Thirty-Three #2
Martim went into the bathroom and dug in the bottom drawer for what he thought of as his emergency cache.
Abusing over-the-counter pharmaceuticals was hardly uncommon among contractors, but possessing and using illicit substances was strictly against Company policy.
In Martim’s opinion, the distinction existed primarily to curb the black market and the circulation of offscrip.
Some clients might overlook the occasional violation, but considering the strict standards to which Sandbar Uchi held himself and by extension his entire division, Martim was sure he’d be out on his ass faster than Elm Anders.
With drug violations on his permanent file, his chances of landing another Principal contract would be zilch.
But if he wasn’t able to get some sleep and function at the level Uchi expected, he’d lose his job and his sanity anyway, and not necessarily in that order. So really, it was the same as far as risk was concerned.
One dose of bliss was better than a triple dose of inhaled sleepstims. Within seconds, Martim felt a sense of calm clarity swell over him. He lay back down and sighed, relaxing for what felt like the first time in weeks. “Emha?” he spoke out loud. “Emha, let’s talk.”
The friendly voice replied right away. Hello, Martim, how can I help you?
“I… I just need to talk to someone.” He hadn’t used the Company therapy program in months.
He’d finally figured out how to turn off its annoying notifications, so it had stopped pestering him to engage.
It was still there, though, a private place for him to blather out his anxieties so that maybe he could get finally get to sleep.
“I’ve been through some crazy shit today.
I don’t know… maybe I’m not cut out for this after all. ”
Martim kept talking, only half aware of what he was saying.
Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to it, but the bliss made him feel like a dam was opening up inside him and a tide of disjointed thoughts and emotions were pouring out, so fast that he couldn’t hold on to any of them any better than a sieve could hold water.
At last, his words ran out and his eyes felt heavy. “I’m so fucking tired,” he mumbled. “I don’t know if I can keep going like this.”
The Employee Mental Health Application prompted him after a few unresponsive minutes. Martim, are you still there?
Martim, I’m concerned about you.
Is there someone you trust, that you could contact right now for support?
Martim laughed. Go figure. Even the Company therapy program was telling him that he needed to get a life and talk to a real human being.
He used to be able to talk to his kithmother, Leanne. He’d call her every second week, to let her know he was okay, so she wouldn’t worry. She kept in touch with all the children she’d raised, even the ones who’d moved far away, even troublesome ones, no matter how old they were.
It was commonly said that no one would be a CTH Manager if they weren’t well paid, because it was arguably one of the hardest jobs in the Company—you were always working, never off the clock so to speak.
They had that in common with atiers. It was astonishing to think that for much of recorded human history on Earth, what Leanne did would’ve been economically uncompensated work left to unqualified biological parents.
Martim couldn’t imagine his bioparents having the skill or patience.
The truth was, good CTH Managers were some of the most selfless individuals on the planet.
Leanne was one of those people who’d raise children and care for others even if she wasn’t being paid.
Martim’s conversations with her weren’t long, but she always did say “Call anytime,” and she meant it.
But Leanne was gone. A sudden, debilitating stroke while prepping dinner for the household, just three weeks shy of her sixty-eighth birthday. Martim had been in meetings all day with Director Uchi and didn’t get the message until past 2200, two hours after she’d passed away.
There was nothing for him to do. Leanne already had everything prepared, of course; thinking ahead on behalf of others was in her nature.
All the cremation arrangements and the dispersal of her savings and payout of lifetime Company bonuses and the process of CTH Services assigning a new Manager all happened automatically and without any input from Martim, who was barely connected to his CTH these days anyway.
He remembered hanging up after getting the news, feeling stunned and useless, grief-stricken and cheated.
He hadn’t been given a chance to see her one more time, to talk to her and thank her for being the only person in his childhood to pay him any special attention. To show him love.
Leanne’s funeral was held on a gusty Freeday afternoon, at a Catholic church, of course, because she’d kept the old faith all her life.
