Thirty #2
“You’re awfully young, Martim, to be so cynical,” Uchi said, with a wry smile. “But you’re absolutely right. We can’t let Anders become a problem. Short of offering him another job, do whatever you need to do to get him to keep his mouth shut.”
Martim nodded, satisfied. A generous severance package tied to an ironclad nondisclosure agreement could go a long way toward buying a man’s cooperation.
Also, if he promised Anders that his personnel file would reflect a voluntary transfer rather than a termination, that would improve the man’s chances of finding another position in the Company.
That was sure to appeal to someone who would otherwise be looking at the perils of freelance life.
Martim shrugged out of his jacket; he was getting too warm.
Until coming to SoCon GasPro, he’d lived his whole life in low-ration parts of the cityhab; he still wasn’t entirely used to the abundance of heating here, the possibility of overdressing in winter.
“Should we talk about how all this might affect your nomination to the Board of Directors?”
The director scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “I might be fucked.”
“Not necessarily,” Martim said. “It all depends on how this plays out. If the Company investigation concludes that you did nothing wrong and that the Field 93 tragedy was solely caused by the reckless actions of the strikers—”
“Which is true ,” Uchi cut in emphatically.
“—then there’s no reason for the Board to delay your nomination. This past quarter notwithstanding, SoCon GasPro has been the fastest-growing division for the past eight years. Everyone sees you as the new face of the terraformist cause. You’re the obvious leading candidate for the Board.”
Martim couldn’t keep the optimism out of his voice.
Imagine. He could be the youngest atier ever to serve a member of the Board of Directors.
He would accompany his client to the assembly chamber of the Bridge and the Sweetsea palace; he would move in the most elite circles of leadership, privy to the highest-level decisions in the Company that affected all of human civilization on Aquilo.
He wondered what they’d call him, in the Agency. The Kid, probably. The Prodigy. The Dapper Man.
Martim yanked himself forcefully out of the daydream.
All of it hinged on his client weathering this calamity and coming out of it in a stronger position.
And on him, Martim, successfully fulfilling the remaining time in his Principal contract and being valuable enough to Uchi to be offered an Exclusive.
“You’re a hero, sir, for all that you’ve already done for the Company, and for managing this crisis as well as anyone possibly could, with every effort made to save innocent lives.
We just need to make sure that everyone else, especially the members of the Board, understands that. ”
Uchi regarded his atier with an indulgent smile.
“You’re the brightest young man I’ve ever met, Martim, besides myself.
But you’re still naive when it comes to certain things.
The Board of Directors isn’t the meritocracy they’d like everyone to think it is.
It’s an exclusive little club with its own unspoken rules and petty dramas.
In their eyes, I’m at least a decade too young.
They won’t even consider a candidate before they’ve recorporalized. ”
It boggled Martim’s mind, to think that Uchi, who was sixty-nine years old, was a mere stripling next to the council of second stagers who held real power in the Company.
Most directors who could afford to recorporalize did so in their mid- to late seventies, before physical and mental decline began to jeopardize their odds of making it through the Process successfully.
But Sandbar Uchi kept himself in excellent physical condition; he could easily inhabit his original body for another decade.
Even with all the advances in synthtechnology, someone in good health wouldn’t give up the simple pleasures of organic life—eating, sleeping, sex, exercise—before they had to.
“Seems awfully shortsighted of the Board,” Martim muttered.
“Are you familiar with Stoicism?”
“Not really,” Martim replied, unsure where his client was going with the apparent non sequitur. “Is it one of the old faiths?” Martim’s kithmother Leanne had been Catholic, but he’d never bothered to learn much about the lesser-known religions.
“I suppose you could call it that,” Uchi mused.
“It’s a philosophy that dates to an ancient era of Earth.
When victorious Roman commanders led a triumph, they were accompanied by an aide who whispered in their ear, ‘Remember, you will die.’ So at the height of their glory and achievement, they would remain humbled by mortality. ”
Martim glanced over at the director’s desk—made of a single piece of fine mahogany labwood that must’ve taken many years to culture.
Above it hung a long painting, commissioned from one of the best Company artists in the Arts visitors to Uchi’s office were often taken aback by the morbid artwork.
Other directors made their personal offices pleasant with indoor plants and images of Earthly wonders. Uchi gazed upon the Vastness every day. Whenever he was questioned about it, he would smile and say, “I like to keep my enemies close.”
Uchi saw where his atier’s eyes wandered and nodded approvingly. “Memento mori. Recorporalization and second-stage life—it’s just a delay tactic. A prolonging of the inevitable. Not a permanent solution.”
