Green Bone Saga creator returns with a mix of John Wick and Blade Runner

Excerpt from Chapter Four of

SatOps is housed in a magnificent tower of glass and steel, triple spires reaching for the starry heavens it’s long been tasked with watching. The division’s mission slogan is carved on a massive arch of quartz-speckled black marble that curves over Isako like the transcribed orbit of a moon as she walks through the cavernous entranceway.

All Eyes on the Future.

It reminds Isako of Astrocom’s mission slogan. Voice to the Heavens.

The eyes and the voice were meant to work together. Astrocommunications and Satellite Operations are both ancient divisions dating all the way back to the Great Ships. For centuries, they were linked by aligned priorities, the common interests and skills of their wagefolk, marriages and transfers between their major kiths. Thirty years ago, no one could’ve imagined they’d go to war. If anything, Astrocom was the larger, more strategically positioned division, SatOps more of a service subdivision.

How times change.

Two guards in black uniforms intercept Isako when she steps out from under the elaborately grand scangate. She’s expecting basic security midtracs armed with shock batons and range tasers. Instead, she’s surprised the two young men are wearing the novice triggersheaths of atier apprentices.

“I was asked to meet with Director Minto,” she tells them.

One of the apprentices checks the scangate display screen, verifying Isako’s identity and confirming that she’s not carrying any explosives, projectile weapons, blades over forty-eight centimeters, recording devices, or other prohibited items. He turns back and looks her over with wary admiration. “You’re really Isthmus Isako,” he says. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

Isako tries not to roll her eyes. Rumors make her out to be a giantess just because she can look most men in the eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

The other guard keeps a little more distance. He’s slightly older than his colleague, mid-twenties maybe. Isako likes the look of him, the way he doesn’t move too much. His expression is alert and he keeps his arms relaxed and open by his sides. He asks, “Are you as fast with the longknife as they say you are?”

“Faster.” She doesn’t crack a smile.

She’s not sure the answer’s as true as it used to be. If she were to face off against her younger self, she’s confident of how it would end for Older Her. But she has a reputation to uphold for as long as she possibly can.

The apprentices escort her through a lobby echoing with the footfalls of wagefolk passing in both directions. Freeday’s the one official day off for most divisions, but satellites never stop moving, and neither does SatOps. An enormous globe of Aquilo hangs overhead, symbolically illuminated by thousands of white lights circling it like a protective swarm of insects.

A glass elevator whisks Isako and her two escorts up to Director Minto’s office at the top of the tower. Isako’s stomach shifts uncomfortably as she ascends. Her hands feel cold and clammy.

She’s not afraid, but she hates not knowing what she’s in for.

The elevator stops and opens onto a long hallway that ends in a set of double doors. A secretary seated at a wraparound desk blinks a confirmation into his data visor. “Go ahead. The director’s ready to see you.”

The two men fall back on either side of the doors as Isako walks into the suite alone. She slows as she enters, blinking at the abundance of light. Windows fill two of the walls, offering a stunning view of Tenacity bathed in the stark-white illumination of the midday sun. Warmer, yellow incandescent light radiates from the lamps that hang over long containers overflowing with lush, green broad-leafed plants.

There are plants here that Isako has never seen before, has never even imagined, with sweet-smelling white flowers the size of her spread hand, plants shaped like gourds, plants with fronds and crawling tendrils.

She breathes in deeply. The air is humid and fragrant and warms her lungs.

She wants to stop and stare, to reach out and touch things, to appreciate the bounty of life that’s crammed into this penthouse, but she remembers why she’s here and proceeds deeper into the office. Water spills from a wall fountain and disappears into the floor, reappearing in a still pool on the other side of the room. A ripple of movement in the clear water—there are fish in the pool. Real fish of different sizes and colors, gold and orange and white, swimming around with far too much lifelikeness to be projections or simbeasts.

She does a double take at the sight of a hanging cage with two live, chittering red songbirds.

