Twenty-Eight #2
Martim would later learn that he was the second-last interview on the schedule.
By the time he arrived, the director had seen and dismissed four other candidates, including experienced senior atiers.
This was nothing new—Uchi had a reputation in the Agency for being difficult to please, liable to reject all the contractors presented to him and to demand a completely new slate of candidates.
Nor did his pickiness seem to improve his opinion of his eventual choices; neither of the last two atiers he’d hired had made it to the end of their Principal contracts.
He’d canceled the most recent one after only twenty weeks.
Martim was aware of these discouraging facts, but what he didn’t know at the time was that the Partners had deliberately arranged the order of Uchi’s interview schedule, first sending him three perfectly acceptable candidates that they predicted he would refuse for spurious reasons, followed by two underqualified interviewees, including Martim.
After the director became frustrated and weary, the sixth and strongest contender would be presented at the end of the day.
Hopefully, Uchi would accept the obvious choice without long deliberation or unreasonable demands for the Agency to send him more options.
Martim was set up to fail from the start. A sacrificial offering who was never supposed to have had a chance. Whenever he thought about it later, his lip would curl. Fucking Partners.
In the moment, though, his heart sank into his boots as he seated himself in the one empty chair, perched with his back straight and feet on the floor in proper zanshin.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he said.
“I’m a great admirer of what SoCon GasPro has accomplished under your leadership.
I became an atier hoping to use my skills to make a real difference in the Company. ”
Uchi took a peanut from the snack bowl on his desk and cracked it between his fingers. “And what skills do you think you have, at your age?”
Martim could feel the director’s blithe amusement rolling off him like an odor.
It was at least ten degrees warmer inside the bus than it was outside.
“Well, sir,” Martim said, keeping the smile plastered to his face as sweat plastered his shirt to his back, “there are a few things you ought to know about me. I’m the first member of my CTH ever to graduate from atier training, and I did so with academic scores in the top two percent of candidates.
I have a particular interest in the operational processes of terraforming; for example, in my most recent internship… ”
As he covered his rehearsed talking points, Martim felt his hopes dissolving with each word.
Uchi didn’t ask any follow-up questions; his eyes were flicking over his data visor again, paying attention to something else on his task list. He was hardly listening, merely going through the barest motions of the interview.
As soon as Martim finished, the director would dismiss him with a casual flick of his fingers, perhaps toss out a conciliatory “Thanks for coming, but you’re not what we’re looking for,” and that would be it—the evaporation of the biggest chance of Martim’s life, the shiny bauble of a Principal contract yanked out of reach of his grasping fingers.
He would leave only with definitive proof of what he’d dreaded all along—that he was fooling himself.
He couldn’t do this after all. Everyone around him could see that he was an imposter who could never be a real atier.
Martim stopped talking. What he was saying didn’t matter anyway.
The sudden, unexpected silence caused Uchi’s secretary to pause in her dutiful note taking. For the first time, Uchi glanced over at him curiously. “Are you done?”
“Yes,” Martim said. “But might I ask, sir, is that a Moray Xi scarf from the 459 series?”
Under his tailored sport coat, Uchi was dressed casually in slacks and a sweater-vest over a collared shirt, but Martim had noticed right away that the items the man was wearing would exceed most wagemen’s paychecks.
The director took off his data visor, a slightly impressed twitch tugging his eyebrows upward.
“There were only a hundred of these ever made from the first group of Angora rabbits successfully produced from the Genebank.”
“I’ve never seen a 459 before,” Martim admitted.
When Uchi decided to give someone his full attention, it was as if X-ray beams turned on behind his sky-gray eyes.
Martim could feel the director’s sudden notice, taking in his pinstripe Andres hybrid cotton suit, his lableather boots polished to a shine, his combed Salmon Clément nuwool overcoat.
Martim certainly didn’t have a Moray Xi 459, but he did have his lucky burgundy scarf from the 483 series, much less rare but the best he could get his hands on.
A small frown deepened the crevices of Uchi’s face.
He was wondering how a twentysomething deckhand could be dressed head to toe in designer clothes made of genuine biomaterials.
Martim wasn’t about to explain that he lived in the lowest-rent place he could find in the cityhab, frequently skipped meals to save scrip, and was an absolute wizard on the secondary luxuries market.
He had accounts on all the usual Companynet buy-and-trade sites and the sketchy offnet ones as well.
He’d once managed to trade two pairs of used Moss Lorento boots for a square meter of real silk smuggled out of the agricultural fibers lab, then spent three weeks finding someone to turn it into the most valuable tie he owned.
“The Moray Xi is becoming so common these days, barely anyone recognizes an original 459,” the director scoffed, his intense scrutiny still on Martim.
