Page 38 of Scion

“She’s survived a century or two. Another day won’t hurt,” I reply, not bothering to whisper.

Jasa rolls her eyes as Verity gives a delicate laugh, fingers trailing down my shoulder as she drifts away, delighting a young man in the corner with her abrupt attention. Even with everyone on Neon in here, she’s the brightest light in the room.

“You’re going to leave me with that woman?”

“That woman controls the flow of nostrums in Themis. That woman is also an utter demon who should be trusted by anyone she likes, which is me, and feared by anyone she doesn’t, which—incidentally—is absolutely you. So for the love of all that is holy, do not tell her who you are. Manage that, and you’ll be as safe as anywhere in the city.” I see her look. “Or, you can come with me to visit a friend who tends to kill anyone who isn’t me. Even when I ask her nicely. She has… privacy issues.”

Jasa thinks, then growls her submission as if she had the option. “Your choice of friends thus far leaves something to be desired.”

“All my Keres ones are lovely. Polite and well-adjusted assassin-helpers, I promise. I could arrange for you to meet them instead?”

She sniffs, but takes the point. “This ‘Cold Room.’ It’s really safe?”

“It is.” She needs my sincerity, so I relent and let her see it. “Boring as hell, but definitely safe.”

She studies me for a long moment, then accepts it with a small, yielding sigh. Goes back to taking in the room again with a kind of creaking, judgemental horror. A young woman dances slowly in front of a sealed-away Argos, her veins glowing soft pink as the first notes of some Brahms drift through the air. Another woman is draped across a couch, admiring the pulsing lines of her own body. “So you were a customer here?”

“No. I had some business here once. Off the books. Verity owes me for it.”

“Oh.” She’s relieved, as I knew she would be. Seems to have no trouble believing the lie. “You are coming back to get me at some point, though. Right?”

“Of course.” I give her my most sincere look as I pat her reassuringly on the shoulder. “I still want that damned file.”

I leave with a casual wave before she can respond.

THE PLATE, AS I AM reminded as I navigate its innards two hours later, is not a nice place to live.

Concrete and metres-thick reinforced steel shakes and shudders and clatters and moans around me as if it were considerably thinner layers of tin. It’s only my revs that allow me to balance as I walk the painfully narrow metal corridor that doubles as a maintenance shaft for the vents. It’s hot. Searing, scalding, lava-as-a-better-alternative hot. A heatmat provides a way to walk without melting my shoes and then pretty soon after, my skin. The one concession to anything approaching being human up here.

After a few minutes of watching my perspiration evaporate before it can hit the ground, I finally make a turn into a poorly lit side passage. It’s still a cacophonous, thundering rage of elements tearing at Themis’s permanent sun hat. But a marginally cooler one.

Another minute and I come to Chandra’s door, such as it is. Pretty much as I remember it. Just a solid slab of steel with a slot at eye height, and a lever next to it. I grab the latter and put a reasonable amount of my revs behind pulling it downward. With an excessive amount of reluctance, it moves.

Nothing for thirty seconds. I consider pulling the lever again.

The slot opens and a familiar pair of bright yellow eyes glare through. Examine me for a second or two too long, then vanish as the opening slams shut.

The door groans ponderously aside, until it’s open enough for me to see the girlish figure blocking the way in.

Could have given me some more notice. She signs it at me. Not deaf, but the buds that by necessity live in her ears make her functionally so. Almost didn’t spoof the cams in time.

Really? You used to be better. I sign it back. Far from fluent, but I spent plenty of time up here, once.

She shows me her middle finger. I shrug. She shows me her other middle finger. I make an acceding, apologetic gesture. She ushers me inside.

Chandra seals the door again, hauling with all her weight on the mechanism until the din from outside eases to something approaching a normal torture chamber. She looks across at me, cheeks flushed from the exertion, and raises an eyebrow.

You look well, I sign nonchalantly.

She stares at me. Five foot four, dark skin, completely impractical waist-length curly hair that I swear has to get caught on all the mechanical stuff in here at least a dozen times a day. It’s her eyes that are by far her most striking aspect, though. Golden and glowing faintly in the dim. Three years.

And a bit.

Her eyes narrow but the edges of her mouth creep upward, ever so slightly. Good sign. She gestures brusquely to the sole table, nestled against the shuddering wall and roofed by uncomfortably low steel cupboards. I slide into a seat, ducking my head.

Immediately, the audible assault stops. There’s still something. A faint echo of thunder, a whisper of violence that lingers on the ears. But for the first time since the long ride up here, the air around me feels unpolluted.

“Oh! This is new.” I look around appreciatively as Chandra slides into the seat across the table, and turns off her buds. There’s a slight shimmer to the air around our heads. “I approve.”