“So, did you like your birthday present?”
“What birthday present?”
“The Pretty one.”
“As I recall, she was actually more your birthday present than mine.”
Lirala pouted. “I can’t help it if you’re so parochial.”
“Neither can I.”
The fact was, like most everyone from my class and generation, I was a custom baby, mapped out, steered, and bioengineered to be exactly what my parents wanted. Well, what my father wanted. That extended beyond what I looked like—which was pretty much a physical replica of old Sean. It extended to my emotional and sexual disposition, decidedly too hetero and monogamous in Lir’s opinion. More than once, I had wondered what she saw in me.
Other than my dad, of course.
“I’m going to Morat Ridge,” I announced. “With Kane and Hoedi.”
“Have fun.”
“I thought you and Preity could join us.”
“Sucking dust all day long? No thanks. I’m going to get her into Taniujo. Girl needs some fixing. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Suit yourself. Maybe we’ll meet up afterwards.”
“Of course, darling.” Lirala glided towards the bathroom. “Cavershams at eight. I’ll unveil my new creation. It’ll be brilliant.”
I never made it to Cavershams. In fact, I never even made it to hover-skimming. Within the hour, I was on a shuttle heading for Beck Salvage. Not my choice, though. Never my choice.
I had been summoned by my uncle. He had a job for me.
The headquarters of Beck Salvage was on Ducian Bridge, one of the bridge cities that spanned the Arden. Because Ducian was currently half a world away from New Torino, it took two hours to get there, even via the company’s supersonic shuttle. I tried to sleep, but I was still pretty wired from the moxa and B-stim still in my system, so I just stared out of the window.
I had no idea what the job was. Wallace never provided specifics until I was on the premises. Because of the threat of industrial espionage, he claimed. But I had a hard time believing that the junk we retrieved had value to anyone other than the fanatics who hired us.
My employment contract with Beck Salvage stipulated that, in addition to the handful of meetings and training sessions I needed to attend every year, I was also on-call for high-level client meetings, either face-to-face or face-to-sim. These meetings usually lasted less than an hour; it was the prep work that took longer. Even though I am a quick study and a trained actor, I usually needed to spend a day or two in the knowledge tank getting briefed before Wallace felt confident that I wouldn’t blow the gig. Hopefully this new job was more grin and grip than anything else. A surprisingly large percentage of clients just wanted to bask in my celebrity. Or my dad’s, to be more accurate.
It was late in the afternoon by the time the lift doors opened and I was ushered through the security tunnel and finally granted access to the reception area of Beck Salvage. The decor was the same ersatz old Kessig Republic look that had adorned the offices since before I was born. Big blocky furniture and trophy cases made of lacquered exotic woods dominated the room. Severe-looking artwork of geometric shapes and strong blues, blacks, and metallics decorated the walls. Even Thalatea, the corporate hostess who presided over the reception area, dressed in sharp angular suits and wore her hair styled in sleek marcelled waves.
“Good to see you sir,” she nodded. “How’s the shoulder?”
My shoulder injury was completely fictional, but it was part of this quarter’s Sean Beck narrative, so I played along.
“Almost completely back to normal. Thank you, Thalatea.”
“Mr. Beck is expecting you in the Bay Room.”
I nodded to her and walked down a dark glass corridor dotted with amber lights, past rooms of analysts and researchers that seemed less populated than I remembered. For security reasons, Wallace required the entire research department to work on premises. I wondered why the place looked so empty.
At the end of the corridor I was met by Hendrik Lim, Wallace’s second-in-command, a slight, weaselly man prone to inappropriate jokes.
“How was the party, JB? Did you get into any wáwás?” Lim was one of a handful of Beck Salvage employees who called me by my real name.
“Not quite my style,” I said. “The Stones played at the Wardley O2. It was a good show.”
“I can’t believe you even know who the Rolling Stones are.”
I shrugged. “Legends.”
“That’s debatable.”
I didn’t want to get into it with him. Lim’s taste in music ran in embarrassing directions. Viva Scar. Little Namatto. Boinchi. Stuff like that.
“Is he expecting me?” I motioned to my uncle’s office door, which was shut.
“He is indeed. We got a good one coming up. This could be a game changer. Big.”
Yeah, right. They’re all big jobs.
I pushed open the door and stepped into my uncle’s office. He was in the middle of a conversation on his overlay, but he motioned me to sit down.
Wallace Beck didn’t look anything like his younger brother, my father and—by virtue of some expensive genetic manipulation—me.
My uncle was a few inches shorter than me and appeared to be in his mid-40s, although that was certainly due to some conservative cosme treatments. Wallace’s biological age was 68, three years older than my father—if my father had still been alive. My uncle’s face was thick and ruddy and his eyes deep-set. They had been balanced and his nose had been sculpted, of course, which gave him a hawkish appearance. He wore his salt and pepper hair cropped close to his skull. The overall effect was that of a military general from a bygone era. A master tactician. A trusted commander of men. And a paragon of virtue.
None of which reflected the reality of Wallace Beck.
As he finished up his overlay conversation, Wallace’s eyes darted around the room tirelessly, not resting on anything in particular. Just taking everything in. Checking for disruptions in the patterns of
