavy are they?
How often has he fired them and how many people has he killed?
Elias’s weapons seem as much a part of him as her longknife is a part of her.
“As does yours, atier Isako.” Elias has a voice that’s soft and unassuming, as smooth as satin.
He studies her with professional interest, no doubt taking measure of her, should he ever have to put her down.
Surely, he’s seen plenty of contractors like her come to petition the Agency at the end of their careers, hoping for one last favor—a name, an introduction, a personal recommendation, anything that might lead to a new contract.
“It’s unfortunate how your Exclusive ended.
Many of us thought your client would reinvigorate Astrocommunications and bring new energy to the reunionists. ”
“I thought so, too.” She shrugs. “The way of the Vastness.”
“The way of the Vastness,” Garik echoes in agreement. Fate, cold and unchangeable. As every would-be atier learns at the end of the licensing exam, whether one is deserving of their destiny is immaterial. The judgment of Father Aquilo is unsentimental and final.
“And yet, here you are, relicensed,” Constance points out.
“How many simdeaths have you been through?” Garik asks curiously.
“Five.” Isako’s seen colleagues who failed relicensing fall from atier to midtrac and then to gencon—an inevitable prelude to unemployability, freelancing, death.
She side-eyes Constance accusingly. “I’m as surprised as anyone to find myself here.
Apparently, no one saw fit to inform me when my client transferred my contract. ”
Constance doesn’t bat an eye. Clients cancel or transfer contracts at will and sometimes it’s the contractor who is the last to learn of their fate. Isako’s pique is misplaced, and they both know it. “You wish to access the directory,” she prompts coolly.
“I want to contact Dragonfly Martim.”
She’s not expecting all three Partners to straighten with interest. It’s subtle, but she notices. Elias’s gaze sharpens on her. Garik leans forward. “He was an apprentice of yours a few years ago, wasn’t he? Aren’t you already in touch with him?”