Twenty
TWENTY
—the recovered files of Dragonfly Martim
Staring at SoCon GasPro headquarters for days doesn’t prepare Isako for being inside.
Entering the vast foyer of the central dome is like stepping beyond the airshield.
Wraparound screens cover the walls of the circular chamber, displaying panoramic images transmitted live from the division’s six hundred and fifteen gas fields.
Picturesque vistas of rocky steppes and gravel deserts, undulating hills dotted with lichen and shrubs, sprawls of nascent grassland buzzing with insects introduced by the ecological engineers.
In every view, grand emission stacks stand sentinel and majestic, billowing chemical-laden steam, neat as soldiers standing arrayed on the battlefield.
There are no plants or cloned animals, bubbling pools of water or dreams of a long-ago paradise in Sandbar Uchi’s domain. To enter is to be confronted by the reality of the Founders’ Vision, awed by the scope and progress of the millennia-spanning terraforming effort.
The division motto is inlaid across the floor in black quartzite. We Make the World.
Isako and Kob pass through three scangates before they’re allowed into the waiting area outside the director’s office.
Kob takes a seat, semi-zanshin, in one of the lableather armchairs.
Isako paces slowly, pretending to examine the artwork from Uchi’s private collection, which is rumored to be worth a fortune and to contain pieces preserved from the Great Ships.
Two stiff-backed secretaries in matching black suits and blue data visors occupy the narrow desks flanking the doors at the far end of the room, their fingers fluttering and tapping the air.
It’s a risk to have Kob with her at this meeting.
She can’t pretend his presence is sanctioned by the Agency; the Partners wouldn’t approve the involvement of a freelancer, no matter his prior accomplishments.
By getting on the wrong side of Sandbar Uchi, at best Kob’s throwing away any chance of getting a future contract in one of the Company’s largest divisions.
At worst, he’s signing up to share her fate.
But it goes without saying that they’re in this together now. Kob’s taken up residence in her hotel room. They didn’t discuss the decision; it just happened. So if Uchi has people watching her, they know Kob’s here anyway. And Isako admits she wants her old partner around if things go south.
She scans the reception area, noticing the autosealing doors and the presence of cameras near the ceiling.
It’s entirely possible Uchi’s people investigated her recent activities and determined she’s working for Savannah Minto.
Or maybe Condor Anand tipped them off from the very start.
Agency authority notwithstanding, if Uchi views her visit as a personal threat, he can have that threat neutralized.
The labwood-paneled double doors swing open. A beautiful redheaded woman strides toward them, triggersheath swinging gently on her thigh.
Isako’s left hand twitches near her hip. Kob pushes himself out of the armchair.
River Thea stops in front of them and tilts into a slight bow. “The director’s ready to see you. Come with me, please.” The woman’s voice is rich and breathy, at odds with her severe professional attire. Most likely that’s just the way her voice was designed.
Uchi’s bodyguard turns around and leads the way.
Isako and Kob exchange an unnerved glance before following.
If you didn’t know River Thea was a second stager, you’d be fooled—at least initially.
The woman’s gait seems natural, without the usual perceptible jerkiness of every older synthbody Isako’s seen.
Her face is smooth and unblemished, but nothing more uncommon than someone who’s spent significant time and money on aesthetic treatments.
The one thing that gives the jarbrain away is the subtle lack of frequent eye and facial movements, but even the woman’s stony expression might be explained away by her job instead of a technical limitation.
Compared against Savannah Minto’s decades-old model, River Thea’s eighth-generation synthbody is like the newest high-resolution holosim next to an old datafilm projection.
Fern Madison is in her fifties now, but her doppelganger is ageless, the voluptuous hourglass figure frozen in the rosy youth of her late twenties.
Her thick copper-red hair sways in time with her hips.
The 8G synthbody of a trophy wife, armed with a black badge and longknife.
It’s the most bizarre fucking thing Isako’s ever seen. It sets her teeth on edge.
The double doors open silently to admit them into the office.
The room is artful, opulent, and sterile.
Black furniture on plush, spotless beige carpet.
Rich labwood paneling and sconce lighting glinting off glass tables.
