Page 3 of Scion

I reach the entrance, pulling the printed thumb from my pocket. “Look, I’m here. I’ll tell you ‘no’ some more later.” Before she can argue I tap the q-com off, and press the rubbery pink digit against the door handle. It recognises the fingerprint and DNA—locally stored data, easier to fool than hack—and the way clicks open. The man inside doesn’t hear it over the holo.

“Good evening,” I say wearily as I limp inside and shut the door behind me.

He scrambles to his feet. Thick, curly black hair, fit, and clean-shaven. Looks about nat-forty but I know from his file he’s closer to ninety years old. His surprise quickly becomes panic as he takes in what has to be a pretty grim sight, given I’m wearing shredded clothes and copious amounts of drying blood.

He’s frozen, then dashes for the far door. Atti’s already locked the house internals down though. He batters the glass, howls his security overrides. Manages to turn the holo off, but that’s about it.

“Calm down.” I make my way around the couch toward him, massaging my leg as it threatens to stiffen up.

He turns back to me, slow acceptance dawning that there’s no way out. His breath is shallow and fast, loud even from across the room. “How did you get in here?”

I gesture at the length of my viscera-covered body, and keep coming.

“Right. Right.” He’s wide-eyed. Grasping for something to say to make me stop. “You’re here to kill me?”

“One hundred percent.” I keep my revs active. Most people don’t have weapons secreted around their living space, but this guy had an Argos.

“I can pay you.”

“No, you can’t.” I allow him an apologetic smile. He’s undoubtedly someone important, probably someone I’d recognise if I ever watched the holos. I try to remember his name. Jax? Pax? Something like that. Names rarely stick with me. Not that it matters. Tonight, he’s just Guy I Have to Kill.

There’s a pause. Still that glimmer of hope. “Then why are we talking?”

I draw my Ceramic. Still smeared red from earlier.

“Honestly? I don’t normally let people see it coming, but I really hate surprise biosecurity.”

I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS,” I tell Atti twenty-four hours later as the volo begins its descent toward the landing pad.

“You may already have mentioned that once or twice tonight.” Silence over the q-com and then, when it’s apparent I’m not going to dignify the observation with a response, “How’s the leg?”

I stretch it out in front of me. The therapy sleeve—administering everything from electrical stimulation to temperature modulation to anaesthesia—peeks out from beneath my long dark coat, running from thigh to calf. When I bend my knee, there’s a gentle mechanical whirring as the supportive exoskeleton moves with it. “Loud.”

“Lucky you don’t have to sneak up on anyone for the next two weeks, then.”

I ignore her snark and peer out the window. The place below is exactly like the one from last night. Well. Not exactly. This one has more stone and more curves. Its accent lighting is all oranges and reds, dramatic flames rippling along the stone gardens that line the path to the entrance. But it’s huge, and unique, and isolated, and very expensive.

“I take it we still don’t know who’s paying for this?”

“Neurals just ran the property but it’s self-owned and run, no path back to a human that they could find. They’re still trying to backtrace the tokens, but you know how that goes.”

“Yeah.” I stare down at the surrounding landscape. It’s stylishly lit gardens for kilometres in all directions, split into three concentric circles by artfully decorated walls. Defensive layers, just like last night: tech, then an EMP ring, then tech again. Those walls will conceal a whole lot of airspace defence equipment, too. And a SatScreen. Security consultants aren’t the most creative types. “Guessing it’s another lifer, then.”

“That’s what the neurals think.”

The volo’s slowing its descent, almost on the pad now. Nobody’s waiting to greet me, but the edges of the path leading to the house phase to pulsing orange as my ride touches down. No mistaking where I’m supposed to go.

“I’m here.” The volo’s door raises and I slide out; as soon as I’m clear the angular white vehicle seals and spins up the rotors around its ten-metre-wide halo again, rising with a blast of air that whips at the edges of my coat. I watch it vanish into the night. “Not many autonomous licenses for those things.”

“Property owns that too.”

“Of course it does.” I start along the path. Knee-height flames burn silently to my left and right amidst a sea of polished black stone, guarding the lawn beyond. Just close enough to keep the chill of the evening at bay. “If they’re this worried about anonymity, they may not even tell me who they really are. Make sure you run voice as soon as you have a sample.”

“Sure. And you make sure you keep this person alive. That’s what we’re doing, right? Pointing out obvious things about each other’s jobs?”

“Touché. Now keep quiet for a bit.”

With all the glass set to opaque, I can’t see anything inside the house, but as I reach the front door it swings silently open. I activate my cognitive revs—more from habit than any real concern—and step inside.