Most people, Martim thought, did not have the ability to delay at all. No one in his kith had ever lived past seventy, as far as he could remember. The life expectancy for a field worker beyond the airshield was fifty-six.
With a thoughtful look in his gray eyes, Director Uchi said, “In the words of the Greek Stoic philosopher Epictetus, ‘Some things in the world are up to us, while others are not. Up to us are our faculties of judgment, motivation, desire, and aversion. In short, whatever is our own doing.’” He brought his gaze back to Martim.
“I’m not in any rush to go through the Process.
If the nominating committee chooses to put my name forth as a candidate…
” He shrugged and opened his hands magnanimously to suggest that he would, of course, be pleased to accept the invitation onto the highest governing body of the Company.
“But I don’t control that. It’s not only my age or being in first stage that would be an obstacle.
I know our opponents will hold tonight’s tragedy against me.
Some of them are on the Board, or have influence on the Board.
If I’m forced to wait, well… there’s still plenty for me to get done in gas production. ”
Martim wasn’t sure what to say. Willingness to be patient and accepting of present circumstances?
That wasn’t the client he was accustomed to.
Sandbar Uchi was literally changing the world on a grand scale, at a pace no one could’ve predicted a generation ago.
If there was ever anyone who could—who should —rise to the Board earlier than usual, it was him.
Besides, Uchi could bide his time for another decade or so, but Martim couldn’t.
He had fourteen months left to make the case for why he deserved an Exclusive contract.
“The terraformists would unanimously support your nomination,” Martim insisted.
“Think about all the recent attention being paid to the proposals of ambitious reunionists like Forest Greves. I’m sure Tide Sullivan and his allies would advocate for you to be brought onto the Board to strengthen the little-E bloc. ”
“Maybe.” Uchi sounded oddly unconvinced, considering that he and Sullivan were steadfast allies.
Martim stood back up. A pallid winter dawn was breaking over Tenacity; he had to get to work.
“Obviously, it’s your personal choice when to recorporalize, sir, and if the Board uses that as an excuse to withhold your nomination, well, they’re idiots, pure and simple.
” He crossed his arms. “But we can still fight like hell to give you the best chance.”
Uchi kicked his long legs up on the coffee table.
“The Agency was shocked when I hired you, did you know that? My last two atiers were far more experienced. They used to bury me in data and presentations, try to suggest improvements and create processes. They were boring . Smart, but boring yes-men.” The director regarded Martim with paternal fondness.
“But you get it, Martim. You’re like me, you’re pushy . ”
“I’m not sure I deserve the flattery, sir.
” But he found himself warming at the comparison.
His client saw something in him that had been lacking in his previous atiers, the ones he’d kicked to the curb.
“Not yet, in any case. Maybe after we get through this Field 93 mess and get you that Board seat.”
An urgent call came in for Uchi and he grumbled, “So it begins.” He slipped the slim blue data visor over his eyes and began tapping through menus. “It’s going to be a long day. I’ll see you later. Let’s reconvene with HR, IR, and Comms at nineteen hundred.”
Martim left his client’s office and went down the hall to his own—much smaller, but nicely appointed with brushed steel and cherry labwood furniture.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a southern view of the cityhab, the faint arc of airshield distortion curved over the blocky buildings of the industrial districts and the snaking rail lines coming in and out of the tram yards.
Martim stood by the window and closed his eyes for a moment.
The comedown from the boosters was hitting him faster than expected—his head felt heavy on his neck, and there was an unpleasant, restless sensation in his hands and legs that made him want to twitch and shake.
He shot a dose of sleepstim up each nostril, then sat down and began going through his long list of tasks for the day ahead.
Hello, Martim. You haven’t accessed the Employee Mental Health Application in ninety-two days, but I’m here for you if you’d like to talk about anything. Taking just a few minutes a day to focus on your mental health can pay dividends!
He dismissed the notification with an annoyed flick of his fingers, making a mental note to himself that he still needed to figure out how to delete that program.
The fast-acting sleepstim was clearing his head and his hands were steady again.
A lot of people were dead, but he felt surprisingly calm.
A good atier remained in control, even when things around him were out of control.
He didn’t merely stand behind his client; he scouted ahead.
Martim’s mentor used to say wise things like that all the time, but back then, he hadn’t really understood or appreciated their meaning.
An even more valuable thing Isako had passed on to him was a connection to the best subcon in the business. Martim made sure all his electronic security measures were in place before placing his first call.
“I saw the news.” Crater paused. “Figured you might be calling.”
“There’s going to be a hearing,” Martim said. “I’ve got an electronic sanitation job for you.”