Thirty-One
THIRTY-ONE
Fifteen months ago
It wasn’t exactly difficult to reach Rain Kob, but you had to be able to afford it.
Strikebreaker charged an initial consultation fee designed to weed out anyone who wasn’t important and well funded enough to offer him a serious contract.
Martim could understand that. Even though Kob famously refused to go on an Exclusive, he needed financial security the same as any longknivesman, and with his track record, he could be choosy about his clients.
Money wasn’t an obstacle for SoCon GasPro, but Martim was still nervous to be meeting with an Agency legend.
“So you’re one of Isa’s apprentices,” the man said, engulfing Martim’s hand with one of his own.
Physically, he was every bit as intimidating as Martim had imagined—standing a head and a half taller than most men, with broad shoulders and thick, muscled limbs.
The longknife strapped to his thigh was the maximum length of forty-eight centimeters, but it looked like a dagger on a frame that Martim imagined easily hefting a halberd in some bygone era of old Earth.
His voice was unexpectedly smooth, his smile open and amiable.
“You know Isako?” Martim felt foolish as soon as the question left his mouth. Rain Kob and Isthmus Isako were of a similar age and were two of the Agency’s most elite atiers. They had both famously fought in the Transit Rebellion. Of course they knew each other.
“Sure do. Haven’t seen or heard from her lately, though.
I imagine she’s got her hands full with the war.
” Kob made himself comfortable in one of the lounge’s black armchairs.
The Blackout was an Agency-run hangout, a secure place for contractors to talk and make deals.
In the middle of a frigid Sunday afternoon, it was almost empty, save for a few people taking calls or working in booths, two waistcoated servers (a young contractor trainee and a limping old Agency staffer), and the attendant at the doors.
Martim hesitated before seating himself.
Next to Strikebreaker, he was merely a junior atier, but he was also the representative of one of the Company’s most powerful directors.
The two men didn’t know each other personally, but they had a common connection, and Kob was acting friendly and had seated himself casually.
Deciding nevertheless to err on the side of politeness, Martim pulled up a stool and sat zanshin.
After all, Kob would expect one of Isthmus Isako’s apprentices to be well trained.
To Martim’s disappointment, Kob didn’t say No need for that or wave him into one of the cushioned chairs. All he did was order himself a glass of brandy and regard Martim with cool expectation.
“Let me say, first of all, that it’s an honor to meet you,” Martim said.
Kob shrugged but did not smile at the flattery. “I’m just another black badge, like you.”
Martim doubted that. “Have you been following the news about the Field 93 incident?”
Kob swirled his brandy. “It’s just about impossible not to.”
He had a good point. Coverage of the tragedy had eclipsed all other Company news for the past month, including the latest species reintro and the ongoing war between SatOps and Astrocom.
Much of the messaging was driven by SoCon GasPro IR and Communications—by now everyone under the airshield knew the names of the “Thirty-One Strong” wagemen who’d lost their lives, but Uchi’s strident enemies persisted in connecting him to the final death toll of one hundred and twenty-nine souls.
People loved to watch the rise of a superstar.
They thrilled even more to watch them fall.
Even Martim’s kithmother, Leanne, who never paid all that much attention to current events, knew that an official Company hearing was being convened to investigate the incident and that Martim’s client would be in the hot seat.
“There’s a lot of bad news coming out of there,” Leanne had said to him worriedly when he’d called to reassure her that he was perfectly fine, that no, he hadn’t been anywhere near Field 93, which was over five hundred kilometers away.
“You should get a new contract as soon as you can, go work somewhere else,” she urged him.
Leanne had no real idea how atier contracts worked; she thought all black badges were the same, going from job to job at the behest of the Agency like gencons.
She didn’t understand that atiers were a different breed.
Martim would share his client’s fate, no matter if it led to the highest reaches of the Company or to utter ruin.
He didn’t feel like explaining all that to his kithmother; she had enough to worry about as it was.
Kob sipped his brandy and continued looking at him expectantly.
Martim cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure how these sorts of conversations were supposed to go.
