Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
—the recovered files of Dragonfly Martim
When Isako wakes, the sun is barely up, seeping tepid light across the wall of her hotel room. She glances at the time, wishes she could sleep longer.
Kob is still asleep in the main room, his large frame sprawled face down across the entire length of the sofa, one arm trailing onto the floor. His heavy jacket is slung over the back of a chair and his sheathed longknife is propped against the armrest of the sofa, within easy reach.
Cradling a mug of tea, she sits down at the table, sipping and waiting for the caffeine to hit.
She envies Kob’s ability to sleep long and soundly in a new location.
His back rises and falls in breaths as soft and even as those of a child, not the rumbling snore one would imagine coming from a large, slumbering man.
In the morning glow, she notices his surprisingly long eyelashes and the way the light catches the sprinkling of silver hairs in his beard.
She wonders idly whether it feels soft or coarse.
It’s been a long time since she’s watched a man sleep.
She used to wake earlier than Tai, and on those rare days when she didn’t have to leave before he rose, she would stay in bed, reading while he slept, waiting for him to roll over and mumble awake.
He would reach over and pull her to him, put his hands up her nightshirt, endearingly clumsy in his morning amorousness.
That was many years ago. The nights they spent in the same bed trickled down to a rarity.
The leisurely mornings went extinct. After Tai, there were other men: not many—brief dalliances, temporary distractions where both parties knew what the deal was.
No expectations they stay in touch. She had a war to fight.
It’s an odd relief, to look at Kob sleeping and not feel any sexual desire.
It’s not that he’s unattractive. Some women might be put off by his size, but Isako thinks he’s handsome—has always thought him handsome.
Her affection for Kob is like a weighted blanket—heavy and comforting, formed back when they were both married to other people, familiar with the texture of long friendship.
She pulls out her screen and reviews the codas she’s been drafting.
In the sober and brutal light of second consideration, they’re all terrible.
Now that the assignment has taken unexpected turns, she’s even more uncertain.
If she succeeds, she’ll be famous for bringing down a Company kingpin.
If she fails, it’ll be up to Savannah Minto and the Agency to decide if she’s allowed to resign with any bonus whatsoever.
Her coda might be extremely well publicized or entirely ignored.
Should she try to shape her resignation letter in anticipation of how many eyes will read it, and whether they’ll view the arc of her career as a heroic example, or a stunning failure?
Trying to write a coda to suit the audience seems antithetical to the point of the exercise.
Scowling, she erases all her drafts and stares at the blank screen.
Has Kob thought about his coda? Does he already know what it’s going to be?
She writes, slowly. I hope for my example to be my legacy.
She’s not sure if she’s addressing Maya, or Kob, or some vague abstraction of everyone in the profession—the Partners at the Agency and all the clients and colleagues and mentees who’ve ever crossed paths with Quickblade.
Kob stirs awake and sits up slowly, rubbing his face. The way his hair sticks out in all directions makes Isako smile. Seeing her sitting at the table, he says, his voice thick with sleep, “How long have you been up?”
“Not long.” She closes her screen and sets it aside. “I can’t offer you fresh eggs, but I can order up room service. And you can use the shower, if you like.”
Kob gets to his feet. “I won’t take long,” he promises, as if the scrip for a shower compares to the cost of last night’s seafood dinner.
He goes into the bathroom and she hears him humming a tune over the sound of running water.
By the time he comes out, breakfast has arrived—goat milk yogurt, toast, fruit, and tea.
The view of SoCon GasPro headquarters is stunning this morning, the tops of its great black towers haloed with white light, the central dome shining like the multihued carapace of an enormous beetle.
Wagemen flow like ants along wide boulevards lined with frost-limned arctic willows.
Watching the cityhab rousing to a new day, Isako feels almost at peace.
Reluctantly, she breaks the comfortable silence. “I want to go to the District 110 crematorium,” she says as they finish off their meal. “That’s where Martim’s body was taken. No cause of death was recorded, but maybe I can learn more in person.”
Kob wipes his mouth with a napkin. “If we’re headed to the western outskirts, there’s a place I’d like to stop by first. It won’t take long.”
Kob wants to visit a water fountain. It looks like a perfectly ordinary city water fountain: a cylinder with a spout, a display that informs users the tank is currently 34 percent full, and a place to scan one’s badge to buy 100 ml, 200 ml, or 300 ml at a time.
As they approach, a young woman in a thermal jogging suit finishes filling up her water bottle.
When she’s done, Kob goes up to the fountain and bows his head.
Isako reads the name carved into the stone pavers at the foot of the machine: Elk Thomas. A man who resigned long ago and came to his final resting spot here. Years later, his remains were DNA tested and a water fountain built over his bones.
“You knew him?” Isako asks.
“I served his dismissal,” Kob says. “Twenty-four years ago.”
