Thirty-Nine #2
“I have Gray’s Waste.” Uchi’s mouth wobbled for the first time.
“They caught it at an early stage, so it’ll be a while before the decline becomes noticeable.
Sudexatrine’s shown promise in controlling symptoms and slowing the progression of the disease, but it’s still not possible for me to go through the Process. ”
Martim couldn’t think for a minute. Slowly, he turned toward Thea. “You knew?”
When the bodyguard dropped her eyes and nodded, Uchi admitted, “Thea’s around me too often for me to hide the truth from her. She’s the only other person who fully understands the situation, besides the synthtech surgeon Dr. Lucan.”
The carpeted floor of the office seemed to be shifting beneath Martim’s planted feet.
He swayed in his seat and slumped out of zanshin, his shoulders collapsing against the back of the chair.
“You’ve been announcing your entry into second stage for months ,” he breathed in disbelief, “while all this time knowing there was no possibility of going through with it?”
Uchi hissed out his typical displeasure with failure. “I’ve had doctors and synthtechnicians working around the clock to figure out a solution in time. They’re close to a cure. But not close enough.”
No one said anything in the long moment that followed. Martim’s breath stood frozen and the mural of the Vastness seemed to howl in the silence.
My client is dying.
Evidence of communication from Earth wasn’t as shattering to Martim’s world as the thought of Sandbar Uchi being gone.
Uchi was SoCon GasPro. SoCon GasPro was the heart of the Company.
So in all the ways that counted, the director was the epicenter of everything.
He could not die any more than the airshield could come down over Tenacity Cityhab.
This was worse news than Martim had anticipated coming into the room, worse than the truth about the Great Silence, worse than the bombing, worse than the Field 93 disaster.
I’m going to be a ronin.
“We need Crisis Management in here, and Internal Relations,” he managed at last, “to figure out how we break the news, first to the division and then to the Company, that you’re canceling your recorp and turning down the Board nomination.
We’ll come up with a plausible cover story for now.
We shouldn’t disclose that you have Gray’s Waste until we have a solid succession plan in place to announce at the same time.
That’ll minimize the chaos and disruption, to the greatest extent we can. ”
Martim scrubbed his hands over his face, his mind reluctantly putting pieces together. “Gray’s Waste doesn’t progress that fast. We have a year or more to prepare for the transition and get SoCon GasPro into a good position to continue on without you. The sooner you choose a successor, the better.”
Maybe it was not the end of the world, a small part of his brain whispered to him numbly.
New directors often wished to start in their position afresh with their own loyal inner circle, but this was a unique situation.
Whoever took Uchi’s place would have enormous shoes to fill; they would need an experienced atier and might want to maintain continuity with Uchi’s leadership team by assuming Martim’s contract.
Would he even want to stay in SoCon GasPro, working for a new client who might run the division differently?
“Any successor I name wouldn’t be eligible to join the Board of Directors for decades,” Uchi said, dropping his hands over the sides of the chair. “They wouldn’t be able to represent SoCon GasPro at the next AGM, or exert any influence on the issue of the Great Silence.”
“There’s nothing to be done about that,” Martim pointed out.
“Even if the Board were to make an exception and confirm someone in first stage—which they’ve never done—the fact that you have Gray’s Waste would be a failure of disclosure that would invalidate your candidacy.
We have to depend on our alliance with Tide Sullivan to influence the little-E bloc.
That’s the only way to still have a say in the upcoming vote. ”
“Not good enough,” Uchi declared. “And also, not the only way.”
An eager, impatient quality entered Uchi’s voice whenever he was about to unleash one of his brilliant ideas. His people knew it well and would sit forward in their seats in anticipation.
Martim looked up. He’d been too sunken in ruminating about near-future implications to notice the director leaning forward, those piercing gray eyes fixed on his face.
“You said there’s no obvious successor, but there is.
You’ve been with me every step of the way for three years.
You’ve helped me to steer SoCon GasPro through its most difficult challenges and orchestrate its greatest victories.
