Eleven
ELEVEN
Martim can’t be dead. It doesn’t make any sense.
If he died of an illness or an accident or was killed in client service, the Agency would’ve been notified.
But the Agency directory hasn’t been updated.
Constance and the other Partners weren’t aware of the rumors Condor Anand has heard.
Or if they were, they didn’t disclose them to her yesterday.
Director Uchi has dismissed atiers before—dismissed, not terminated —but if he got rid of Martim, he’d have contacted the Agency for a replacement.
The director wouldn’t be without counsel right now, in the crucial period when he’s preparing for the Board confirmation hearings. Something’s not adding up.
As soon as she’s back in her hotel room, Isako calls Crater again.
The subcon sounds peevish when he picks up. “It’s only been fourteen hours, even I don’t work that fast. I’m sending over all the publicly available information on Uchi that I’ve got so far, but you’re going to have to wait on the harder-to-get stuff.”
“That’s fine. But I need you to look into something else. Sandbar Uchi’s atier, a man named Dragonfly Martim. I just heard he’s dead. Can you find out if it’s true?”
Crater goes silent for half a minute. “Let me get back to you.” He hangs up.
Isako paces her hotel room, anxious and shaken.
Anand could be lying to her. He’s perfectly capable of starting false rumors himself if it would serve his interests.
If Martim’s missing for good reason because he’s secretly carrying out client orders, then telling people he’s dead would be a way to make them stop looking.
She takes balanced First Stance— Water Suspended —in the middle of the room and forces herself through the usual calming breath sequence.
The essence of being a longkniveswoman is readiness.
Clear-minded tranquility before action. No wasted movements, no wasted thoughts.
The Company measures resource efficiency with a myriad of metrics, but they wouldn’t need to if every person in the cityhab had the mentality of a longknife master.
Eyes closed. Mind quiet. She drops into aggressive Third Stance— Releasing Arrow —pops the triggersheath forward, draws and cuts in one motion.
She holds the position for a heartbeat before sheathing the longknife, eyes still closed, and reassuming First Stance.
She draws again, and again, striving for greater speed and flawless precision, until her legs burn and her mind feels clear and composed.
After ordering lunch to her room, she begins studying up on Director Sandbar Uchi, going through the public information Crater’s sent her—news articles, magazine profiles, recorded interviews.
There’s less than she thought there would be; for such a public figure, Uchi’s a surprisingly private person.
There are some photographs of him at social functions with a smiling redheaded woman on his arm, taken during the six years he was married to his third wife, mining heiress Fern Madison.
But in most other images, he’s alone, dressed in a dark single-breasted overcoat and fedora over slicked-back silver hair.
He looks trim and fit, seemingly younger than his seventy years, and with 198 centimeters of height, he literally looks down on those around him.
Uchi was born into a wealthy kith. His bioparents were officer-class Prosperity survivors’ descendants who managed some of the Company’s most productive arctic mining fields.
Uchi maintained few connections to them or the rest of his kith, except for one biosister, an ecological engineer, who he went to school with and through whom he developed his passion for both the science and political cause of terraforming.
He began his career in Field Technology, where he met Fox Wilson, Orca Jagmeet, and many of the other longtime friends and business associates he would later promote into key positions in his organization.
At age twenty-seven, he invented a cheaper and more efficient method of carbonate rock processing that became the Company standard within five years.
At age thirty-eight, he was the preeminent strategic advisor to the Executive and the Board on hyperoxygenation initiatives, which garnered him the attention of Tide Sullivan and a subsequent subdirector position in SoCon GasPro.
When Sullivan was tagged to take over the growing Northern Continent operations, he advocated for the Board to appoint his precocious protégé to fill his vacant position, which was how, at age forty-six, Sandbar Uchi became the youngest director of a major Company division.
At the time, Southern Continent Gas Production fields were older, less productive, and seen as secondary to the new fields in the North.
Sandbar Uchi proved the doubters wrong. In his twenty-four years at the helm, he’s used revolutionary advances in field technology to nearly double the size of his division’s operations.