Isako looks around. They’re in one of the newer neighborhoods of the Airshield Tech division. Tenacity has grown at an extraordinary clip for the past several decades. Twenty-four years ago, this area would have been a lifeless part of the Vastness.
“What was so special about him?”
“Nothing. He was bad at his job. He wasn’t always a poor performer, but he went through some personal problems and stopped trying.
Worked in Cityhab Systems, which was a stable-enough division that he could coast for years.
Until the Weather Shocks happened, and then the Purge of 476.
” Kob squats down to touch the name carved into the stone.
“He wasn’t brave about resigning either. Cried through the whole thing.”
Kob stands back up. “Tom, you didn’t deserve what you got.
You were in the wrong division at the wrong time.
I’m sorry for the part I played in it. I hope I didn’t do too bad of a job delivering the news, but I was pretty new to it back then.
” He looks around. The fountain is situated along a walking path bordered with sedge grass and leading to a tram station.
Sunlight strikes the face of the cylinder like the gnomon of a sundial.
“You’re in a nice spot. Thirsty folks who pass by are happy to see you.
I checked in on your kith. They’re living in HabSys Quad4 now.
Your kithsister passed, but she left two kids, four grandkids.
Your son’s still alive. Thought you’d want to know.
” Kob makes the blessing sign of the Mother, sweeping a cupped hand to his mouth.
“Now that you’re back under the airshield, I hope you’re at peace. ”
Kob takes out a screen and stylus from his inside coat pocket. Isako leans over to see him cross Elk Thomas’s name off a long list.
“Is that a list of everyone you’ve dismissed and terminated?” Isako’s astonished not by the length of the list, but by the fact that he’s recorded them all, and by what he appears to be doing with the information. “Are you visiting all of their resting sites? What for?”
Kob puts away the screen. “I can’t visit the ones outside of the airshield, obviously. For those, I find a temple near the gate they resigned from and say my bit there.”
“What if they followed one of the old faiths?” Isako isn’t sure why she asks; it’s a silly question.
Kob shrugs. “The way I figure it, time and space don’t make any difference once you’re dead. Whether someone’s Waiting for the Mother’s freedom, or reborn on old Earth, or in heaven with Jesus Christ, you can still talk to them, if you make an honest effort.”
The list that Isako glimpsed has about three-quarters of the names crossed out. Is this what Kob has been doing since he fell into freelancing? Spending his time apologizing to dead people? He did say he has work to do that no one would pay him for.
“Why would you want to talk to them?” Her tone is harsher than she intends. But she’s offended that he’s adopted this burden of guilt. It’s ridiculous. Egotistical, even. She’s been unspeakably glad for his company. Now she wants to shove him, hard.
Kob doesn’t react to her ire. “Don’t you ever think about your DTEs? Do you ever see their faces in your mind, or hear their voices?”
The morbid question gives her uncomfortable pause.
“Some of them stick in my mind longer than others, sure. I don’t think anyone can do what we do and not be emotionally affected by it.
But I don’t keep a list to look back upon.
” Her list would be shorter than Kob’s, but the idea is still deeply unpleasant.
“It’s not that I want to remember them. I just do.” Kob taps the side of his head.
When it comes to names and faces, Rain Kob has a near-perfect memory.
She was awed by his ability when they worked together.
If she were to mention someone they met in passing years ago, Kob could offer up their name, role, division, and what they were wearing at the time.
He can look at a lineup of twenty faces and pick out a single one of them in a crowd three weeks later.
He can identify anyone after a glance at a single photograph.
“A dead-useful skill to have as an atier. Not so great in other ways.” Solemnly, “I want to make my own peace with them. Even if it takes a while.”
“You’re not responsible for their deaths.
You carried out decisions that had already been made,” Isako reminds him.
“The Company determines how to distribute limited resources. The Executive allows wars and mergers, reorganizations and purges. Directors sign the dismissal notices. We’re just doing our jobs like everyone else. ”
“You’re right.”
She’s not mollified by his quick agreement.
“Besides, you’re only taking into account people to whom you personally served notices.
What about all the work you’ve done that helped a client’s division at the expense of another?
Work that led to reductions you didn’t even see.
You could never make it through a list of all those names. ”
She’s cruelly satisfied at Kob’s silence and downcast demeanor. Maybe it’s wrong of her to dismiss his personal quest of repentance, especially after he’s offered to keep helping her, but she doesn’t like this strange side of him.
Isako relents a little. “What you’re doing is admirable, but the best way to honor the dead is by creating the future.”
Sure, her words ring of Companyspeak, but that doesn’t make them untrue. The Code demands as much faith from its atiers as the Scripture of Sefa does of its priests. Kob knows that as well as she does. At least, she thought he did.
“Sometimes, the future claims too much from us.” Kob exhales warmth into his hands and turns away. “Let’s find out what happened to your apprentice.”