Forty-Six
FORTY-SIX
Prosperity Station: Can we get an update on the status of the next supply transport? That last storm really did a number on our older habs. Over.
Prosperity Station: Do you copy?
Starhome Exploration Group HQ: Copy, Aquilo. All interstellar shipments have been discontinued until further notice. Proceed per your directives. Good luck.
Prosperity Station: What was that, HQ?
Prosperity Station: Come in. Come in. We lost you there.
Prosperity Station: What the hell’s going on? Explain, over.
Tenacity Station: Something’s wrong on their end. We got cut off, too. Let’s wait and hope they fix it soon.
—last recorded communication with Earth, 25 AF
Sunday, 9-week, 500 AF
On the day of Sandbar Uchi’s Board confirmation hearing, Isako and Kob arrive at the Bridge hours in advance.
In contrast to the strange and ancient grandeur of the Sweetsea, the administrative headquarters of the Company is all business—a domed rectangular building of white brick and steel.
The press is already camped outside on the wide steps.
Cityhab Security is out in force, setting up road cordons and checkpoints.
It’s a straw-colored, overcast day, the sun nearly obscured by dust. The air feels thick and heavy with voyeuristic anticipation and the disquieting potential for violence.
After the deadly attack on the Elite Renewal clinic, all of Tenacity Cityhab is on high alert.
Isako identifies herself as Board member Savannah Minto’s atier, here to conduct business on her client’s behalf during the proceedings.
Kob stands behind her, posed as a subcon aide.
River Thea has set Kob up with a temporary fake badge, just in case they’re questioned, but there’s no need for it.
When Isako’s credentials check out, the guards wave them through.
They’re looking for badgeless United Freelancers, not longknivesmen.
They set themselves up in the meeting room that’s been reserved all day for Sandbar Uchi to rest and refresh whenever he wishes, prior to and after the confirmation hearing.
It’s simple, containing just a table, a few chairs, and a coffa dispenser—but no one’s going to disturb them here, or so they hope.
Isako double-checks her messages. There’s no further communication from her client; she can only hope that Minto’s still good for her word.
The director of SatOps won’t be attending the hearing in person at the Bridge, but she’s certain to be watching all the proceedings remotely from her garden high above the city.
Martim and his bodyguard arrive an hour before the hearing is scheduled to begin.
Martim’s dressed in one of Uchi’s typical outfits: charcoal-gray suit and pinstripe vest, silver tie, a black fedora on his head.
He removes his lableather gloves and loosens a designer wool scarf that probably costs more than her Suzimachi L10.
If there’s one part of Sandbar Uchi’s identity that Isako feels confident Martim is well qualified to step into, it’s his closet.
With all four of them in the room, the air feels charged with conspiratorial anxiety.
To be honest, she wasn’t sure the second stagers would commit to Kob’s proposal. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Thea made another attempt to murder them and convince Martim to keep his impersonation of Uchi going for as long as possible.
But she can see in her former apprentice’s sagging posture that he doesn’t want to do that.
He doesn’t want to fight, and he doesn’t want to carry the burden his client forced on him.
Even if he were able to maintain his secret beyond the annual general meeting, the only way to survive would be to lose himself completely, like a fanatical method actor sunk so deep into a role that he could never emerge.
And then, Dragonfly Martim might as well be dead.
Kob breaks the tension. “Nice haircut.”
To Isako’s surprise, Thea looks pleased and fiddles abashedly with her short bob cut, trying to smooth it over one ear even though it’s not long enough to stay put anymore. “You think so? I… um, thought it would be less conspicuous this way.”
Every one of them, Isako thinks sourly. Every damn longkniveswoman cuts her hair.
The bodyguard drops her hand self-consciously, clears her throat with pointed professionalism.
“You’re positive Director Minto will keep up her end of the bargain?
” she asks, for perhaps the eighth time.
It’s her job to be paranoid about her client’s safety, but the jarbrain is understandably more invested than her occupation strictly demands.
The way she hovers close to Martim’s shoulder makes Isako wonder if there’s more than just self-interest at work.
Does she actually care about him? Love seems like the sort of thing that requires a pumping heart, warm blood, and living flesh—but who the hell even knows at this point?
