Thirty-Four
THIRTY-FOUR
Ten months ago
Wagefolk fresh off work were streaming through the gates of Typhoon Tam Arena when the car pulled up to the curb and let Martim off in front of the main entrance.
An air of excitement and festivity buzzed over the crush of noisy fans dressed in team jerseys, hats, and scarves, lined up to buy drinks and snacks from the concession stands, people from different divisional fiefs mingling in a way they rarely did in day-to-day life—ice miners, technicians, desk jockeys, harried kithparents herding groups of children, rheumy-eyed retirees.
Gold badges and white badges and black badges, officer class and passenger class and deckhands, old and young, brought together under one roof by the beautiful game of futsal.
Martim hadn’t been to the stadium to watch a game in over a year.
He’d played the sport a bit while growing up, and he used to be a true fan who followed all the teams and players, paid attention to the rankings, and owned merchandise.
But even a minor hobby required time he no longer had.
Now he only knew enough to hold his own in a basic conversation about how the season was going.
If he were to have an entire afternoon or evening off, he’d sooner spend it catching up on sleep than watching a futsal game.
Which was a shame, because SoCon GasPro had one of the best teams in the Company.
Martim understood why Condor Anand had chosen this time and place when he’d agreed to a meeting.
Along with the latest Company news and KPIs, the scrolling billboard above the entrance proclaimed this evening’s game between SoCon GasPro and NorCon GasPro.
A GasPro civil war match was always going to be well attended.
What better place for the atiers of the two divisions to happen to run into each other without arousing any notice?
I’m next to the kettle corn stand , came Anand’s message.
Martim made his way through the crowd until he saw the bright signage for caramel popcorn and Condor Anand’s big mop of curly hair.
“Martim, my boy, so good to see you,” Anand exclaimed brightly, pumping Martim’s hand as if they really were running into each other coincidentally.
“Let’s go up to the box and talk.” With a bag of kettle corn in hand, he led them up to Tide Sullivan’s VIP suite.
“You want something to drink, anything to eat?” Anand handed him a beer without waiting for an answer. Surprisingly, they were the only ones in the box, which overlooked the court below where the players were warming up—the SoCon Storm in red and white, the NorCon Ice in blue and black.
“Why’s the place empty?” Martim asked.
“Because I kicked everyone out. I get the whole box because my client’s not coming today.
” Anand popped a handful of kettle corn into his mouth, opened a beer for himself, and plopped down in a comfortable armchair by the glass.
In private, and without his client present, he made no effort to sit formally.
Not that Anand was known as a man to ever stand on ceremony.
Unlike Martim, Condor Anand had been born into a solidly upper-middle-income passenger-class kith, but with his earth-toned sport coats, pageboy hats, and growly cheer, he affected a rough-around-the-edges, salt-of-the-earth persona.
Maybe it kept him more on a level with the gas field bosses and managers that he so often had to deal with in his role.
Or perhaps, by making himself recognizable but unassuming, he wished to convey the impression that he was just another working-class man, a mere errand boy.
Martim didn’t believe it for a second. NorCon might not be growing as fast as SoCon, nor was it as technologically innovative, but it was still a large, powerful division and Tide Sullivan was a senior member of the Board and a prominent terraformist leader.
There was no shortage of atiers who’d kill to work for him.
Even though the Puppetmaster gave off an air of being perpetually unconcerned, he was no ordinary bloke to have secured an Exclusive with Sullivan and survived at his side for nine years.
And the man never needed to draw his longknife.
Martim took the seat next to Anand. “Does Director Sullivan normally attend games?”
“Every one that he’s able to,” Anand said. “Got to support our worker-athletes. And morale goes up when we win. I’m counting on us taking home the All-Division Cup this year. We’ve got the two best wingers in the Company.”
“Carvalho and Vinh are powerhouses in the league, I’ll give you that,” Martim said, “but they don’t match the offensive power of Bennett as our pivot. And Geller is much more consistent a goalkeeper than Durst.”
Anand grinned at him. “Oh ho, I see I’m dealing with a man of knowledge.”
