Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
River Thea steps forward. “If you please,” she says, resting a hand on the top of her triggersheath to make it clear she’s not asking.
Isako’s fingers twitch. Which of them would win in a quick draw?
She wants, suddenly and badly, to prove that flesh and blood can trump eighth-generation synthtech.
For one mad moment, she imagines lunging and taking off the jarbrain bodyguard’s pretty red head in one stroke before leaping across the red line of carpet to Uchi’s desk.
Kob says, stony and polite, “Thank you for your time, Director.” He half turns, putting a hand on Isako’s elbow. Reluctantly, she lets him nudge her into retreat. Uchi doesn’t watch them go; he’s already busy with something else.
Uchi’s bodyguard marches them back through the reception area and through the rotunda ringed with its expansive views from beyond the airshield.
She calls a driverless car, which glides up to the front of the building.
“It’ll take you back to your hotel. Twenty-six hours,” she reminds them. “We’ll know if you overstay.”
“You must’ve worked with Martim a lot,” Isako says, “before you betrayed him and covered up his death.”
She shouldn’t hate River Thea. The bodyguard’s a contractor, bound by the Code just like Isako. The woman’s not even an atier, just a longknife-trained security midtrac. She’s not to blame for Martim’s tragic fate.
This trac, though, isn’t like any of the others.
The sight of her fashion-model face makes Isako want to punch it in.
River Thea shouldn’t be alive. Contractors die all the time, earlier than most, and none of them get second chances.
Martim certainly didn’t. Why should she ?
Just because of one powerful, impulsive man with a spare synthbody.
Thea’s amber-flecked hazel eyes dart away for a moment, then return to Isako, eerily baleful.
“Martim knew what he was signing up for,” she replies tonelessly.
“Director Uchi is a demanding client because he expects the best from all of us. One day, when people walk under the open sky without warmsuits and o-masks, there’ll be statues of him in every plaza. ”
“Is that why you agreed to become his guinea pig? How’s it feel to be in someone else’s synthbody because an old man wanted to take twisted revenge on his ex-wife?”
Thea’s hand goes for her triggersheath and a snarl issues from her mouth. “It beats being fucking dead .”
Kob steps between them. He’s so much taller than River Thea that the motion practically hides the second stager from Isako’s view.
“There’s no client served by this,” he reminds them in a warning grumble.
He looks down at Uchi’s bodyguard with pity.
“You don’t own that body, do you? No trac could afford 8G synthtech.
You’ll occupy it only as long as you’re under contract to Sandbar Uchi. Which’ll be for as long as you live.”
Kob’s right. Isako takes a step back. “You’re a brain that doesn’t even own its jar.”
Perhaps she imagines the pain that flickers across that artificial face. “We’re all just brains wrapped in meat,” Thea reminds them. “You’re just nearer to your expiry date.” She turns her back on them and strides away through the illuminated lobby.
Outside, night has fallen, but the heart of SoCon GasPro still hums with light and traffic. Kob opens the car door and they get in. Once the vehicle starts moving, he says, “She’s not worth your anger, Isa. She’s just another of Uchi’s victims. I feel sorry for her.”
“She’s no victim. She made a devil’s bargain with Uchi in exchange for the best synthbody available.”
“She agreed to serve one client for the rest of her life. How’s that any different from an Exclusive contract?”
“You know it’s damn well different,” Isako exclaims. “People like us don’t become jarbrains. No self-respecting longknivesperson would agree to be recorped. It’s fucking creepy and unnatural, no matter how good the synthtech has gotten.”
Kob doesn’t argue with her.
She throws herself back against the car seat in frustration.
“You were right. I shouldn’t have demanded a meeting with Uchi so quickly.
I wanted to use Agency authority to make him answer for Martim, but I fucked up.
All I did was get us kicked out of SoCon GasPro and make it just about impossible to finish out my contract. ”
She tries to think of a way to unfuck the situation. Nothing comes to mind.
Kob rubs his hands together even though it’s not cold. Orange streetlights pulse monotonously over the windshield of the car. “Something seems off.”
When he falls silent instead of elaborating, Isako prompts, “What specifically, besides everything about this situation?”
“Uchi claims this was an administrative delay. He’s planning to file an overdue report with the Agency explaining Martim’s dismissal for drug violations and subsequent suicide.”
“I still don’t buy it,” she mutters. “For a bit of bliss and some amp tabs, not even the really hard stuff, Martim was going out of his way to buy from Vincent so he wouldn’t be seen doing anything illegal in SoCon GasPro.
I can’t imagine him being reckless enough to be caught using while on the job. ”
Not that smart people don’t make spectacular errors of judgment—hell, right now, she knows that better than anyone—but Martim wasn’t the type to gamble with his contract or his life.
Then again, what does she know about her apprentice, really?
Could he have taken his own life? After pinning his entire sense of worth on being Uchi’s atier, only to be summarily fired from his dream contract, his career abruptly ended in disgrace without any chance of a respectable resignation…
Under those circumstances, he wouldn’t be the first black badge to give in to despair.
But the details don’t make sense. “There was nothing out of place in Martim’s apartment. He abandoned it days before he supposedly committed suicide. Where was he when he died? If he intended to overdose, wouldn’t he go back to his own place to do it?”
“That is strange.” Kob’s brow is furrowed, as if he’s trying to solve a difficult math problem in his head.
“Something else that’s odd: Uchi doesn’t take meetings out of courtesy.
From what I’ve heard, he hates wasting time and delegates as much as possible to his leadership team.
He didn’t need to meet with us, not on short notice, not if the whole situation is as cut-and-dried as he says it is and could’ve been explained in a message to the Agency. ”
“He suspects I’m working for his opponents and wanted to confirm it.”