Greves enjoyed his luxuries, as all wealthy Company men do. The antique telescope in the Observatory was his most prized possession. His office in Astrocom headquarters was finely appointed with beautiful furniture, expensive pieces of art, framed star charts, bookshelves of rare tomes, historical artifacts.

In comparison to Minto, he was a simple miser.

The top office of SatOps is a personal greenhouse.

No, nothing so orderly and purposeful. Not a greenhouse. A garden.

A garden like those on the lost paradise of Earth, the homeworld where human civilization reached its apex and where devoted Purgatorists believe repentant and worthy souls will be reincarnated. On Earth, plants and animals of every type—those preserved in the Genebank and many others that exist only in the collective memory of stories—roamed under an open sky that was gentle and warm. Oxygen and water were so abundant that they weren’t measured or priced. Billions upon billions of living beings could use as much as they wanted to and never run out.

Director Minto is re-creating heaven in a room.

No wonder the wealthy want to live as long as they possibly can, when they can have things like this.

Minto is seated in a high-backed chair behind a desk of solid true wood, centuries old, preserved from the Great Ship Prosperity. It should be in a museum, but Minto hangs on to it because it’s been in CTH Savannah for generations. The Savannahs claim it was the personal desk of Founding Officer Sangiolo, but that might be mere legend. The desk is purely ceremonial, too valuable an artifact to be used for everyday functions. No doubt it’s brought out only for special occasions and important visitors.

She’s flattered. It ought to be Forest Greves standing in Minto’s office to formally acknowledge the takeover of Astrocom and to accede to the terms of the merger. Since Greves is now a frozen corpse, Isako supposes that as her client’s trusted atier, she’s being honored with the desk in his place. With most of the Astrocom wagefolk transferred, absorbed by SatOps, dismissed, or resigned, she’s the last one remaining for Minto to deal with. That’s cause for some formality not ordinarily accorded to a mere contractor.

Standing unobtrusive but vigilant behind and to the side of the opulent desk is a dark-skinned, solidly built woman whom Isako’s unsurprised to see. Cloud Sherae is Minto’s atier. The two young men outside are her apprentices.

Just as Sherae was once Isako’s apprentice.

One of her very first. Must’ve been nearly twenty years ago, if Isako recalls correctly. Back when Astrocom and SatOps were close as kith and neither of the women thought they might one day have to try to destroy each other.

Back then, Sherae was no older than Maya is now. Overly earnest, a bit soft, smart as a whip but not easy to teach because she was insecure and took criticism hard. Hard to believe it now, looking at the war-seasoned atier in her prime.

Isako stops behind the traditional red security line on the floor six meters in front of the desk and tilts into a respectful bow.

“You’re early,” Minto says approvingly. “Punctuality is the hallmark of a reliable contractor.”

The director’s lips move in time with her words, but the oddly resonant voice issues from beneath her chin rather than directly from her mouth.

Isako straightens and meets Minto’s glass eyes, which are a startlingly vibrant green. “I’d hope my track record as an atier would be established by now, Director.”

Minto takes in Isako’s straight bearing, spotless coat, boots and triggersheath polished to a shine. “It’s always a pleasant surprise when someone lives up to their reputation.”

Isako’s met many wealthy and powerful people during her career. She’s no stranger to synthbodies. Still, every time she encounters people in their second stage of life, she fights the urge to shudder and back away.

Savannah Minto appears to be a woman slightly younger than Isako, mature but trim and athletic, someone who spends her meager recreation time cycling or doing yoga. Very short, silver hair crowns her elfin features. Someone vainer would’ve chosen a younger incarnation; Isako once met a ninety-year-old woman living out her second stage in a body that appeared to be barely out of its teens. Minto, to her credit, has a physical chassis that reflects how she looked when she first ascended to the directorship of her division.