He’s cut down the Company terraforming timeline by decades and emerged as a preeminent terraformist political leader.
Even among staunch little-Es, though, he’s a controversial figure.
He’s been the target of assassination attempts by anti-terraformist extremists, most recently a year ago in a field-car bombing.
On the Companynet, Isako finds plenty of admiring supporters as well as strident opponents.
In interviews, he displays a hyperfocused attentiveness and untrammeled passion for terraforming that can come across as arrogant intellectual superiority.
In one press conference, he’s asked what he believes is the greatest threat to the Company.
“Complacency.” Uchi gives the answer without hesitation.
“As a society, we’ve gotten too comfortable living under the airshield and accepting resource constraints.
Some people believe the gains we’ve made in terraforming mean it’s acceptable to ease back on our commitment to the vision of the Founders, when in fact, now’s the time to devote ourselves to transformative progress.
Unfortunately, too many people still cling to the dream of the Great Silence coming to an end.
They’re willing to ignore historical evidence and current reality in favor of an imagined panacea. That passivity is dangerous.”
And then there’s Uchi’s connection to the Field 93 disaster.
She finds reams of information on the tragic incident and the resulting high-profile Company investigation that cleared the director of wrongdoing in the airshield failure that killed one hundred and twenty-nine people and left no survivors.
Isako rubs her eyes, needing a break from all the heavy reading. She gets up and stretches, makes herself a cup of tea, and opens a blank document.
Since leaving Minto’s office, she’s been contemplating her coda.
She wants it to be memorable and poignant to the public at large, but more importantly, it should be meaningful to Maya.
A gift, one that her kithfather Akio never left for her, something wise that her daughter can hang on to and hear in her mother’s voice.
She hovers the stylus thoughtfully over the screen, then writes, Maya, always be true to yourself.
Personal, but basic and uninspired. I leave this world with my blade sharp and my heart empty of regret.
Too self-important. She doesn’t want to sound like a martyr in an epic movie.
To live is to serve. I can proudly say I did both.
True enough, but makes her sound like a shill for the Agency.
A call comes in from Crater. She answers right away.
“Bad news.” Crater’s words are monotone.
“A death certificate was filed for Dragonfly Martim twenty-five days ago. There’s been no announcement from his division, no funeral, and no obituary on the Companynet, but I found a record of his remains being received and processed at the District 110 crematorium. ”
So Anand was telling the truth.
It’s astonishing, how news can feel like a shock even when you’re anticipating it. Like bracing for a blow to the sternum, yet still being surprised when it hurts.
“How’s that possible? How did he die?”
“There’s no official cause of death listed.”
Isako gets to her feet. “Dig into it, then. You can dredge up his records, can’t you? Find out what he was up to in the days and weeks before he died. Did he change his routine, go anywhere unusual, make any unexpected calls or strange financial transactions?”
Crater’s taken aback by her tone. “What about Uchi’s medical records?”
“I still want them. But get me whatever you can find out about Martim first. Uchi’s atier dying mysteriously without anyone apparently noticing is really fucking suspicious.
” When Crater greets this pronouncement with hesitant silence, she says, “I’m good for the money, in case that’s what you’re wondering.
My client’s given me a practically unlimited scripline, and even without that, I’d pay. When have I ever not done you right?”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Crater says. “I was going to agree with the ‘really fucking suspicious’ part. If no one’s noticed he’s dead, it’s because someone is trying to keep it that way. Remember what I told you, about survival rate?” He hangs up.
Isako feels her hard-won calm unraveling as her thoughts spin toward wild speculation.
Was Martim assassinated by Uchi’s enemies in order to handicap the director at a crucial time?
The kid always was utterly shit with the longknife—he probably fell off practicing everything she taught him.
Was he fired by his client for some egregious failing?
Uchi’s known for getting rid of those who disappoint him, and contractors who’re denied permission to resign have high rates of suicide.
And it would be premature to count out a sudden illness or accident.
None of the possibilities explain why the Agency wasn’t informed.