Behind the director’s elevated desk hangs a long mural depicting the stark landscape of the Vastness.
Uchi’s chair is turned away from them to face the painting, as if, like the screens in the foyer suggest, he’s surveying his kingdom.
Thea escorts the two visitors before her client, stopping them at the red carpet runner six meters in front of the desk.
“Isthmus Isako and Rain Kob, current and former atier contractors,” she announces, then steps aside, taking up a position by the wall close enough to intercept Isako and cut her down if she were to make any move across the boundary.
Uchi’s chair swivels around to face them.
There’s barely any difference between the director’s second-stage chassis and the man Isako’s seen in Companynet footage.
Uchi’s full head of silver hair is swept back over a commanding brow and a face composed of hard planes made stronger rather than softer with age.
His broad shoulders perfectly fill the cut of his custom-made charcoal pinstripe suit.
Standing, he would be nearly as large as Kob.
His steel-gray eyes may be glass-fronted cameras, but the keen intelligence behind them regards the two longknivespeople with unsettling intensity. “Let me guess.” His voice is gravelly but amiable, edged with amusement and impatience. “The Agency’s pissed off at me. Again.”
Isako shifts forward, careful not to step on the visitor line. “Director, thank you for responding promptly to my request for a meeting. May I first offer belated congratulations on your entry into the enlightened second stage of life. I trust it’s gone well?”
Uchi lifts one shoulder. “As well as to be expected, considering the fortune I paid for it. Synthtech is better than ever, but I could’ve built two gas fields for less money.”
“I’m glad to hear the adjustment hasn’t been too difficult.”
“You know what I really miss? Workouts. I used to hit the gym at four thirty every morning. It was part of my routine for decades, and now exercise is unhealthy . Not supposed to put wear and tear on the parts.” Uchi interlaces his large hands behind his head.
“I admit, though, that a few administrative items were delayed during my absence and the busy last few weeks. I’m not surprised the Agency sent someone after me, but I didn’t expect them to send you .
Didn’t your client lose his division and make a public show of walking into the Vastness? ”
Isako doesn’t allow her expression to change. “I asked for permission to follow Director Greves’s resignation, but as it turns out, the Agency had another task for me.”
“What about you, Strikebreaker?” Uchi turns his shrewd attention to Kob. “Your license shows up as expired. Again, not what I expected. How the mighty have fallen. You should’ve come to SoCon GasPro first. We could always use someone with your skillset out in the fields.”
Kob smiles without warmth. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not doing that kind of work anymore.
I just happened to run into Isako and decided to tag along for old time’s sake.
” He makes accompanying her to SoCon GasPro headquarters sound like a visit to the corner store.
“Very presumptuous of me, I know. But I was also acquainted with Dragonfly Martim.”
At Martim’s name, Uchi’s manner stiffens. The twist of his thin lips and the wrinkling across the bridge of his nose seems so effortlessly human that Isako is astonished by the synthtech quality all over again.
“What do you want to know that couldn’t have been sent as a message?”
“Martim was my apprentice,” Isako says. “I was shocked to learn of his death, and even more astonished to learn that no report of it was filed with the Agency. Weeks have gone by, and there’s been no official notice from your office, no obituary or funeral services held for Martim, and no hiring process begun for a replacement atier. ”
“As I said,” Uchi replies evenly, but with unveiled exasperation, “things have been a bit delayed around here. It’s not easy to hire a new atier.
It doesn’t help that the Agency has a track record of sending me candidates that are absolute fucking duds.
I simply haven’t had the time or inclination to contact the Partners to begin the tedious process. ”
“That doesn’t change the reporting requirement,” Isako counters. “Your atier died suddenly, and his remains were disposed of far from SoCon GasPro by your own bodyguard.”
“What’s your point?”
“Did you have Martim killed?” she demands.
“I fired him and he took his own life. So if you want to blame me for his death, go ahead. I take full responsibility.”
Just like that. She waits for Uchi to explain, to equivocate, to defend his decision and its outcome. She wants him to try. But he doesn’t say anything more, merely straightens his sleeve cuffs and looks at her with an expectant calm that asks, Anything else?
“Why did you get rid of him?” The question comes out small.
“He failed me at a crucial time.”