Thirty-One #2
A sour taste crept up Martim’s throat to coat the inside of his mouth.
He’d been hoping, unrealistically, that Kob wouldn’t question the discrepancy, or that if he did, he simply wouldn’t bring it up.
“No, Anders was the division’s subdirector of Analytics.
He was fired for poor performance the morning after the accident, and he… didn’t take it well.”
“You didn’t offer him an exit package?”
“Of course we did.” Martim stifled a grimace, remembering the multiple attempts that had been made to assuage Anders: generous severance terms, an unblemished record, access to the division’s transfer resources.
But apparently, the man’s sudden and humiliating dismissal, on top of all his other recent personal struggles, had torched his common sense and any instinct for self-preservation.
“That miserable asshole thinks he can buy me out?” Anders had railed at Martim on their last call.
What Anders wanted was a personal apology from the director and for Uchi to take public responsibility for all the deaths that occurred in Field 93.
Neither of those things, Martim had tried to explain to him, was going to happen.
“I’ve seen this name,” Kob mused. “A Companynet writer posted an exposé interview about the inner workings of SoCon GasPro and the dysfunctional, toxic culture responsible for what some are calling the Field 93 massacre.”
“It’s personal for him,” Martim muttered. “I can discredit Anders and get the article taken down, but he’s not going to stop. He’s angling to make himself a celebrity over this and become a key witness in the Company hearing.”
Anders had promised as much before hanging up on Martim: “I’ll give up my badge to make sure everyone knows that SoCon GasPro is a terrible division, and that Sandbar Uchi is a murdering son of a bitch who deserves to go to hell.”
Technically, Anders shouldn’t be on the list. Unlike the strikers, he hadn’t committed any crime, so he was entitled to the usual two-year grace period to find another position in the Company.
But the man was a threat—not just to Sandbar Uchi’s reputation, but to his safety as well.
An atier’s most important duty was to protect his client.
We can’t let Anders become a problem. Do whatever you need to do to get him to keep his mouth shut. That’s what Uchi had said. A good atier, Isako had explained to Martim before, didn’t need everything spelled out for them. They understood what needed to be done and did it.
Rain Kob finished reading and handed Martim’s screen back to him without another word.
Martim looked down at Anders’s face—a few years younger, with a fuller head of hair and the small, polite smile of a man looking into the camera for an official HR photo.
Martim swiped the image off his screen. That’s it, then. You just ordered a man killed.
It wasn’t like being a shadowcon, not at all.
Protecting his client was well within policy.
Still… he should feel something , shouldn’t he?
Guilt, indecision, regret, or even the weight of having crossed a threshold that many atiers had to contend with eventually.
But it had been so simple, like delegating any other task.
All he felt was vague, uncomfortable relief.
“You’re sure you don’t need the files?” he asked Kob.
“Nope. You’ll get a contract from the Agency later today.
I’ll start work when the first half of the money comes through.
Double rates, remember. I hope your client’s prepared.
” He stood again and Martim stood with him, once again feeling like a small man for having to tilt his chin up to meet the other atier’s eyes.
Kob gave him another meaty handshake. “Good luck. I’m sure a lot of other atiers envy you, but I don’t. You got a tough contract.”
Martim swallowed, his ire assuaged, oddly touched to be getting sympathy from Strikebreaker, of all people. “Thanks.” Then, in a moment of impulsiveness, “Any words of advice? I need a lot of things to go my way to be offered an Exclusive.”
Kob said, “Is that what you want?”
“Of course,” Martim said, but then he surprised himself by hesitating.
Sandbar Uchi was a young director. After he entered second stage, he’d live for another sixty or seventy years, much longer than his atier would survive—especially given Martim’s current lifestyle of low sleep, high stress, and generous usage of pharmaceutical aids.
Did he want to work like this for Uchi for the rest of his life ? Was that even physically possible?
Things would get easier after he was on an Exclusive—that was the common wisdom among atiers.
The Principal contract was a period of proving oneself, but by the time you entered a lifetime pact, both sides were committed to the partnership.
Like the difference between courting and marriage, said wiser black badges.
Sandbar Uchi, though, had been married and divorced three times. And he’d never offered an Exclusive to a contractor before. He’d extended a previous atier’s Principal contract by two years, but then still dismissed him at the end.
Kob raised his eyebrows as if he could see the distress of Martim’s contemplation spreading across his face.
With a shock of shame, Martim yanked himself back into the present.
He wasn’t in a position to decide about taking an Exclusive contract yet.
He needed to get to that point first. Besides, he had a different and better relationship with the director than any of the previous atiers.
Uchi had said on more than one occasion that he considered Martim to be his protégé, a younger version of himself. That counted for a lot.
“I want to at least have the option,” he decided.
“Fair enough,” Kob said.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Martim ventured, “why did you turn down the Exclusives you were offered?”
“Like you said, I’m the best.” Kob smiled, the same way he had at the start of the meeting, but with a glimmer of humor in his shrewd coffee-brown eyes, as if he were making fun of himself.
“No one person should own the reaper.” When Martim had no reply to that, Kob chuckled and said, “This your first time doing this, isn’t it?
Getting your hands dirty so your client stays clean.
After a while, cleaning up after the same person over and over again makes you hate them, deep down.
I’ve seen plenty of messes, but I don’t hate anyone.
I am going to take a break after this, though. ”
Strikebreaker walked past him, then paused and spoke over his shoulder. “As for advice, I’d say keep practicing those longknife skills Isako taught you. Your client might not need more protection—but you will.”