Forty #2
“Welcome to the second, better stage of life, my friend,” Sullivan enthused, pumping Martim’s hand with vigor.
“How’s the adjustment going so far? Those first few weeks are a real doozy, aren’t they?
I took two weeks off. I’m surprised you’re already back to work.
No, that’s not true, I’m not surprised at all.
You’ve been talking up the 8G model for years, enough to make all the rest of us jealous.
Is it all that it’s cracked up to be? I’m thinking I might go into the clinic for some upgrades myself. ”
Not that the head of NorCon GasPro was physically lacking.
Martim had seen photographs of Uchi and Sullivan together in their earlier days.
In the flesh, Sullivan used to be considerably shorter and heavier than Uchi.
Vanity had gotten the better of him during his transition to second stage; his synthbody was four inches taller than his original one, two sizes slimmer, two decades younger, and had a dense black beard instead of the patchy gray that had graced his real face before he’d undergone the Process.
Now the two directors were nearly the same height, and appeared roughly the same age.
“Good to see you, Sully, thanks for coming over.” Martim had heard Uchi talk to Sullivan before, chummy and casual, but with just a hint of deference to his senior.
He clasped Sullivan’s hand and did that thing Uchi did with friends, firmly patting the other man’s elbow.
“On the whole, it’s going well. Trust me, once prices come down, 8G is going to be the standard.
I still have two checkups to go, but so far the doctors say everything looks good.
Glad to be through it, though. You know me, I would’ve been happy to stay in first stage for another decade, but it’s all for the best.”
“Glad you didn’t delay,” Sullivan said, settling into one of the armchairs.
Condor Anand stood off to the side behind his client.
Martim found it hard not to pay attention to him, hovering there in his tweed sport coat and pageboy hat, looking like his client’s chauffeur rather than his longknivesman.
Martim half expected him to cross the room and exclaim cheerily, Martim, my boy!
but of course, he didn’t do that. A mild, obsequious expression sat lightly over his perceptive stare.
Martim took Uchi’s favorite chair across from his guest and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. “So how’s the vote looking?” Straight to business, just like Sandbar Uchi would’ve done.
“At this point, it could go either way,” Sullivan mused.
Nomination was decided by a simple majority of the nominating committee, but confirmation was a bigger hurdle—two-thirds of the entire Board of Directors had to assent.
“You can count on Field 93 coming up again in the hearing, but that’s not going to be a deciding factor.
Anyone who’s going to try to make it an issue wasn’t going to vote for you anyway.
The panel that’ll be questioning you in the hearing will be balanced—two terraformists, two reunionists, and one independent.
As long as the little-E bloc stays united, we only need the independents to side with us for you to have the vote in the bag. ”
“Who do we still have to work on convincing?” He tried to seem every bit as focused and intense as Uchi would’ve been in this meeting, but he already knew the answer to his own question.
He had to stifle the desire to start listing off the names he’d already identified last month, as Dragonfly Martim, atier.
“That depends if we can cut a deal with the cityhab service divisions over the annual budget. That’s eight more votes right there.
If we get them, the moderate reunionists will see the writing on the wall and might be convinced to abstain, unless Savannah Minto pulls some trick out of her hat to make them toe the line. I’ve got meetings next week with…”
Sullivan kept talking, but Martim was abruptly distracted by the sight of his own fingernails.
They were so much larger, thicker, and more square shaped than he was used to.
And the knuckles… they were bony and bulged, so there was a gap between the lower part of his fingers when he held them straight together.
Martim had always prided himself on having nice hands.
No one would guess he was from a deckhand kith from looking at his hands.
These appendages didn’t even look like real hands, more like alien claws.
He flexed them back and forth around the end of the armrest, mesmerized by the weird way they moved.
“So what do you think?”
“Hmm?” Shit. What had Sullivan just said? What would Uchi say now?
Martim fought to find a mental footing like a rock climber desperately scrabbling at a crumbling cliff face.
He’d be breaking out in a sweat if he still could.
“What do I think? What I know is that the upcoming AGM is going to be the most important one in centuries, maybe ever.” He eyed Sullivan meaningfully.
“The two largest gas production divisions need to be together at the table, driving the outcome.”
Martim uncrossed his legs and leaned forward with Uchi’s classic brook-no-arguments stare. “You’re the experienced Board member here, Sully. You know all the key players better than I do. You tell me what we need to do to win this thing, and you can count on me and my team to follow your lead.”
Sullivan sat back and steepled his fingers. His synthbody was less advanced than Uchi’s, and less subtle in facial expressions. Martim wondered if the raised eyebrows and small smile were an indication of satisfaction, or ambivalence. Had Martim been convincing? Or had he said something wrong?
“Speaking of your team, Director Uchi,” Condor Anand said, with unassuming curiosity, “was your atier not able to join us this morning? I would’ve thought he’d be part of this discussion.”
In a moment of stress and confusion, Martim completely forgot the story he was supposed to tell to explain his own absence.
Only when Thea made a slight throat-clearing noise behind him did he manage to say, with forced nonchalance, “Unfortunately, I’m between atiers right now. My previous one didn’t work out.”
Anand’s eyebrows rose under the fringe of his curly hair. “Sorry to hear that, sir. The young fellow seemed so promising, especially with the way he handled the Field 93 investigation.”
He’s fishing. Valuable gossip was the Puppetmaster’s currency.
“It is awfully difficult to find good, long-term contractors these days,” Sullivan noted in agreement.
“Anand and I are a bit of an unusual case, perhaps because he knows how to not make mistakes.” He slid a glance over his shoulder at his atier, an obvious warning not to question Martim’s fate.
Sandbar Uchi could be touchy about his habit of summarily firing even close advisors and longtime colleagues.
“Yes, well, you’re lucky in many ways, Sully,” Martim said, with the brisk finality Uchi always displayed when a topic of conversation lost its interest for him.
“But no help is better than incompetent help. I’m not worried about preparing for the confirmation hearings.
If you wouldn’t mind having Anand send my secretary the dossiers on the five panel members and the remaining independents we talked about, that would be appreciated. ”
“Of course.” Sullivan opened his hands in a gesture of magnanimous support.
“Anything we can do to help. You know I’m backing you all the way, Uch, just like I did when it came to the directorship of SoCon.
We’ve always been a good team. I’m looking forward to accomplishing a lot on the Board together. ”
The discussion continued a little while longer, both of them playing out the verbal courtship of political alliance, before Sullivan took his leave with another heartfelt congratulations and the exhortation that, even though they were both so busy, they really ought to get together again, after the hearing.
“You’ll come to the All-Division Cup this year, won’t you?” he asked, clapping Martim on the shoulder. “The way things are going, we’re going to blow you out when we meet in the semifinals. ”
“Not likely unless Durst magically becomes a decent keeper.” Martim gave the other director one of Uchi’s haughty little closed-mouth smiles.
Sullivan laughed and departed with Anand, who dipped into a respectful parting bow, but whose canny gaze lingered with too much interest. The soft sound of the door closing behind them sounded to Martim like the damning click of a longknife draw.
What are you thinking, Puppetmaster?