Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the end, I’m grateful for a steady heart, a fast arm, and a strong daughter who’ll never read my sentimental nonsense.
Isako rents a room across the street from the Elite Renewal synthtech clinic.
It’s nothing special—thin sheets, molded plastic furniture, weak shower spray on an automatic timer.
One of those utilitarian, temporary apartments for relatives of people undergoing extended medical treatment in the area.
A depressing place to spend her final nights, but it could be worse.
She goes more budget than necessary to find a place that accepts offscrip, so she won’t leave any electronic trail.
Just in case the surviving shadowcon decides to come for her after all.
On her third night there, she hears light footsteps in the hallway. They pass her room, come back down the hall, and stop outside her door.
Silent and barefoot in her pajamas, she slips into position against the wall, avoiding the pool of light from the standing lamp so she doesn’t cast a shadow across the door. She tabs the manual release on her triggersheath, noiselessly slides the blade out a single inch.
Second Stance. Knees bent, weight equally distributed, mind ready. Drawing the Bow. She strains her hearing past the sound of her heartbeat, watches the door handle.
The footsteps move past and fade away.
Over the next two days, she’s extra cautious whenever entering or exiting the building.
Checks hallways and streets to make sure they’re empty.
Takes stairwells and back doors. Doesn’t wear her usual red peacoat.
Not that she’s afraid of the shadowcon—if it is indeed him.
But it would throw a massive wrench in her plans for him to try to kill her right now, when she’s so close to the end of this miserable contract.
She misses Kob. She misses him a whole fucking lot.
Crater, good for his word, sends her what she needs.
She studies the layout and systems of the Elite Renewal clinic as if memorizing formulas for the licensing exam.
She watches the entrance of the building from her window with binoculars until she can identify all the staff members and when they normally arrive.
She gets on the Cityhab Security network and figures out the shift roster and expected response times.
She accounts for everything she can know and control because there’s a whole lot she can’t.
The thought of calling Maya crosses her mind often, but she doesn’t trust the electronic safeguards in this shitty-ass building.
On the slim chance her communication is being monitored, she can’t risk the possibility of putting her daughter in any danger.
So she records a message, which she appends to the letter that’ll automatically be released from her personnel file to the Agency in the event of her death. Constance will get it to Maya.
Longknife practice occupies her remaining hours.
It’s where she can always find calm and resolve—in the shifting of her feet between stances, the slow burn building in her legs and arms, the fractional seconds she strives to shave away with each draw of the blade.
She thinks of how her kithfather Akio had the same practice routine every morning, including the day he walked into the Vastness.
She gets plenty of sleep and takes care of her knees. She’s going to need them to work when it counts.
Her coda goes unfinished.
Not from lack of trying. She writes and rewrites it, but nothing feels correct. On her last attempt, she thinks of Kob. I go where you can’t follow, but I take you with me. It’s the closest she comes to something that’s true, but still, it’s not perfect.
She’s just not a writer.
Maybe it’s okay that she doesn’t have a coda that’ll be declaimed in public, or published and widely read, or inscribed on a future building.
Just like it’s okay that she might not get a proper resignation with witnesses and an eventual nameplace.
The impact of her final actions will mean more than any words she could come up with.
The way of the Vastness.
On Terrasday morning, Isako is ready before dawn.
She takes up a spot in the alcove entranceway of the building next door. If Uchi cancels or delays his post-op appointment, the plan’s fucked, at least temporarily. She’s counting on the fact that he’ll want a clean bill of health in hand before the Board vote.
When the first staff members arrive to unlock the doors and turn on the lights, she breathes a sigh of relief.
Ordinarily, the clinic doesn’t open until 0600, but workers being early means they expect an important client to arrive right upon opening.
Sandbar Uchi is a famously early riser and apparently he’s keeping up longstanding habits in second stage.
At exactly 0600, a shiny new top-of-the-line silver combustion vehicle arrives and pulls up to the clinic’s entrance with a steam-belching grumble.
Sandbar Uchi steps out of the car, adjusts his designer scarf and black fedora, and enters the clinic, accompanied by River Thea and two additional uniformed bodyguards.
Isako waits, and uses this time to wrap herself in cold determination.
When ten minutes have passed, she steps into the street and strides up to the clinic entrance briskly and purposefully, as though just arriving.
The gun that Waterboy gave her is in a shoulder holster under her coat.
The unfamiliar shape and weight of it is unnerving.
She worries it’s noticeable, even though she’s gone to pains to make sure it isn’t.
She doesn’t trust the damn thing, prays she won’t have to use it.
A gencon security guard with a shock baton sits just inside the sliding double doors of the clinic. It’s early and cold and he’s not quite awake. Isako’s been watching him through binoculars for days and doesn’t consider him a threat.
At the check-in desk, she says, “I’m here for Director Savannah Minto’s appointment.”
The receptionist has the overly smooth, taut skin that betrays an overuse of age-reversal procedures, the cheap resort of those who covet the long lives and artificial youth of second stage but will never obtain synthtech.
She peers at Isako skeptically. Isako’s engaged with enough skeptical and annoyed receptionists over the past two weeks to feel impatience at the sight of yet another one.
“You’re not Director Minto,” the woman states blandly.
“Obviously not. My client scheduled a consultation to discuss possible upgrades. As you can see from your files, her model’s rather dated. She’s not able to be here in person due to security concerns, so she sent me to gather the information in her stead.”
“That’s not how we do things,” says the receptionist. “We don’t discuss a patient’s situation with anyone besides the patient. Director Minto will have to reschedule her appointment, or arrange a remote consultation to speak with the doctor directly.”
Isako summons an expression in every veteran atier’s toolkit—her most entitled don’t-you-know-who-I-work-for face.
“My client doesn’t wish to delay her appointment, nor does she trust your communications security.
As you must know, she’s a Board member, and with the approaching AGM, she’s very busy and very vigilant about personal safety. ”
Isako holds up a datacard. It’s blank but she brandishes it importantly.
“She provided me with her synthbody’s performance-history files and entrusted me to deliver them directly to the consulting doctor.
” A disappointed pause for effect. “I thought Elite Renewal would be accustomed to accommodating clients who expect a superior and discreet level of service.”
The receptionist sighs. “Come with me.” She stands and takes Isako down the first hall to a receiving room with a desk and two armchairs. “I’ll ask the doctor if they’ll see you.” She departs and closes the door behind her, leaving the atier standing in the middle of the room.
Isako checks the time and starts a mental countdown. She cracks open the door and peers out. The hallway is empty. Two minutes. Vastblasted freels better not let me down…
She’s disabled all incoming calls, but an urgent message alert pops up.
Kob.
Before she can think better of the timing, she plays it.
His voice starts up in her ear. “Isa, I don’t know if you’re going to hear this, but something’s been bothering me.
I spent the past few days digging through Martim’s personal information.
He doesn’t have the genetic markers for early-onset Gray’s Waste.
There’s no diagnosis in his medical records. If he was keeping a secret—”
A thunderous bang goes off outside the building. It’s so loud it concusses the air like a gas field explosion or an aircraft hitting the ground. Even though she expects it, Isako’s whole body flinches with instinctual panic. The receptionist lets out an earsplitting shriek.
Isako throws open the door. She takes in the chaotic scene in an instant.
To her left is the lobby, its windows obscured by dust and smoke.
Security alarms start blaring. Red strobing lights in the ceiling indicate a lockdown situation.
The receptionist is under her desk, hands over her head.
The security guard is crouched behind his chair, shouting into a comm unit and staring fearfully toward the anticipated attackers at the entrance.
They don’t notice Isako at all as she sprints in the other direction.