Nineteen
NINETEEN
“Why in the name of old Earth was Martim’s body brought out here ?”
The crematorium is a modest building between a high-rise medical office tower and a caregiver training center. The lobby is solemn with dark-toned labwood and soft orange lighting. Peaceful harp music plays in the background. A bored clerk looks up as Isako and Kob approach the front desk.
The clerk scans Isako’s badge to verify her claim of Agency authority, but Constance is good for her word. “Yes, his remains were processed here on the Sefaday of first week,” the man says, tapping through records on his data visor. “What do you want to know?”
She’s known of Martim’s death for days now but it’s still an unpleasant jolt to hear it confirmed so impersonally. “What was the condition of the body when it arrived?”
The staff member reads through the record. “No decay. All the usable organs were healthy and removed as per standard donor protocol.”
Martim was last seen at his apartment eight days before his death certificate was filed, and the lack of decay suggests he died near the end of that missing period, not long before his remains were disposed of. Where was he during that intervening time?
“Can you tell me the cause of death?”
The clerk purses his lips. “It seems to have been left off the official record, but the coroner’s note says it was a drug overdose.”
Isako’s stomach sinks. “Accidental or intentional?”
“Undetermined. No autopsy was performed, so there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Isako exchanges a glance with Kob. Alarms hum in her head as her suspicions rise and gain speed. “Who picked up his remains? And his badge and longknife?”
“Released four days later to the same person who brought in the body and arranged the cremation.” The clerk peers at them over the top of his blue visor and his voice takes a turn away from the bored professionalism he’s shown so far.
“I remember her—she was hard to forget. Not every day you meet a jarbrain, and I’ve never seen such a realistic bombshell model like that before. Must’ve been one of a kind.”
“An especially advanced second stager, you said?” Kob rubs his jaw, searching his perfect memory. He takes out his screen and pulls up an image from the Companynet—it’s a photo from a lifestyle-magazine feature. He holds it out over the desk. “This look like her?”
The clerk’s eyes widen. “That’s definitely her.” He reads the photo caption and frowns in confusion. “Wrong name, though. The woman who came here wasn’t named Fern Madison. It was River Thea. A representative of SoCon GasPro.”
Back in the hotel room, Isako scrolls through recent public footage of Sandbar Uchi. She picks out glimpses of a curvy redheaded woman in the background, dressed inconspicuously in dark security clothes.
“That’s her—River Thea,” Kob says, looking over Isako’s shoulder. “Sandbar Uchi’s personal bodyguard.”
“Uchi’s bodyguard is a jarbrain?” She slows down the videos and zooms in, but the crematorium clerk is right—if this woman is in second stage, she’s sporting the most advanced synthtech available.
Isako finds a photograph of Uchi from a charity function six years ago, when he was still with his third wife, Fern Madison.
The same redheaded woman is on his arm, this time smiling winningly in a shimmery green gown with a plunging neckline that shows off her generous cleavage.
Isako flips between the newer and older photos.
It’s creepy—the resemblance, and the non-resemblance.
“Uchi caused a major scandal last year.” Kob rubs his eyes and squints at the screen. “I remember seeing Fern Madison on a talk show saying she was going to sue her ex-husband for giving away her synthbody.”
“He gave his ex-wife’s synthbody to his bodyguard?
” Isako hasn’t yet gone through all the information Crater sent to her, but so far she’s focused her research on Uchi’s career and his leadership of SoCon GasPro.
She hasn’t been scouring tabloid news headlines, but apparently she should.
“Can he even do that? Isn’t it against policy? ”
“It’s against policy to design your synthbody in someone else’s likeness, to substantially alter it from your first-stage appearance, or to deviate from human form.
But Fern Madison’s synthbody was commissioned and paid for by Sandbar Uchi before the divorce, so he still owns it. It’s a legal gray area.”
“That’s messed up.” She imagines Uchi’s sadistic satisfaction at knowing his ex-wife has to see her own synthbody trailing obediently behind him everywhere he goes. She swipes away the photographs. “As fucked up as what happened to Martim.”