“Anyone who pays attention to the signature embroidery would, sir. But you’re right, it seems anyone who wants to own angora wool can do so if they really want to these days.”
“Including newly licensed contractors, apparently.”
Martim risked a smile. “A sign of progress, sir. One day, if we reach our goals, common people will take for granted all the things we think of as luxuries today.”
Uchi looked down at the screen in his hand and actually read Martim’s personnel file. “You failed the licensing exam the first time.”
“I wasn’t very good with the longknife, as you can see from my scores.”
Uchi snorted dismissively. “An overrated skill in atiers. I don’t need another guy with a knife when I already have these two.
” He jerked his thumb back toward the two bodyguards standing silently in the corners of the bus.
One of them was a thick-lipped man with a hat and goatee and a shock baton at his waist. The other was a sturdy woman with a triggersheath strapped to her thigh who could give Isthmus Isako a run for her money when it came to intimidation.
Uchi waved in Martim’s direction. “You don’t need to sit like that, by the way.”
Martim’s spine was aching from maintaining proper posture, but he hesitated, imagining his mentor glaring at him in disapproval. Then he let himself relax into the chair and it was all he could do not to groan out loud in relief.
“What makes you think you could work for me?” Uchi’s voice slowed, and he was still looking at Martim; he was asking for real this time.
Martim’s heart seemed to be beating very loudly, but he felt much calmer.
“Well, for one thing, I’ve never needed much sleep.
” A cheeky answer, perhaps, and not entirely true.
He could get by on six hours a night, but could use seven.
Still, it was another minor connection he could draw with Uchi, who was famously able to function at a high level on four hours of rest per night.
“And I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”
Uchi glanced at Martim’s file again. “You’re obviously a smart kid,” he noted, “but the last two atiers I hired were also brilliant according to their files, and they turned out to be complete disappointments.”
“I won’t be,” Martim promised. “I researched your past atiers and they had impressive track records but weren’t a good fit for SoCon GasPro.”
“Mmm.” A small noise of curiosity and agreement. “Why not?”
“Because their previous experience was a liability. They came from other contracts, working for other directors in other divisions. There’s no other division like SoCon GasPro.
You need someone who’s a blank slate, who won’t try to change what makes this division the most successful, fastest-growing part of the Company.
I’m someone who will do things the SoCon GasPro way— your way—right from the beginning. ”
Uchi put the screen down and leaned forward, sharp elbows on his desk. “And what way do you think that is?”
A droplet of sweat was making its way down the back of Martim’s neck, but he answered without hesitation.
“Unwavering devotion to the vision of the Founders and a culture that thrives on high performance without excuses. Your division is turning humanity’s dream into reality.
One day, when people walk across grassy fields and drink water from flowing rivers, it’ll be because of SoCon GasPro. ”
A zealous gleam came into Uchi’s eyes. “We’ll get there faster than anyone currently believes. Once the groundbreaking field tech we’ve been investing in is fully implemented, the current projections will be far too conservative. We could have breathable atmospheric oxygen in my lifetime.”
“Sir.” One of Uchi’s secretaries stepped up to his side and leaned over to interrupt in a nervous undertone. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. The next candidate is waiting.”
“Send him away.”
The secretary blinked several times. “But, sir, he comes highly recommended by the Agency and he’s traveled all this way. Shouldn’t you at least interview him and review all the—”
Uchi cut her off with a dismissive hand gesture.
“I’m done with the Agency’s recommendations.
Those slick tracmasters just want to sell me on whoever has the highest billing rates.
They probably saved their most expensive product for last in order to convince me he’s the best of the lot.
Get rid of him.” The director turned back to Martim with a welcoming smile that lifted his whole face and made Martim’s heart jump as if it had been shocked.
“Paperwork usually takes a week or two to finalize, but I expect you to be at the next senior staff meeting. Terrasday, oh five hundred. In the meantime, find yourself a new apartment. As close as you can to headquarters.”
Outside, polar wind howled across the Vastness. Inside the claustrophobic confines of the shuttlebus, Martim felt cocooned in warmth and opportunity. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to speak, but the words came out fine. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
An atier who adapted quickly to a new situation and unusual orders, who paid attention to the small but important details, down to the embroidery on a scarf, and who shared the director’s sense of fastidiousness when it came to quality and appearances—that was someone Uchi could uniquely relate to, that he could trust with vital and challenging tasks.
Martim looked around the interior of Uchi’s mobile command station, settling more comfortably into the lableather upholstery and into the awestruck certainty that right here , where he had never been before, was exactly where he belonged.
See? You were made for this.
He’d never felt more sure of anything.