Martim took three hours of personal leave and was back at his desk before anyone noticed he was gone.
He’d shed tears for his kithmother, but she’d never been the sort to make a big fuss and she wouldn’t want him to do so over her now.
The few times she talked about retiring, she’d say wistfully, “It’d be nice to put my feet up, it really would. ” Now she’d never get that chance.
With Leanne gone, he wasn’t close to anyone back in his home division.
His relatives could never understand what he was going through; they were either contemptuous of black-badge workers or jealous of them, or both.
He imagined his kithuncle Luiz snorting and berating him: What do you have to complain about, with your big-ass apartment and fancy clothes and shit—cry me a fucking river, Marty.
Or his half biosister Camila ignorantly suggesting, Well, if you don’t like it there, why don’t you just get a transfer and come back?
No one could understand what it was like to be an atier except another atier.
It didn’t seem right to call Isako in the middle of the night, out of the blue, when he hadn’t talked to his mentor in nearly two years.
He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t pick up.
If he hadn’t been mentally exhausted and sky-high on bliss, he would’ve ended the call and tried again later, but his tongue started flapping without his permission.
“Hey, Isako, it’s me, Martim. I hope you’re doing all right these days.
I’ve been hearing that Astrocom’s gaining the upper hand in the war, which is great.
I’m sure it isn’t your first time going through this sort of thing, though, so your client’s no doubt grateful to have you.
Anyway, sorry about this, I know it’s really late and we haven’t talked in a while.
I’m just calling because, well, I was wondering if you’ve ever had second thoughts.
About… everything we do. Client service, the edge life… ”
He trailed off, confused by his own rambling. What was he even trying to say?
“What I mean is… On one hand, working in SoCon GasPro has been an incredible experience with a lot of responsibility, and I’m learning a lot and grateful for the opportunity.
I mean, who wouldn’t be? But on the other hand, this shit’s really intense, you know?
Even more than I imagined it would be. I don’t know if you saw the news tonight, but—” He managed to stop himself.
He shouldn’t talk about the details of the assassination attempt, not if it meant exposing his client’s security vulnerabilities to another atier, even his own mentor.
Isako worked for the director of Astrocom, after all—a reunionist.
Martim squeezed his eyes closed for moment, feeling hopelessly fuzzy-headed.
“What I’m trying to say is, I know this is what I signed up for, but what if…
I made a mistake? I’ve still got a year left on my Principal.
Even if I was offered an Exclusive, how would I handle it?
I don’t know. I was thinking… maybe we could talk sometime? Whenever you’re free.”
As soon as he ended the call, he was struck by a profound sense of relief, followed a few seconds later by a nauseating wave of embarrassment.
Had he really called his Agency mentor in the middle of the night and left a disjointed, angst-filled message like some drunk teenager?
Jesus, what a terrible look. He would never let himself lapse like this at work.
He grabbed his data visor and started scrolling through commands, trying to figure out if he could retrieve the message and erase it.
He felt as if he were thinking and moving in slow motion, as slow as he’d felt the day he met Quickblade for the first time and she’d made him demonstrate the longknife draw, over and over again, frowning impatiently at his poor form, besting him every time.
The familiar message-alert chime nearly made him jump. He hadn’t expected her to pick up the message until morning, certainly not to respond so quickly.
We all doubt ourselves sometimes. Every atier goes through rough patches. Everyone has tough clients. The edge life’s not for the weak, but you’re not weak, or you wouldn’t be wearing the longknife. Focus, Martim. You’re bright enough to figure this shit out.
Martim sat back, staring at the reply, stung.
Another hit of bliss made him feel as if he were floating outside his own body.
Isako was right. Of course she was. He hadn’t made it this far just to crack under the pressure of the job.
If River Thea could be torn nearly in half yet survive in a new form, he could handle anything that was thrown at him.
One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute at a time.
Martim’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids dragged themselves closed into sleep.