“If his security team thought you were a threat, they’d keep you away. Delay the meeting, monitor your activities, determine which of Uchi’s enemies you’re working for. That’s what I would advise, if I were his atier. Wouldn’t you?”
“He doesn’t have an atier counseling him right now.”
“He’s no fool, though. And neither is that bodyguard of his.
The couple of times I met Uchi in the past, he was more…
I don’t know, it’s hard to describe.” Kob shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the insight.
“Recorporalization changes a person. So does power. But there’s something else I can’t quite put my finger on. He seems… nervous.”
Isako turns to face him. “Why didn’t you mention that you’d met Uchi before?
Or, for that matter, that you’d spoken to Martim recently?
” When I last spoke to Martim, he was fearful for his career and for his life.
That’s what Kob said in Uchi’s office. “ When did you last speak to him, Kob? You didn’t think it was worth mentioning to me? ”
He looks at her regretfully. “I’m sorry, Isa. It was on contract.”
She has no reply to that. Secrecy is part of the Code.
Atiers don’t disclose client secrets, not ever, not to anyone.
Of course, examples of atiers betraying their clients exist, and are more common than the Agency would ever let on, but even after losing his badge, Kob wouldn’t be one of those people.
If Kob last crossed paths with Martim while on contract, then it was before he lost his license.
Shortly before he slid into freelancing, he was doing confidential work that had some connection to SoCon GasPro.
And he happens to show up, conveniently able and willing to help her with an assignment that gets her close to Sandbar Uchi.
“Kob,” she says slowly, feeling her mouth start to go dry, “I would never ask you to break Code. But can you answer me truthfully? You’re not on contract anymore… are you ?”
He meets her eyes in the dark and gives a solemn shake of his head. “You’re one of the few people I would break Code for, Isa. I promise—I haven’t been lying to you.”
He starts to say more, but an urgent alert on Isako’s line interrupts him.
It’s Crater.
She doesn’t break eye contact with Kob as she takes the call.
“This isn’t a great time for me to talk,” she says.
“Just listen then,” Crater says. “I’ve been burning the midnight oil for you, but I still can’t get ahold of any of Sandbar Uchi’s older medical records. They’re gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man is seventy years old, for fuck’s sake. You accumulate a lot of medical history in that time. But they’ve been cleansed from Health Services. Replaced with files that appear to be real but that an expert—like me—can tell have been altered.”
“How’s that possible?” she whispers, turning away from Kob. “There’s no hiding in the Company. Everything about everyone is out there somewhere. You’ve said it yourself plenty of times.”
“Uchi has to release his personal medical records as part of the Board confirmation process. Looks like he’s got some clever people preemptively making sure he’s presented as being in perfect health.
Not that physical exams from his first stage have much relevance anymore, but if your client was hoping to bring up prior mental health issues or psychological instability that might raise questions about Uchi’s long-term fitness for serving on the Board—well, you’re shit out of luck. ”
“Well. Fuck.” That’s the end of one of her few remaining angles, the one suggested by Minto that she thought was a long shot to begin with.
“Whoever scrubbed the records knew what they were doing and did it thoroughly,” Crater says with professional admiration. “I could try to keep digging, but as self-serving as it would be for me to keep charging you, I’m not sure it would be worth—”
“Isa.” Kob’s hand comes down on her shoulder, hard. “Wasn’t that the hotel?”
She jerks at the alarm in his voice, banging her forehead against the window glass as she spins around. The Summer Suites is receding behind them. The car doesn’t stop or slow down. Instead, it picks up speed and takes a sharp right turn off the main road.
“Where are we going?”
Kob lurches for the manual controls. He slams on the brakes, but the vehicle doesn’t respond.
Which should be impossible. Every car has manual emergency overrides.
They’re traveling too fast to roll out of the vehicle without serious injury, but Isako yanks on the door handle anyway. Nothing happens.
She turns on Kob. “She’s just another victim , you said. I feel sorry for her, you said.”
Kob gives her a stricken look, but she’s not really angry with him.
She’s angry because she was a fool. She was misled by the promise of twenty-six hours of clemency and didn’t hesitate before getting into the car River Thea called for them.
Amateur mistake. One she wouldn’t have made if she hadn’t been emotional and distracted. One that’s about to cost her life.
The car keeps going, taking them away from SoCon GasPro’s busy commercial area, into an industrial part of the cityhab where the air is rank with the smell of ammonia and fogged with steam billowing from street vents.
Is it going to slam them into a wall at fatal speed?
Drive them through an airshield gate and into the Vastness to die?
This isn’t how she wanted to go out. She’s not even done writing her fucking coda.
But the car slows, rolling to a safe and gentle stop in the middle of a dimly lit and unfamiliar alley between two long, aluminum-sided buildings.
Isako entertains a moment of delusional hope that perhaps she was wrong, perhaps it was merely a vehicle malfunction—until two blocky trucks slide up on either end of the narrow corridor, trapping them inside.
“We need to get out of here, now .” Kob yanks on the door handle and achieves no better a result than Isako did on her side.
“Move over,” he demands, pushing her aside.
Turning around within the cramped space, shoulders banging into the vehicle walls, Kob braces himself and sets his boots against the door.
With a grunt, he kicks with both feet, hard.
The car shudders but stays firmly sealed.
The doors of the two trucks fly open. Four masked figures emerge. They approach the trapped car, fast and silent as a breeze over the tundra. Triggersheaths activate, longknives eject into waiting hands. None of them break gait as they draw.
“Shadowcons,” Isako breathes. “We’re fucked.”