“Most of the obstructionists responsible for the Field 93 strike died in the resulting accident, but not all of them. Apparently, a small group got through the blockade and left to raid a nearby research station for water, food, and supplies before the airshield came down. There’s been no sign of these survivors, but I’ve received reliable reports that they returned to Tenacity and are hidden among the freelancing population.
” He paused. Straight to the point, then.
“They’re a threat and a liability to my client. ”
Kob shook his head. “I’m no shadowcon.”
Martim blinked, taken aback by the suggestion.
“This isn’t shadowcon work,” he insisted.
“We’re talking about badgeless individuals who participated in a violent uprising that killed over a hundred people, including thirty-one members of SoCon GasPro.
They’re criminal trespassers subject to eviction.
I was told you’re an expert at dealing with this sort of thing. ”
A scowl flashed across Kob’s face. “Same type of work, semantics aside. I’m not interested.
I took this meeting because I thought you might be looking for assistance getting your client onto the Board.
And because Isthmus Isako’s good people.
There are other longknivesmen who can do what you’re asking. ”
Kob finished the brandy in his glass, stood up, and began to walk away.
Martim sat speechless for a second, then he rose to his feet as well.
He was surprised by the anger he felt. Was it because he’d admired Kob from afar for years that he felt such disappointment at being brushed off?
The man was right after all. Strikebreaker was just like any other contractor.
Martim raised his voice. “We’ll go fifty percent above your going rate.
You won’t need to take another job for the rest of the year.
” Kob paused, mid-step. Martim went on, “It doesn’t matter if there are others who can do the work.
SoCon GasPro only hires the best. And that’s you .
You won’t find another client who can pay as well as mine. ”
Kob turned around and tilted his chin down at Martim with narrowed eyes.
At the risk of seeming desperate, Martim walked right up to him and lowered his voice.
“I’m on a Principal contract, and you’re right—I do need help getting my client onto the Board.
The Field 93 disaster could torpedo his nomination, if the fallout’s not handled well.
Freelancers have nothing to lose; they’re capable of anything.
Especially these ones. The director’s received dozens of death threats. ”
Kob regarded the younger atier with a thoughtful frown that suggested deep reluctance.
“If I could handle it myself, I would, but I can’t.
” Martim didn’t think Strikebreaker would be the sort to be moved by pity for a new atier, but then again, he hadn’t expected him to be squeamish about DTE either.
“I don’t know if Isako ever told you this, but I was paired with her as a mentor because my longknife skills were…
subpar. She helped me to pass the licensing exam, but this sort of work is out of my league.
I lucked into my Principal contract, but my client isn’t forgiving of failure.
My chances of an Exclusive are riding on this. ”
For a long moment, based on the man’s wearily ambivalent expression, he expected Kob would shrug, point out that none of this was his problem— wake up, kid, that’s just the edge life, live with it or don’t —and resume walking away.
Instead, Kob grumbled, “Double rates. Half up front, the other half upon completion of the contract.”
Martim nearly choked at the cost, but said, “Agreed.”
Kob returned to the armchair and sat back down. “How many targets?”
“Seven.”
“Do you have names?”
“Yes.” It had taken time and effort to cross-reference the list of all the known strikers—using personnel files and security footage from Field 93 and the looted research station—against the identified dead to come up with the list of missing persons.
As for their current whereabouts and activities, he had only hearsay and anecdotal information from Vincent, his man on the street, whose nuggets of rumor Martim could only hope were half as good as his pharmaceutical goods.
Rain Kob, presumably, would have better methods of tracking down targets. Martim unfolded his screen and readied a data transfer. “I have the files right here.”
“Don’t give me the files.” Kob held his hand out for Martim’s screen. “Just let me take a look.”
Martim passed the screen over and sat back down to wait in nervous silence as the older atier studied the names and photos and read the accompanying available information. It was hard not to slouch or fidget on the hard stool; Martim had grown spoiled by his client’s indifference toward protocol.
“There were only six survivors.” Kob tapped a finger on the seventh and last photograph. “Elm Anders wasn’t a gas field worker. He wasn’t even at the site of the incident.”