Dom said to Marty, “Are you coming with us?”
With a brusque shake of her head, Marty said, “No, you guys go ahead. I need a shower after that meeting and I’ve got a couple of things to do but I’ll be over there before ten. OK?”
They split up: Dom, Fatima and Stanislav for their Env in Orchard while Marty walked north. She lived in an Env that was designated as Commspace — a warehouse on the northern shore of Jurong Island. From UNPOL Headquarters, it was about a three and a half kilom walk.
Marty competed professionally at race walking and the walk to her Env was great practice. Before setting out, she stopped to stretch. She was tall at one hundred and seventy eight cent, something she thanked the errant Y chromosome that had given her manhood. She called it gender realignment, not assignment. Her mind was not meant to be in a male body. She was female, had been for a thousand years, or at least that was her understanding. The surgery had taken twelve weeks from her life, lying in regen while the mistake was rectified.
When she’d come out of regen and first stood on wobbly knees in front of a mirror looking at her twenty-one year old female body, it was perfect. Everything had come out as she’d envisioned. The regen had been painful, frustrating and boring, the last being the worst she had to bear, but it had all been worth it and now, thirteen years later, she stretched out a long smooth tanned leg and eased her fingertips down to her toes. The pose stopped a few males and females in their tracks as her short outers tightened around her taut buttocks. It was an inviting sight, but one that was swiftly over as she tidied up her warm up exercises and straightening, began walking at a furious pace.
Fifteen minutes later she was moving at about eight kilos per hour on the home stretch along the wharf to her Env. The dockies yelled her in, chanting, “Go, go, go,” as she hurled herself with full pelvis rotations at the imaginary finish line in front of the warehouse that housed her Env. Dropping her arms as she crossed the line to the cheers of the dockies on the deck of the ocean hauler tied up at the wharf, she shook off the walk and eyed her Dev. It unlocked her door and she went in, turning to her left and striding to the far corner, she climbed the stairs to the second-story landing that fronted the space she had leased.
The space was huge and after she entered the gap left by the double metal doors, each six meters high, she walked across the measured one thousand meter track that she had painted onto the floor around the circumference of the room. In the middle of this space, she had built a large single room that contained her Devcockpit, sleeper and hygiene facilities with outlet. She thought of this room as her cabin, sound-proofed against the noise of the adjoining wharf. Outside, in the warehouse area, the room was filled with her hobbies. Plants grew in various stages all over the space under the nutritious light of grow lamps bought at discount on e-cred. The cooking range and exhaust she’d built herself out of brick and metal, as a prelude to her sculptures, for which she had a following among those who liked their art large and meaningful.
It was 6pm. She went into the cabin and, stripping off, headed straight for the shower. The shower was a slate room of three meters squared. High above it in the rafters of the warehouse hung a huge shower head a meter across.
She said, “Shower,” and the water dropped like a waterfall. Toweling herself off she looked in the mirror, searching for any fat or wrinkles, knowing she wouldn’t find any. Her short black hair was spiky from the water. She stepped into the drier sanitizing unit and blew herself dry on full blast, the upwards draft of the slightly warm air blowing tenacious droplets off her.
Walking back into the main room of the cabin, she flopped down across her sleeper and reached for a Devstick on the side table. The Devstick looked like an ordinary one, but it would explode and fragment if the wrong key was entered. She keyed in a sixteen digit code and the Devstick came to life. She selected her mother’s ID and, choosing message, typed:
Investigation now focused on known threats to TBO.
She waited, lying naked fully stretched out, looking at what she’d entered, the Devstick in both hands, and then she thumbed encrypt and submit. She paused, brushed a hand through her hair, and selecting another contact, typed, I miss you, pressed encrypt and send.
Chapter 19
Coughington and Scuttle Corp HQ, 4th floor, C amp;S Building, Clarke Street, New Singapore
Friday 20 December 2109, 5:30pm +8 UTC
I walked into the Scuttles outer office area at 5:30pm and said, “Dora, is Bill in?” I knew he was, I could see his profile indicating contribution in my Devstick, but it was a matter of form that we allowed the assistants to interpret our mood for seeing or not seeing visitors.
“Hi, Jonah. Yes he is. Would you like some tea? He’s drinking a coffee and catching up on the feeds just now,” she said and reaching under her Clearfilm desk pressed a button that opened the door to Bill’s space.
“Er, no thanks. This shouldn’t take too long,” I said as I walked past her into Bill’s contribution space. The view out of the double windows of the converted Chinese shop house showed Clarke Quay with the Singapore river in the background, curving down to Bonham Place. Bill sat at the far end of the room on an easy chair. The room was white but the furniture was black. It reminded me a little of the White Room. The heels of my shoes sounded loud on the painted white wooden floorboards as I walked the floor between us.
Bill’s face registered a slight puzzled frown, quickly replaced by a smile, as he saw my casual attire. It wasn’t what I normally wore to my contribution.
“Jonah, good to see you back — hope that business with UNPOL got resolved all right?” Bill said.
Bill Scuttle was the Senior Partner of Coughington and Scuttle, and a friend of Sir Thomas. It was my uncle who suggested that I contact Bill for a contribution when I first arrived in New Singapore back in July of 2105. At sixty-five years old, Bill still ran the New Singapore marathon every year and was always a serious contender in his age group. His shock of white hair off-set his ruddy, tanned face, showing off his preference for an outdoors lifestyle.
“Yes, thanks. It sort of resolved itself. Anyway, it’s out of my scope of responsibility now,” I said and stepped forward to sit down in the chair about two meters opposite to his. It was comfortable and deep, the arms were broad enough that you didn’t have to worry about your elbow slipping off the edge while you talked.
“Bill, I’m going to resign my contribution here at Coughington and Scuttle. I wanted to tell you before anyone else.”
Bill leant forward in his seat and put his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands in front of him. It was a posture I’d seen many times before. A delaying action while he gathered his thoughts — and usually those thoughts were very sharp.
“If this is about your share of the settlement of the Schilling vs. Bauer case, you know that I would happily talk to the Board on your behalf.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“No, it isn’t about that. My share was more than generous, thank you very much. I’m just not happy doing this anymore and I need a change.”
“Well this is very sudden. When were you planning on leaving us?”
“Today. Now,” I said, and looked him in the eye. He had sat in enough conferences with me to know that look. I had perfected it and trained its reputation for years. It was my ‘this is my final offer’ look and I knew he got it when he smiled.
Bill stood up in front of me and I rose immediately. He said, “It’s been a pleasure contributing with you Jonah. I wish you every success and I am sure that whatever form of contribution you try your hand at next, you will be successful. I will miss having you here. Your insight and attitude have always been a source of inspiration for us all. Please keep in touch and tell us how you are now and then.”