Martim shrugged with feigned nonchalance.
“I try, but I still have a terrible record when it comes to playoff pools.” He hoped Anand wouldn’t pry further into his expertise because he’d find out that Martim really only knew the main players who’d been around for a while—he knew nothing of the latest rookies or the recent coaching changes or who was leading the league in stats.
He diverted the conversation. “So where’s your client today? ”
“At the season exhibition for the Arts & Media Guild,” Anand said offhandedly, “hobnobbing with sponsored artists, along with most of the Board.”
Sullivan was a shrewd, well-connected Company veteran.
Uchi’s unflattering opinion of his longtime ally was that the senior director was better at making alliances and sailing the shifting political winds than managing the myriad technical details of gas production, which was why his division had fallen behind in innovation and owed all of its recent gains to field technology that had first been developed, tested, and implemented by SoCon.
“What about your client?” Anand queried, one eye on the players lining up on the court below, the other on Martim. “Does he come to the games often?”
Martim opened the unwanted beer and drank, but slowly and not too much—he wouldn’t put it past Anand to try to get him drunk enough to spill valuable information about SoCon GasPro.
The GasPro divisions might be natural allies, but the Puppetmaster was who he was because he was always in the know, always prising information with that keen, trapdoor mind of his and using it to his client’s advantage. Ally or enemy, it didn’t matter.
“Director Uchi makes an appearance occasionally,” Martim said.
“He doesn’t know anything about the game other than that it involves kicking the ball into the goal, but he’s hypercompetitive and gets angry when we lose, so it makes the players nervous when he’s watching.
Better if I just send him the replay the next day. ”
The Starhome Exploration Group anthem played over the loudspeakers, a brief, inspirational orchestral hymn dating back to its founding days on Earth and ending in a single refrain, We explore, we innovate, we lead the way with audacity and pride!
Down on the court, the players took their positions.
Martim leaned forward, his excitement rising.
He’d missed this more than he’d realized: the relief and pleasure of doing something purely for enjoyment.
Futsal didn’t contribute food or water to the cityhab, it didn’t extract resources from beneath the permafrost or result in the manufacture of goods, it didn’t advance science or warm the planet.
One could argue that it improved divisional cohesion and motivated wagefolk to stay physically active, but really, it was just fun .
The SoCon team looked fit and energetic.
Its star player, Reef Bennett, finally back from injury, jogged onto the court to raucous cheers from the packed stands.
Martim hoped he’d been given the day off to rest and prepare for the game so he’d put in his best performance.
Sports matches reflected not just the talent and skill of the athletes, but the relative power and prosperity of the Company’s different fiefdoms. Wealthy divisions fielded better teams because they could afford to give their worker-athletes time off to train.
They had fitness facilities, physical therapists, coaches, the whole works.
Smaller, poorer divisions made do without such resources and their athletes often had to go straight from their desks to the court.
“All right, let’s go,” Anand exclaimed as the kickoff started the game. “We’re going to show you why the North is still the king of GasPro,” he declared, winking as if in jest.
As the game went on, though, it became clear the older atier had spoken prematurely.
When the SoCon Storm pulled into the lead, Anand got up and paced, started shouting advice down at the court that couldn’t be heard.
“Mother in Chains, what the hell is the coach thinking? Put Carvalho back on the court! Where’s our defense? Fuck!”
Martim pumped his fist at each of SoCon’s goals, but he bit his tongue at the urge to cheer and gloat at Anand’s distress.
He didn’t know the man well enough to take a chummy tone with him, and as much as he wanted to relax and enjoy the game, he was itchy with impatience.
Every minute he spent here was a minute of work he’d have to make up for later.
He wanted to get down to talking business, but even though the Puppetmaster was no doubt just as busy as he was, he seemed completely focused on the game.
“Did you know that on Earth, there was a version of this game played on a grass field three times the size of a regular court?” Anand commented during halftime. “I saw an article on the Companynet about it once, written by a historian. The game was played outdoors with eleven players on each side.”
“Sounds like it would involve a lot of running,” Martim said. “And a lot of water, to grow that much grass.”