Twenty-Nine #3
Martim bit his tongue. Uchi could be like this sometimes: He’d reach a point where he was unwilling to engage further in an unpleasant issue and would pivot hard to some other topic he could better control.
It made Martim’s job more difficult. He was bound by the Code to serve his client’s best interests; he didn’t have the luxury of delaying or ignoring anything that might be a threat.
If he failed to save Uchi’s career, his own would be over.
“We still have a division to run, gas to produce, a planet to warm,” the director reminded all of them briskly. “Field 93 was one of our most productive. Jag, any idea how long it’ll take for it to be operational again?”
Orca Jagmeet, the subdirector of Field Operations, threw up his hands.
“If we were restarting from a simple field shutdown, that would be one thing, but we’re dealing with an unprecedented situation.
There’s going to be a host of external Company people involved.
I’m guessing at least a week before the facility is cleared out and life support is fully up and running again.
But who knows how long it’ll take for incident investigators to do their documentation, and for the safety folks to run all the tests they’re going to want to do before allowing workers back inside. ”
“Give me a date, Jag,” Uchi said. “Take your best guess.”
Jag grumbled, but the director wasn’t someone who could be mollified with vague answers. Martim had seen him cut people up with questions so badly that they left the meeting in tears. “The beginning of 52-week,” said Jag. “At the earliest.”
Twenty days away. Uchi pressed his thin lips together unhappily. “How much can we increase output from elsewhere to compensate? What’s the current status on the upgrades to Field 20?”
“They’re done; we should be fully operational by tomorrow afternoon,” Jag said.
The director smacked a fist into his palm.
“Thank the Mother there’s one piece of good news today.
” Field 20 boasted the newest TG6 fluorocarbon mixers that could increase the production of vital greenhouse gases by twenty to thirty percent.
Uchi had been investing in development of the technology for years, and if all went well at the six trial facilities, including Field 20, upgrades would be rolled out across all of the Company’s gas production divisions.
“Unfortunately, there’s other bad news.” Jagmeet scrolled through spreadsheets on his screen.
Judging by the dark stubble on his chin and the bags under his eyes, the subdirector was operating on even less sleep than Martim.
“I had my quants run the numbers based on how much additional production we can achieve by operating above capacity for the rest of the quarter, but with the strike disruption in 93 and now this …” He shook his head regretfully.
“Even with the TG6 trial installments, the most optimistic scenario still has us falling ten percent short of target.”
“You’re saying we’re likely to miss our goals not only this quarter, but possibly the whole year.
We’re at risk of experiencing the first decline in total output since I became director of the division twenty-three years ago.
” Uchi let the pronouncement hang over the table like the damning sentence of a trial judge.
The meeting had begun with shock and grief over the lives lost in the disaster at Field 93, but now it felt almost like a normal quarterly review meeting, with the threat of Uchi’s disappointment and his laser-like scrutiny of the numbers keeping everyone on edge.
“Anders,” the director barked, “how is this going to impact hydrocarbon cost per kilo across the Company?”
Elm Anders, the division’s subdirector of Analytics, jerked upright at the sound of his name and began tapping urgently on his screen.
“Just a minute,” he said nervously, as the seconds dragged on with everyone waiting.
“I… um, believe our models suggest we’re looking at an increase next quarter of 6.
8 percent to 12.52 scripbits per kilowatt-hour. ”
Uchi crumpled the wrapper of his nutrition bar, frowning as he digested this information.
“That’s what you told me during the staff meeting last Terrasday, before the TG6 upgrades to Field 20 were completed and certainly before Field 93 went to shit in the worst possible way.
How’s it possible the numbers haven’t changed since then? ”
Martim was sitting at the other end of the table from Anders, but in the heartbeat of utter silence from everyone else, he could hear the sound of the man’s dry swallow. “I haven’t had a chance to update the model with new information yet, sir.”
Everyone else around the table became suddenly engrossed in studying their own screens.
The squirmy, hollow feeling in Martim’s stomach returned as he watched his client’s brows come together over an unnerving stare.
“You haven’t updated the model yet,” Uchi intoned in astonishment, as if Anders had publicly admitted to being a virgin.
“Anders, you work in the most important division in the Company. The city depends on us. Civilization depends on us. We’re in a fucking crisis.
People are dead. And you’re telling me that you haven’t done any work since last week? ”
As the director’s voice rose, Anders seemed to shrink into his seat. “No, I… I have been doing work,” the man protested. “It’s just that I was training the new intern and then I had two personal days scheduled…”
Watching Anders try to defend himself made Martim feel vaguely ill.
He thought about trying to say something to distract his client; instead, he kept his mouth shut and his face devoid of expression.
There were times when Uchi could be talked down.
Martim knew, intuitively, that this wasn’t one of those instances.
Weeks of stress from the standoff in Field 93 had just culminated in catastrophe, and Anders was making himself into an example of incompetence at the wrong time.
“Look around,” Uchi blurted, sweeping a hand across the table in indication.
“Does it look like I keep low performers? Your colleagues came prepared this morning because they know how important it is to have accurate information when we’re making life-or-death decisions that affect the whole Company.