You know the breadth of the division’s workings, and you know me just about better than anyone. It’s you , Martim.”
Martim smiled humorlessly at the pointless flattery. “You were about to fire me for being a drug addict, sir.”
“I still am. That’s the only way you’ll be able to take my place.”
“I don’t understand.” Then, suddenly, horribly, he did.
Martim jerked out of the chair and to his feet. Thea moved, just two small steps, but close enough to the door to bar his exit, so that he realized, with a plunging sense of shock and betrayal, that she’d known about this part, too.
“No. No. God. Whatever you’re thinking, it can’t be done.”
“It can ,” Uchi insisted, getting to his feet calmly, opening his hands toward Martim in fervent emphasis.
“Thea proved it. A young, healthy, pliable brain can be successfully recorporalized into another person’s synthbody, without much preparation.
We’ve talked together, many times, about the importance of this Board seat and the upcoming vote.
You can do what I can’t, Martim. You can accept the nomination for me. ”
Sandbar Uchi had come up with bold, risky, seemingly impossible ideas before, but never anything so far beyond the pale.
Maybe it was the disease talking, maybe the unproven medications.
“That’s absolute insanity.” Martim’s voice rose unnaturally high.
“It’s a capital policy violation on multiple levels. ”
“It’s a bit late,” Uchi said wryly, “for you to claim to be worried about violating policy.”
“No clinic or doctor would agree to it.”
“They would and they have,” Uchi assured him. “Dr. Lucan is a true believer in the terraformist cause and a good friend of mine. He understands why this is so important.”
Martim’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he snapped it shut and forced himself to take a steadying breath.
Arguing on the basis of what was reasonable or realistic was a doomed strategy when it came to convincing Sandbar Uchi of anything.
Martim had seen that approach fail plenty of times, to the misfortune of others.
“You’re badly overestimating me,” he insisted, appealing desperately to his client’s ego. “I’m just a contractor. I’m only twenty-nine. I have barely any experience. I’m not remotely as capable as you.”
Uchi seemed amused. “Humility doesn’t suit you, Martim.
What does age matter compared against raw ability?
Everyone said I was too young to be promoted to the directorship of SoCon.
Now they’re saying I’m too young to join the Board.
I’ve been too young and inexperienced all my life, just like you.
You’ve proven the doubters wrong before, Martim.
You were ready to be an elite atier on Exclusive contract to a member of the Board of Directors.
You’ve made it your business to know every corner of SoCon GasPro, to be my eyes and ears and my right-hand man. If you can’t stand in for me, who can?”
“In meetings, occasionally. I can’t pretend to be you on the Board!”
“Why not?” Uchi replied with damnable reasonableness. “You only need to do everything you would’ve done on my behalf anyway—prepare for the confirmation hearings, pound the hallways of the Company to gather the necessary support, keep our allies in lockstep before the vote.”
“And after that?”
“After the worst of the threat has passed and the future of the Company is assured?” Uchi sat back down.
He gestured his atier back into the seat across from him but Martim remained standing.
“You could prepare the transition plan you were going to prepare for me anyway. Gradually step aside from the leadership if you want to. Or stay . Keep my place at the highest level of the Company, along with wealth and power that no other atier could ever experience.”
Martim searched the director’s face for some sign that he was joking or running an elaborate test on him for reasons unknown, like something out of a relicensing exam. But Uchi’s expression was devastatingly unflinching and serious.
“What’s the most you dreamed of when you signed on to work for me, Martim?
An Exclusive contract? Lasting impact on the Company?
A name and reputation with the Agency? I promise you, that’s nothing compared with being a Board member.
You walked through that door today thinking you might be walking out badgeless.
Instead, I’m offering you a second stage of life, in the best synthbody money can buy, in exchange for saving SoCon GasPro and the Company on my behalf. ”
“I don’t want to become a jarbrain!”
Thea interjected from behind him, with unexpected sympathy, “It’s really not so bad. It’s scary at first and takes some getting used to, but old people manage the change all right.”