Kob sits down across from her. “You don’t buy the drug-overdose story.”
“Martim was meticulous. Detail oriented. You should’ve seen how the kid dressed.
Vincent didn’t think an accidental overdose was likely from the stuff he was selling, and my subcon said there was nothing unusual in Martim’s recent pattern of behavior to suggest he was suicidal. An overdose doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not everyone shows signs of their struggles,” Kob says gravely.
“True,” she concedes, “but the timing of how it went down can’t be coincidence.
Martim cleaned up the Field 93 disaster, made sure the Company investigation and hearing went the director’s way and didn’t jeopardize his Board nomination.
Just as Uchi is on the eve of getting everything he wants, the one man who did his dirty work and knows all his secrets conveniently disappears. ”
“You believe he had Martim killed.”
She doesn’t want it to be true, but hearing Kob state it out loud so baldly, she has to admit it’s been her suspicion from the start.
“There’s been no announcement, no funeral, no notification given to the Agency.
” If Isako had died while on contract, Greves would’ve let everyone in the division off work for the day, made it a big deal.
“We already know Uchi’s capable of eliminating those whose existence he considers a liability.
SoCon GasPro wants to keep Martim’s death quiet so no one thinks to question his absence, at least until Uchi is voted onto the Board. ”
The faithful retainer betrayed by his lord. The servant expected to fall on his sword to protect his master. It’s a story as tragic as it is old, and it makes Isako sick to her stomach.
Her kithfather used to say, “A true longknivesman is rewarded not in life, but in death.” Client service carries its risks; she’s always known she might die protecting her client or have to resign to take responsibility for failure.
But loyalty is supposed to go both ways.
That’s why directors can have only one atier.
Why Exclusive contracts exist. There’s a big fucking difference between giving one’s life in service and being murdered in cold blood by your own client.
Kob frowns. “Uchi’s never hesitated to fire underperformers. Why would he need to kill Martim when he could simply dismiss him, or decide not to renew his contract?”
“It would be too big a risk to leave him alive.” Atiers are expected to take their client’s secrets to the grave, but Martim was particularly young and promising.
He would’ve landed a contract with someone else, possibly one of Uchi’s rivals looking to poach an insider.
His knowledge of the director’s sins might’ve surfaced, sooner or later.
Kob is still frowning. “Uchi pushes his division hard, but he’s also famous for rewarding his top performers.
You said Martim was smart and driven and on the cusp of an Exclusive contract that would’ve made him loyal for life.
The only reason for Uchi to change his mind so drastically is if he believed Martim was failing or betraying him. ”
“Martim was gone from his apartment for a week before his body was brought to the crematorium. I think his client sent him somewhere, to keep him out of the way and unsuspecting.”
“Because Uchi didn’t trust him anymore and was already planning to kill him.” Kob finishes the thought for her. “But what made him doubt Martim to begin with?”
“Only one way to find out for sure.” She can see the source of her answers from the hotel room window, and she’s tired of dancing around the center of the storm.
She calls the office of Director Sandbar Uchi.
After several transfers, she reaches the director’s undersecretary. “I’m calling on behalf of the Agency,” she announces, “to schedule a meeting with Director Uchi regarding the status of his atier, Dragonfly Martim.”
She’s hoping the mention of Martim’s name will elicit a reaction, but the undersecretary doesn’t miss a beat.
“The director is extremely busy. You may have heard he’s preparing for a Board confirmation hearing.
” The dripping condescension suggests Isako ought to be ashamed of herself for presuming to bother the director at such a time.
“I might be able to schedule an appointment during 36-week, if that works for you.”
A man of Director Uchi’s stature doesn’t see just anyone in person. Even another director might go through several of Uchi’s underlings and wait weeks to get on his calendar. But an appointment half a year away certainly does not work for Isako.
She lets a pause sit on the line as she brings to mind the historic grandeur of the Agency office. The stained glass, the arched nave, the haughty receptionist in spotless white. The arrogance of the Partners rivals any director, even here in SoCon GasPro.