There’s only room for A players in this room. ”
“I’m sorry,” Anders said, visibly sweating. “I didn’t think we’d need new numbers so soon.”
“What happened to you, Anders? You’re letting down the team.” Uchi’s nostrils flared with scorn. “And you’ve gotten fat.”
Martim tried not to wince. He’d made an effort to meet and learn about as many of the key people in the division as he could, so he’d heard the gossip that Anders had recently been through a difficult divorce and was struggling with depression.
Anders seemed to realize, with an abrupt wisdom he should’ve displayed earlier, that groveling and making excuses was only worsening his position.
He schooled his mortified expression and made a valiant effort to meet the director’s gaze.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re right, I should’ve prioritized the financial model. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Like hell you will. Clear out your desk and get out of my division.”
Anders’s face went rigid with shock. “No, please,” he pleaded.
“I need this job. Give me another chance.” His bulging eyes darted desperately around the table, hoping for support, but no one else would look at him.
Fox Wilson, who’d so easily stood up to the director minutes before, merely shook his head regretfully.
The prickly analytics man wasn’t well liked or respected enough for anyone to stick their neck out for him.
Anders flushed and spun on Uchi. “You can’t do this to me!”
Uchi made a motion over his shoulder to his two bodyguards.
Rocco and Thea strode over to Anders, seized him by the arms, and hauled him to his feet.
The man tried embarrassingly to struggle out of their grip, but he was only a desk jockey, no match for the two large, trained security professionals.
Rocco twisted an arm behind the wageman’s back and frog-marched him toward the exit.
“Fuck you, you heartless bastard,” Anders shouted over his shoulder at Uchi, squirming in pain.
“You’re going down! You dropped the airshield and killed all those people.
Just you wait, I’m going to go the press, I’m going to tell them everything! ”
Anders’s tirade and final string of angry expletives cut out as Rocco and Thea removed him from the room and the heavy doors shut behind them, leaving a discomfited silence.
“What a disturbed man,” Uchi declared. “I’m sorry you all had to see that.
Martim, find a replacement for Anders by the end of the day and see to it that they get to work updating the financial model.
Get that name to Yong so the promotion announcement can go out tomorrow. ”
A year ago, Martim would’ve felt panicked if abruptly dumped with the task of replacing Anders on such short notice, but fortunately, he knew by now who to elevate into the vacant position.
What had happened to Anders wasn’t as sudden or shocking as it had seemed.
There had been early signs, clear forewarnings to anyone who bothered to pay attention.
The first time Anders had been late to a meeting and earned a disapproving scowl from Uchi, Martim had made a mental note to himself to find out who else worked in Analytics, who might be more competent and acceptable to his client.
Inside, his gut was still roiling, but his voice came out unperturbed.
“No need to wait. Ivy Lim would be the best choice.” Lim was relatively new to the division, but she’d taken over much of Anders’s work during the numerous days he’d taken off.
Several nods of agreement came from around the room.
“Great. Perfect.” Uchi turned to the other side of the table. “Sera, what’s the plan for the next twenty-six hours?”
Oak Sera, the subdirector of Communications, was considerably better prepared to answer Uchi’s questions and soon had the director nodding along as she laid out the strategy for how they were going to deal with the Companynet press, other divisions, the Board, and the Sweetsea.
Martim struggled to stay focused on the conversation.
The chemically induced hyperawareness that had swept him into the room was starting to fade; he could feel the razor-sharp edges of his mind dulling.
He kept thinking of the fear and hate in Elm Anders’s reddened face, the look of betrayal at how quickly and easily he’d been discarded.
Maybe another division would give him a chance, but if not, he’d soon be joining the ranks of freelancers out there, barely scraping by in the cold.
“You’re the best Comms SD on the planet, Sera,” Uchi said, with a matter-of-factness that was better than any flattery. Sera flicked a dismissive hand to suggest she already knew it was true; she was tapping her screen at lightning speed, making adjustments to her plan.
Uchi said, “It’s already been a long night, and it’s going to be an even longer day and week.
” Grim nods of agreement. The sky was just beginning to lighten beyond the boardroom windows—pitch black crawling slowly toward slate gray.
Martim could barely believe that the sun had not even risen yet; it felt as if an entire day had already passed since he’d dragged himself from those precious few hours in bed.
The director stood, leaning his weight on the table, commanding complete attention as usual with his size and intensity.
“Even in this awful time, I’m no less confident in the future and in our ability to achieve our vision—because I have the best damn team in the Company.
We’re in shock and mourning, yes, but we’ll do exactly as our ancestors did when faced with a seemingly hopeless situation—we’ll endure and we’ll move forward.
Now, fuck Earth, let’s get back to work, everyone. ”
The meeting broke up with mutters as agreement and relief as chairs scraped back and people departed hurriedly to their own pressing tasks.
Martim remained seated for a minute longer, making a note of the exact words Uchi had just used, so he could later incorporate them into the director’s public statement.
When everyone else had left the room, leaving only Martim and his client, Uchi ran a hand through his hair and kicked his chair back from the table. “All right, Martim,” the director said. “I can tell you’re pissed off. Let’s go into my office and you can give me hell.”