Thirty-Eight
THIRTY-EIGHT
Thirteen weeks ago
Six months in the making, the news of Director Sandbar Uchi’s nomination to the Board was supposed to have been a big deal.
Martim had been preparing for it for weeks.
He had press releases ready to send out, celebrations scheduled across the continent in all the division’s far-flung gas fields, press interviews lined up for his client, a nomination banquet in the works.
On the day the Board made the official statement, however, it was overshadowed on the Companynet by an Executive announcement. Satellite Operations had prevailed in the war against Astrocommunications; the two legacy divisions would be merged under the leadership of SatOps director Savannah Minto.
Martim sat in his office, spinning slowly in his desk chair, staring at the ceiling and unable to parse his own emotions.
This was a moment of great personal triumph.
He ought to be elated and out celebrating along with the rest of the office.
Since the day of the Sweetsea visit, he’d been laboring nonstop to secure his client’s Board nomination, cultivating and in some cases buying support from allies, discrediting foes, making sure his client’s records were immaculate, coordinating with Internal Relations and Communications to build an overwhelming and well-funded wave of grassroots support across all the little-E-leaning divisions.
Thanks to his efforts, Sandbar Uchi’s nomination, while coming earlier than pundits expected, seemed to most observers to be unstoppable and inevitable.
As Martim had expected, even Tide Sullivan had seen the force of his CTH namesake at work and publicly changed his tune to one of unbridled endorsement.
“No one in the Company has faced more unjust scrutiny than Sandbar Uchi,” Sullivan declared to the press.
“Rabid anti-terraformists would have you believe just about any terrible accusation thrown at him. Well, here’s the truth that I personally know after decades of working with him.
You won’t find anyone on the planet who’s more committed to our society’s future, who’s better at building a high-performance team, and who’s contributed as much to scientific progress, all in his first stage of life.
Under his leadership, Southern Continent Gas Production is a poster child for growth and success.
If Uchi’s not deserving of a nomination to the Board, then I don’t think we know what we’re doing, to be honest.”
Martim scrolled through his notifications.
There it was, the message he’d expected from Condor Anand, right on time, sent five minutes after the official news broke.
“Congratulations, boy-o, what a stunning success! I must admit, I didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off this year, but I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong.
I’m sure you’ve got the confirmation hearing preparation plans well in hand, but if we can be of any help, you know where to find me.
Don’t hold back! We’ll be working together plenty more from now on. ”
Smugly, Martim hovered a finger over the message before flagging it for a later reply. He had a lot to do and didn’t need to respond to Condor Anand right away. We can make you wait.
As for the other big announcement of the day, Martim had contributed to that as well, albeit far more discreetly.
Cloud Sherae owed him, big-time, for all the money that SoCon GasPro had secretly funneled to SatOps through intermediaries to fund their negative propaganda campaign against Forest Greves, painting him as a grasping, power-hungry, reactionary anti-terraformist who’d overreached with his unrealistic plans, a man of poor character, untested and unfit.
The moderate big-Es had coalesced, somewhat reluctantly, around Minto.
According to the merger announcement, a full reorganization plan would be developed over the next six to eight weeks.
Redundancy-based terminations would be decided and carried out over the two weeks following.
No mention was made of what would happen to Astrocom’s director, but he would almost certainly be demoted, possibly into a position where he would not be able to keep his atier on contract.
Martim started to compose a message to his mentor.
Hey, Isa, I just heard the news. I’m so sorry.
If there’s anything I can do… He stopped, feeling vaguely ill, and deleted it.
No doubt Isako was receiving plenty of messages in support and condolence—as many as he was getting in congratulations.
She didn’t need another, certainly not when sending it would make Martim feel every bit of the snake he was.
Was Sherae watching the news unfold with the same hard knot growing in her chest, the one resting below Martim’s breastbone?
Or was she completely at ease in the Code, something he still could not achieve after all this time, a failure that fed the nagging voice telling him that no matter how impressive the feats he accomplished for his client, he still wasn’t quite cut out for the job?
Last week, in a fit of inexplicable masochism, he’d tried to check up on Peregrine Addison. Her ID came up as inactive. He didn’t go looking any further. He also didn’t sleep well that night, not even blissed out to the gills.
What did it matter, in the end, which division conquered another, who lived and who died, when all of society balanced on a great, precarious secret? If the Great Silence were to end, civilization on Aquilo might be unrecognizable. Maybe it wouldn’t even be here, everyone fled to other worlds.
Unless Sandbar Uchi had anything to say about it.
Martim got out of his chair, too nervous and jittery to sit still.
He ought to walk down the hall to his client’s office to offer his congratulations.
If the director was in a good mood, as he should be, he’d come around his desk with arms outspread, clap Martim on the back in pride, and open up a rare bottle of whiskey for them to toast their victory.
“This is just the beginning, Martim,” he would proclaim.
“We’ve so much further to go, so much more to do.
” Six weeks remained of Martim’s Principal contract, but perhaps Uchi would choose this fitting moment of triumph to make an official early offer of an Exclusive.
What should Martim do if that happened? Accept on the spot? If he asked for a few days to consider, would that detract from the director’s confidence in him, make it seem like he was unsure of his decision?
Then again, it was also entirely possible he’d enter the director’s office to find him in an inexplicably black mood, slouched in one of the armchairs, long arms dangling as he contemplated the long, bleak mural of the Vastness over his desk.
Or he might be in a hyperactive frenzy, data visor stuck over his eyes, pacing and gesticulating, seething with fury at all the real and perceived enemies who were trying to keep his division down and ruin him personally.
Uchi had always been a high-intensity person, but the last few months seemed to have brought out his most volatile tendencies.
Perhaps it was due to the stress of the Board campaign, or the health scares, or the continued death threats against him, or the fear of losing his original body in impending recorporalization, or a combination of all of the above.
In any case, it made those around him walk on eggshells.
Martim was one of the very few people who seemed immune to becoming a target of his ire, probably because Uchi relied on him so much, but there were times even he didn’t want to face his client.
A call arrived from Osprey Thiel, who’d replaced Vale Morgan as subdirector of Human Resources. Martim frowned and answered, wondering what Thiel could be calling him about so urgently.
“Sorry to interrupt the celebration, but something’s happened,” the HR man began.
As Thiel explained the situation, Martim’s jaw fell open and stayed open. A roaring like the howl of a polar wind built in his ears at the same time his face heated as if with fever. “Thanks for letting me know,” he managed to say through clenched teeth before ending the call and storming out.
Fortunately, most wagemen who enjoyed a regular ten-hour day had already left, so he was spared any hallway conversation with coworkers. When he got to Uchi’s office, he pounded on the door.
“Come in, Martim.” Uchi’s gruff voice emanated from the other side.
Martim barged into the office. “You fired Fox Wilson.”
At least Uchi had the decency to take off his visor and look up at his atier with a pained, if unapologetic expression.
“It wasn’t working out anymore,” he said simply, as if referring to the end of a brief, inconsequential romance rather than a friendship of more than four decades.
“It was time he moved on. Best thing for everyone, including him.”
Martim gawked, speechless. Wilson was sixty-three years old. How could it possibly be anything but a disaster for him to lose his job now , two years away from Company-sponsored retirement?
“Wilson’s a tough bastard with a lot of experience; he’ll find a transfer position.” Uchi met Martim’s accusatory stare with brusque defensiveness. “Even if he doesn’t, we’ll give him a nice early-retirement package so he’ll have some cushy years ahead of him.”