Thirty-Two #2
“What if she chooses to go off life support and we file her decision as a formal resignation?”
“She’d be eligible for a one-time resignation bonus of three times her annual wage to be paid out to beneficiaries, a nameplace, and”—he forced more saliva into his throat—“a posthumous client service commendation.”
An extra bonus and her name on a plaque in Agency headquarters, listed among the laudable contractors who’d died serving their clients.
Thea’s throat moved soundlessly. She stared up at them with wet, desperately pleading eyes. Martim couldn’t tell if she was begging to live or to die. Either way, he thought, it would’ve been better to leave her unconscious.
Director Uchi bent all the way over so his nose nearly touched the transparent surface of the medical unit.
Martim imagined that all Thea could see in that moment was her client’s face and the large frame of his shoulders filling the entirety of her vision, like a descending god in her moment of greatest need.
“There’s another option.” Uchi’s words were firm with the certainty he possessed whenever he was poised to point out a key piece of information or a possible course of action that his subordinates had overlooked.
“The synthbody I commissioned for Madison is a top-of-the-line 8G, just like mine, the most advanced model ever built. I still have it. I can recorporalize you, Thea. I can give you a new body, a young and beautiful one that’ll never get sick or age.
You’d keep working for me, of course; even though you’re not an atier, if anyone’s earned a lifelong contract, it’s you. ”
Martim’s mouth dropped open in speechless astonishment.
Even the doctor looked flabbergasted. Synthbodies were custom-built and meant for one person.
There was a long waiting list for them, and they took years to design and manufacture.
Only the most important people in the Company entered second stage, so they could continue to guide society for as long as their minds were still sharp.
Sandbar Uchi was already known for his bold and controversial choices, but no one had ever heard of a director offering a synthbody to a subordinate, a mere contractor at that.
Then again, no one except Sandbar Uchi would have an extra synthbody lying around.
“It’s your choice,” the director reminded her.
“Not everyone’s willing to enter second stage.
There’s no guarantee you’ll survive the Process.
If you do, it’ll be a difficult adjustment, one that most people have more time to prepare for.
You’re strong enough to do it, but you have to choose quickly.
You saved my life, Thea. Let me save yours. Blink three times if you agree.”
Tears gathered and rolled out the corners of Thea’s eyes. She blinked them rapidly in assent.
The director straightened up briskly. “Martim, draw up the terms of Thea’s new contract.”
“Sir, the rules around synthtech are unclear about—”
“Fuck the rules, we’re talking about a life here. Push it through the legal department and the Agency and have it ratified within twenty-six hours.” To the doctor he said, “Have her airlifted to the Elite Renewal synthtech clinic immediately at my expense.”
Director Uchi placed a flat hand on the surface of the medical capsule, as if he wanted to give his bodyguard a high five for taking on the challenge ahead. He looked energized, as he often did after a productive discussion or an important decision. “See you on the other side.”
He turned and strode for the door, motioning for his atier to follow.
Martim fell into step beside his client.
His mind was spinning wildly, still trying to process everything that had happened, even as he began compiling a list of all the things he had to do: Obtain Thea’s existing contract from division HR.
Contact the Partners at the Agency. Call an urgent meeting with the Policy Compliance team.
Set up security around Elite Renewal. Notify Rocco’s CTH of his death.
Cancel all his own meetings for the day.
“That was incredibly generous of you, sir,” he said.
“Was it?” The director seemed surprised by Martim’s statement.
“What else am I going to do with Madison’s synthbody?
Saving Thea’s life is the best use of it by far.
Plus, I won’t have to go through the cost and hassle of replacing a bodyguard.
Generosity is giving something away without expecting anything in return, but I’ll get back a lot more than I would have otherwise. ”
“Of course,” Martim agreed quickly, “but it’s also the sort of thing that could make for good press, at a time when we could really use it. The Company and the public could stand to be reminded that SoCon GasPro is the sort of place that takes care of its own.”
Despite Uchi’s official exoneration, months of negative coverage of the Field 93 disaster and the resulting Company investigation had damaged Uchi’s standing and that of the division as a whole. It wasn’t a good position for him to be in, not when a potential Board nomination was at stake.
“Maybe some people will see it that way,” Uchi said, “but I’m not doing this for the press or the publicity.
Other second stagers are going to shit the bed when they find out I allowed a contractor to be recorped.
” Uchi snorted his contempt for the opinions of his ossified peers.
“As far as I’m concerned, they can take their sanctimonious indignation and fuck right off.
Did you know that Madison tried to sue me for possession?
As if she’d contributed a single scripbit to Elite Renewal’s development of the 8G model.
I’d much rather see it go to Thea than my bitchy ex-wife. ”
Since Fern Madison’s synthbody was the property of Sandbar Uchi, if Thea survived recorporalization, she would be tied to her client for the rest of her life.
But as Uchi had said, wasn’t that what an Exclusive contract was anyway?
He was simply rewarding Thea with the same promise of lifelong employment that many atiers hoped to receive.
