Page 12 of Scion

“I’ll show you to your room.”

“No need. I don’t really sleep.”

Old Woman glances across at me, and for a second there’s a sort of sorrowful pity in her gaze that I find distinctly uncomfortable. Then it’s gone, and she snorts. “What else are you going to do?”

“I’d like to look around a little more. Examine those pipes you mentioned, plus make sure there aren’t any other access points.” And while I doubt she’s left anything lying around, maybe try and find out what the hell she knows about my past—or how the hell she knows it.

“Fine.” I suspect she wants to argue, but she’s too weary to string the words together. “You’re already registered as a guest, so the house will respond if you need anything. Except ’net access.”

Bah. “Thank you.”

“ ’Night, dear.” We reach the top of the stairs and she pats me almost fondly on the arm. “Good job not letting me die today.” Wanders down the corridor, toward what I assume are her own rooms, without anything further.

I watch her go. My stomach, apparently deciding it now needs attending to, growls.

I head back to the kitchen.

THE REST OF THE NIGHT, dawn, and most of the morning passes on the digiglass roof before Old Woman appears again.

“No more bombs?” She’s cheerful as she shuffles into the room. Rested and refreshed, minor injuries from last night vanished beneath the medi-gel. Her white hair’s tied back into a ponytail today, only a few wisps loose. It makes her look a lot more composed.

“Not yet.”

“That’s the spirit.” She busies herself in the kitchen. Bacon and eggs again, I think. “Want some?”

“No.”

She shrugs to herself, unfazed, as I continue to study the old sat photos of the house I’ve found on the intranet. I’ve made good use of the time up until now. The first hour in particular, I spent Marking the aquarium intake, the door to the Loop, and the main entrance. I rarely have occasion to use that particular cognitive rev, and the feel of it—the ongoing awareness of those locations, sitting in the back of my mind—is uncomfortable. But if there are any breaches now, I’ll instantly know.

Judging from both the plans and my own inspection, the rest of the house is as secure as I’d expect for what is essentially a fancy underground bunker. Everything from the food printer to the air recycler is self-contained, completely offline, and there are advanced contaminate detection systems on everything. Old Woman’s concerns about bots means they’re not something I have to worry about, either. I haven’t been able to examine the biosecurity without her present, of course, but everything else is about as tightly put together as I could hope.

What I haven’t found anywhere during my inspection is any clue as to who the hell my client really is. There’s nothing particularly personal anywhere. No screens playing memories of family or friends. Nothing I could access on the intranet that indicated a past of any kind. I wasn’t able to look in the room where Old Woman was sleeping, but unless she’s keeping all her personalisation in there, she’s done a surprisingly effective job of scrubbing herself from every surface. Or, I suppose, never added anything of herself to the place to begin with.

“How’s your back?”

“Fine.” To allow for Marking the entrances, I had to drop the rev that lets me ignore pain, but the medi-gel had already done the majority of its work. My leg, on the other hand, is still aching like hell.

“I’m fine too, by the way,” Old Woman says sunnily, after a brief pause in which she was clearly waiting for me to ask.

“Good. As soon as you’re done eating, we need to look at your biosecurity.”

She waves her hand in lazy acknowledgement. A couple of minutes later she’s easing herself into the space across the table from me. I pretend to still be looking through the photos as her plate clinks on the glass.

“What’s your favourite colour, Azure?”

I pause. Brow creasing as I look up. “Pardon?”

“What. Is. Your. Favourite. Colour?” When I look at her with the very real bemusement I feel, she shrugs. “If you’re going to protect me, I want to know who you are.”

“That’s not…” I don’t even know what to say to that. “There are more important things to worry about, right now.”

“Not if you want that file, dear.” She returns my disbelieving look with an absent smile. “It’s a simple question.”

“I don’t know. Blue? Let’s say blue.” First thing that comes to mind. Favourite damned colour. It’s the sort of thing you ask a child, to make sure they know what the different colours are.

“Blue,” Old Woman repeats in a satisfied manner. “See? I suppose I could have guessed that, but still—now I know you a bit better. I feel a little more comfortable around you. And it cost you nothing.”

This entire stupid interaction is costing me seconds of my life I can never get back. “Sure.”