No doubt her synthbody was top of the line when she went through recorporalization, or “the Process” as they call it, thirty years ago, but it’s dated now. It doesn’t take too long for an observant person to notice the little signs of inhumanity—the unusually smooth and poreless skin, the hair a bit too uniform in color and texture, the blinking of the eyes too regular. The lip movements are a barely perceptible fraction of a second out of time with her speech.

But what makes Isako’s skin crawl the most is the movement. Or rather, the lack of it. Real bodies are always in motion—breathing, blinking, swallowing, fidgeting. Synthbodies are too still. More recent models come with programming that tries to replicate those subtle, natural human movements, but they still don’t quite cross the uncanny valley. The newest, eighth-generation synthtech has reputedly made revolutionary improvements, but Isako hasn’t seen it for herself yet, nor met anyone who could afford it.

A lot of people have the same disquieted aversion to second stagers. No matter how closely synthbodies mimic original ones, the small, disturbing differences are hard to overlook, especially for someone unaccustomed to being around them. Another reason for the ultrarich and powerful to keep to their own rarified circles.

Atiers have no choice but to get used to them. Isako’s been spoiled, serving a young client like Greves. She can and has worked for second stagers, but she can’t forget what they are. For all her status, wealth, and influence, Savannah Minto is a one-hundred-and-six-year-old woman on extended life support, housed in a replacement body made of advanced prosthetics and cloned tissue that will preserve her for decades past her original expiry date.

A brain in an expensive jar.

“Greves spoke highly of you.” Minto’s voice, despite its odd resonance, sounds exactly as it did originally, manufactured from decades of recordings of her natural speech. “As has my own atier.”

Isako glances at her former apprentice. “Sherae.”

A slight smile curves the other woman’s lips. “Good to see you, Isa, even under the circumstances. Sorry if my two boneheaded apprentices seem overeager or nosy. They were very excited to meet Quickblade, even if they’d never admit it.”

“The older one seems to have promise. Ambitious of you to take on two apprentices at once.”

“You handled it fine.”

True enough, but she had a lot more energy back then.

She turns back to Minto. “I’m flattered to still be held in some regard, Director, but I know when I’ve been defeated fairly. Congratulations on your promotion. It’s well earned.”

Minto’s unblinking green glass eyes stay on Isako. “Your client felt differently.”

Isako fights to keep her expression serene. “Director Greves didn’t involve me in his decision to resign. I was as shocked as anyone by his protest.” Admitting this feels like salting a fresh wound. She can barely believe what he did. She certainly can’t understand why he didn’t tell her. After all these years, wasn’t she owed that much?

“He always was such a dramatic personality,” Minto muses nostalgically. “I remember when he was an intern in the orbital-mechanics research lab that I chaired back in my seventies. That young man had a lot of heart and a lot of guts. More guts than brains, honestly. Quick to seize on bold ideas without fully thinking them through. He loved to cause a stir and make everyone else scurry to keep up with him.”

The way Minto reminisces, you wouldn’t think she’s the reason the “young man” being discussed is now turning to dust on the airless tundra. The irony is hard to miss: Fifteen people are being publicly lauded for giving up the remaining years of their short lives, yet the woman responsible lives on, longer than even the ancestors did back on Earth.

What Minto says is true, though. “Thinking outside the box” was hands down Forest Greves’s favorite bit of Companyspeak. And he wasn’t the sort to ever back down from a challenge.

When Greves become leader of Astrocom, the division had been declining in Company priority for well over a century. Continuing to send messages into the unresponsive void of space wasn’t something the Board of Directors or the people of Tenacity thought was important anymore. A merger with SatOps seemed logical and inevitable, but nearly everyone, Isako included, would’ve expected it to be a peaceful, gradual process.

But Greves was too much of an ambitious visionary to accept Astrocom’s apparent fate. He aimed to transform it from a staid legacy division into one focused on expansion. He advocated for the Company to invest in space-exploration technology, to build and launch fleets of unmanned vessels that would venture beyond the star system gathering information and searching for the lost sister colonies. He aspired to find more hospitable planets and reestablish contact with other human-populated worlds, maybe even Earth itself.