Martim slowed and nearly came to a stop. No… Thea’s situation felt disturbingly different. Maybe because midtier and general contractors didn’t sign Exclusives. Or maybe because it was one thing to choose to serve, and another to not own the body you occupied.
Martim gave his head a hard shake and picked up his steps. As they reached the hospital lobby, he said, “Without Rocco and Thea, we need to change your security coverage, sir. The terrorists could come after you again.”
“Let the motherfuckers try,” Uchi burst out, loudly enough for heads to turn.
Martim flinched at his client’s defiant temptation of fate. He resisted the urge to make the sign of the cross, or at least to grab the director by the arm and urge him to keep his voice down. Uchi had been the target of mentally ill stalkers before, but this was on another level.
“We have to take the threat seriously, sir,” he insisted.
“These people have explosives, maybe even firearms. And they’re organized.
” Martim wouldn’t be in the least surprised if United Freelancers was involved in the bombing.
The extremist group had been gleefully politicizing the Field 93 tragedy as part of their anti-Company agenda.
“They’re a stain on society. I’ve seen the anonymous posts by that nutjob who’s claiming to be a survivor of Field 93. What a crock of bullshit. Wasn’t it confirmed that there were no survivors?”
Martim fidgeted with his sleeve cuffs. “Dangerous people are capable of making up any fiction that serves their agenda, sir. Until Thea recovers—if she does—I’ll need to be in charge of your personal security.”
He hoped he didn’t sound reluctant. Suddenly, the triggersheath on his thigh felt like a dangerous weight, one he’d stopped noticing. Isako would disapprove of how much he’d fallen out of the habit of practicing with the longknife.
“That’s not your skillset, Martim,” Uchi said. “No offense, but I wouldn’t trust you to aim the business end of a weapon. Rocco and Thea had contingency plans ready to go in case of a situation like this. There’s a backup security detail waiting for me outside.”
Martim winced at the director’s blunt assessment but felt his shoulders coming down with relief.
“Besides, I can’t have you wasting time on that when I need you to be focused on other things. Something strange is going on with the Board of Directors.”
“Sir?”
“Sullivan used to keep me in the loop about anything significant being discussed or voted on or brought before the Executive,” Uchi grumbled.
“He said my name was being regularly mentioned as the next nominee. But lately, things have changed. Sully takes too long to return my calls. When the topic of the Board’s activities comes up, he’s evasive. ”
Tide Sullivan had been Uchi’s senior colleague and greatest supporter back when Uchi had first taken the reins of SoCon GasPro, and he was still Uchi’s staunchest advocate.
Together, Uchi and Sullivan presented a united and unassailable terraformist front.
Behind the scenes, though, with NorCon and SoCon vying for gas production supremacy, things were more complicated.
Notably, Sullivan hadn’t made any significant effort to back his old ally during the Company investigation, no doubt so he could distance himself from Uchi if things went badly.
“It’s probably the Field 93 situation, sir,” Martim said. “Even steadfast terraformists were reluctant to appear too favorably biased toward you during the Company investigation and hearing. They’re waiting for the attention to fade away.”
“Maybe,” Uchi conceded with an unconvinced scowl, “but I don’t think it’s that simple.
Call it a feeling I have. Something else is going on, and I’m being shut out.
” The director’s voice sharpened with vexation; he hated it when people he counted on were unreliable, when they failed to follow through on their commitments to him.
It hadn’t been long ago that Uchi was ruminating on Stoicism and accepting what he couldn’t control.
But that was before the high-profile investigation, before his allies began to give him the cold shoulder, before tonight’s bombing.
It had been easier for the director to claim he didn’t need or want his due, back when others weren’t seemingly trying to deny it to him.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Martim promised.
“Do that.” Uchi paced ahead, then abruptly turned and came back to Martim.
He dropped his hands onto the younger man’s shoulders.
Warmth radiated from the weight of the director’s firm grip, all the way down Martim’s back.
“I’m glad you weren’t there tonight. I didn’t want to lose Rocco or Thea, of course, but bodyguards are easily replaceable. You’re not.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“And I’m grateful for that, Martim. I can’t tell you how much.” The director let go and strode out of the hospital doors to the waiting security team and a vehicle that would whisk him away to deal with other priorities.
Martim waited until his client’s car was gone before he summoned one for himself. Alone in the vehicle, he dug a sleepstim dispenser from his coat pocket. The nervous excitement tingling through his hands made them shake.
Yes, the Field 93 tragedy had been a terrible thing.
So had the bombing; it had killed Rocco and might still kill Thea, if the director’s mad scheme to recorporalize her didn’t work.
But crisis also spelled opportunity. Just as it brought out the most decisive and determined side of Sandbar Uchi, it was offering Martim every chance to prove himself invaluable, to showcase how he was as different from other contractors as Uchi was from the average director.
He’d gone the extra mile when handling the Field 93 situation; that’s why he was the first person his client summoned in an emergency and why Uchi was trusting him with difficult tasks.
A half dose relaxed him, brought clarity and focus, made the shocking events of the night and the looming obstacles of the day seem perfectly manageable. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, savoring what would be his last moment of calm for a while.