“I told you,” Isako says, again, “I can’t make promises about what Minto will do. All I can say is that she was frothing at the mouth to get dirt on Sandbar Uchi. She was quick to agree to meet with him and to guarantee his safety. As for whether she’ll make a deal, that part’s up to Martim.”
Thea crosses her arms, her full lips pushed together in dissatisfaction. The plan clearly isn’t good enough for her. She would’ve greatly preferred if Isako had been conveniently killed, at the hands of the shadowcons or her own at Elite Renewal, but there’s nothing to be done for it now.
“It’s not the first time I’ve had to talk myself out of a tough spot,” Martim says.
“Isa and Kob are right. It’s our best chance.
I just…” He fidgets with his shirt cuffs and takes a seat, straight-backed, on the edge of the chair, as if he can’t quite shake the instinct to sit zanshin in the presence of his old mentor.
“Something as important as the Great Silence shouldn’t hinge on one person.
Not Director Uchi, not even the Executive, and definitely not me. ”
Kob says, “No one is asking you to decide the fate of the world. There are sixty-three people on the Board of Directors. Trust me, nothing is going to happen quickly. Old jarbrains are cautious. Even if the Great Silence ends, it’s not like ships from Earth will arrive next week.”
Thea hands him his screen. “Just focus on today.”
Martim nods glumly, resigned if not convinced.
The rest of them are quiet as he reviews the notes he’s prepared.
Outside, the noise level rises steadily as hundreds of gold badges and their entourages arrive and begin talking and politicking in the corridors.
They’re all here to see a show. That’s what this is.
A Company rally and political circus and royal coronation all in one.
Thea listens to some prompt in her earpiece. “Time to go.”
Reluctantly, Martim stands, and even though he wears the face of one of the most celebrated and hated men on the planet, Isako wants to put her arms around him, her last and most memorable apprentice, this bright deckhand kid who’s in way over his head.
“Martim.” When he turns, she assures him, “It’s just another licensing exam.”
He gives her a tight little forced smile that’s all his own.
Then he faces the door, and she sees him summoning his client’s persona, donning the mantle of entitlement and power, the charismatic, laser-focused intensity that flowed from Uchi everywhere he went.
His face settles into an expression of preoccupied impatience; a faintly arrogant smirk rounds the corners of his mouth as he straightens his tie.
Isako feels goose bumps rise on her arms, as if the ghost of Uchi has entered the room.
Martim squares his shoulders and opens the door.
Waiting reporters immediately begin to shout questions at him.
“Director Uchi, do you feel prepared for the hearing this afternoon?” “Director, despite the results of the investigation, do you expect that your role in the Field 93 disaster will be reexamined?” “Are you at all concerned that the Board will delay your confirmation due to your recent entry into second stage?”
Thea’s security team encircles him and ushers him away. Isako can’t hear if Martim responds to any of the shouted queries as the hubbub surrounding him makes its way down the hall.
Once the doors to the assembly chamber are shut and the hearing is underway, the noise abates.
Kob sets up a screen that Thea’s security team has connected to the security feeds from every camera inside and outside the building.
He settles comfortably in front of it with a cup of coffa and a crossword puzzle.
“Doing puzzles is supposed to help,” he explains.
The moments that remind her that Kob is dying of Gray’s Waste are like the abrupt muscle spasms that show up just because you sneezed violently or moved too fast after sitting still.
So easy to forget or ignore, until they suddenly hurt.
Isako opens her own screen, searching for something of her own to do to pass the time.
The first thing she sees is her letter to the Agency and the attached message to Maya that she recorded the night before she went into the Elite Renewal clinic.
She hovers her finger over the files, not sure whether to open or delete them.
She thought she was satisfied with the final draft, but since she’s not dead yet, she has the opportunity to reconsider.
Come up with something better, should she actually pull this plan off and be accorded a proper resignation and a coda with wide readership.
But the idea fills her with dread and ennui. She already went through the mental and emotional effort of penning her final words; the thought of revising them again holds about as much appeal as another simdeath. Kob sees her grimacing and asks what’s wrong.
“I’m thinking of hiring someone to write my resignation letter. I hear some people do that.”