She calls Constance. The Partners are not usually easy to reach, but when Isako tells the assistant to patch her through, Constance’s face comes on-screen a minute later.
“Dragonfly Martim’s dead,” Isako says. “I went to the address in the directory listing and he hasn’t been there in weeks. No announcement’s been made, but a death certificate was filed, with no known cause listed.”
She doesn’t mention Condor Anand. She wants to see if Constance questions her source, or if she brings up the Puppetmaster herself.
It’s possible, indeed probable, that the Partners know a lot more than they’re letting on.
But Constance’s expression gives nothing away.
She doesn’t seem shocked, but her mouth firms and the wrinkles around her eyes tighten. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You didn’t know this when I came to headquarters?”
“We were concerned about Martim’s absence but hadn’t received any communication to suggest something tragic had occurred.”
She doesn’t seem like she’s lying. “So you’re telling me that a licensed atier has been dead for weeks without your knowledge. And without you investigating.”
Constance shifts, perhaps uncomfortably.
“Policy requires clients to notify the Agency within five days when a contract is canceled for any reason. In the past, Director Uchi has been extremely prompt. We had no reason to think we wouldn’t hear from him at once if there was any serious issue.
” The Partner’s tone softens and she leans toward the screen.
“I’m sorry this is how you had to find out.
Believe me, if I’d known, I would’ve told you.
I’m a Partner, but I have a goddamn heart, Isa. ”
Isako looks away for a moment. “What are you going to do about it now?”
Constance sits back. “Obviously, we’ll launch an investigation. The Agency will send a representative to SoCon GasPro to determine what happened to Dragonfly Martim and question Director Sandbar Uchi about his failure to report such a serious matter.”
“Let me do it,” Isako says. “Give me the authority of the Agency.”
Constance purses thin lips. Her doubt radiates through the screen.
She’s suspicious of Isako’s motives, and with good reason.
The authority of the Agency would allow Isako to ask a lot of questions and open a lot of doors she might not otherwise be able to.
“You’re under contract,” Constance points out. “Your sole duty is to your client.”
“I know the Code, Constance. But my client’s interests align with the Agency’s needs.
An investigation is called for. I’m here in SoCon GasPro right now, and I want to know why Martim’s dead.
If client service starts to interfere with my ability to get you answers, then I’ll inform you immediately that I’m recusing myself.
” When Constance continues regarding her skeptically, Isako adds impatiently, “Have I ever given you reason to believe I’d abuse the Agency’s power?
You once trusted me enough to recommend me for Partnership.
I’m giving you my word that I’ll get to the bottom of this. ”
Constance gazes off-screen for a few pensive seconds before turning back to Isako. “Your status as an Agency representative will activate in the next few minutes. Keep me informed as to your findings.” She ends the call.
Isako blows out a breath and cradles her temples.
Atiers live unpredictable lives. She’s seen colleagues lose their contracts, resign in defeat, be killed in the line of client service.
Martim’s death shouldn’t be a debilitating gut punch—but it is.
He was the last apprentice she trained, before the Astrocom-SatOps war became too all-consuming for her to devote any time to teaching younger longknivesfolk.
He was only… twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? Practically still a kid with his entire life ahead of him.
He was so proud to earn his license and so excited to be offered such an impressive first contract.
Now apparently he’s just a pile of ashes and his own client hasn’t said a word.
Isako considers crawling back into bed. With this news coming just a couple of days after Forest Greves walking out to his death on the Vastness, it’s been one shitty tragedy after the other. Two men she knew, now both dead, brightly burning candles snuffed out well before their time.
She thinks back on Martim’s vacant apartment, tries to bring to mind anything unusual that she might’ve missed, that stands out now that she knows he’s never returning.
She takes out the used injection pen from her pocket and studies it, but a Companynet search for the word sudexatrine fails to turn up anything.
She’s considering calling Crater back to give him yet another thing to dig into, when the hand-scrawled words on the cheap plastic coaster draw her renewed attention. Vincent. Monday 24-26, 2nd floor.
Tomorrow is Monday.