In hindsight, the backlash was predictable. Greves’s attempts to stretch Astrocom’s role beyond its traditional boundaries drew scrutiny and earned him enemies. Terraformists called him dangerously wasteful, unhinged, selfish, and power hungry in his quest to chase fantasy at the expense of vital and immediate needs. Many younger, idealistic reunionists eagerly embraced his agenda, but established leaders grew leery of his high-profile overreach and looked to Minto’s more moderate position.

“Sometimes, the winds shift so strongly that even the best pilot can’t hope to steer against them,” Minto says mildly, as if following the course of Isako’s thoughts. “It was the right time for our divisions to merge. The Executive agreed and chose to hand me the directorship.”

The speed with which it all happened still astonishes her. “I tried to convince my client to request a reduced position in your division,” Isako admits. “But it seems he was done taking my advice. Not that I can blame him, everything considered.”

She does blame him, though. She grieves his death, but the sheer lack of consideration is unlike him, and it pisses her off.

Minto makes a dismissive gesture with her slim fingers. “Oh, I don’t believe he attributed the inevitable outcome to your failings. If anything, you kept Astrocom alive and fighting longer than anyone expected.”

Probably true, but the last thing she needs right now is to be reminded that she worked so hard for a hopeless cause. One might lay the blame for Astrocom’s demise at Isako’s feet, for not guiding her client well enough, but she’d challenge any atier to have done better. In the end, directors dig their own graves.

“He left me a letter,” Minto goes on. “It was very gracious. He commended me on a hard-fought contest and wished me luck with the merger. He strongly urged Satellite Operations not to compromise on reunionist priorities. Although he disagreed vehemently with the Executive’s verdict, he acknowledged that the consolidation of resources would ultimately strengthen society. For all his faults, Forest Greves was committed to the good of the Company.”

Well, then. How nice of him, to leave parting words to the enemy but not the person who served him tirelessly for a dozen years. She bows again, jaw held stiff. “It was an honor to serve my client until the end and a privilege to be leaving our organization in good hands under your leadership, Director Minto.” She’s impatient for the glad-handing formality to be over. The unfamiliar humidity of the room was pleasant at first, but now it’s getting to her, causing sweat to collect under her bra. “The transition plan is well underway and I believe I’ve left everything in good order. Today was my last day on contract, so unless you have any further questions or requirements of me…”

“I do, in fact, have an important requirement of you.” Minto stands, unfolding jerkily from her chair. She moves her hand over a screen that’s artfully built into the landscaping to resemble a pocket window looking out through a garden wall into an illusory green field full of wildflowers.

The image of the field vanishes and is replaced with a document. It takes Isako a minute to recognize her own contract, drawn up by the Agency nine years ago to provide her services to Director Forest Greves—exclusively and for life.

There’s an unfamiliar new addendum to the document. It’s dated yesterday.

Isako feels the blood drain out of her head.

“As you can see, Greves transferred your contract to me,” Minto says.

Based on Sherae’s expression, this is news to her as well.

“That can’t be right.” Isako’s voice comes out flat and stunned. Contract transfers from one director to another are not unheard of, but they’re rare. The Agency charges a prohibitively steep fee for such an act, to prevent clients from bartering their valuable aides, seizing or surrendering them as spoils of war, taking black-badge wearers hostage, or selling their contracts in times of financial need.

Greves must’ve spent a chunk of his personal wealth to accomplish this.

Why the fuck would he do such a thing?

It doesn’t make any sense. Minto already has an atier. She can’t have two. It’s against policy. Sherae’s eyes widen as she comes to the same understanding.

This is why she was summoned so urgently, Isako realizes with dismay. Savannah Minto has to make an immediate choice of which atier to keep and which to get rid of.

Sherae steps forward. “Director, if my service to you has been anything less than satisfactory, then please cancel my contract immediately.” She faces Isako, hand on her triggersheath. “Otherwise, let me bid for the position and prove I can keep it.”