Page 9 of Scion

“They’re trying to kill me. Actively. And I think they’re going to try again soon.”

“Again?”

“It’s been… an ongoing endeavour, I suppose you would say.” There’s a shadow to her smile this time. “First time was a hacked volo six months ago. Pure luck I wasn’t on board when it went down. Then a few weeks later, the tech in my house had a really good go at trying to stab me. You know how Automaid can cut your hair?” I nod. “It aimed lower.”

Ah. Thus the lack of bots. “How’d you survive?”

“Emergency EMP killed the tech, and medi-gel lasted me until I could get to an off-net AID I’d had installed after the volo incident. Wasn’t fun, though. I didn’t wake up for more than two weeks.” A distant look as she says it, but she moves on briskly. “After that, I came out here. Went dark. Thought that might be the end of it, but about a month ago, biosecurity stopped a team of three coming through the woods.”

Her tone remains light. As if people trying to murder her is par for the course. Hell, having met her, maybe it is. But assuming she’s not outright lying, what she’s describing sounds serious. Not just the usual lifer paranoia.

“You ID them?”

She gives me a disdainful look. “If I ran your DNA, would it come up with anything?”

Fair point. “But you must have at least a guess about who’s trying to kill you. Or why.” When she shakes her head, I sigh. “Then tell me about you. Your life. Your connections. Maybe we can—”

“That’s all rather personal, dear.” She smiles an infuriating smile. The kind that says she knows she could make my job easier, but won’t, and that’s my problem rather than hers.

“Yeah,” I mutter resignedly, massaging my temples. So she almost certainly does have an idea of who’s behind all this, but is concerned about a potential… conflict of interest, for the Keres, once this contract’s up in a couple of weeks. Probably why she’s already gone to more effort than most to maintain her privacy.

It’s not an uncommon worry. And not, I admit, entirely unwarranted.

“Alright. So you chose me for this job, specifically, because you think that having something to hold over me will make me more motivated.” I’m not sure whether to be more annoyed at the professional slight, or the fact she’s probably right. “Why do you think these people will try again while I’m here?”

“I have information to that extent.”

“From?” I wave my hand wearily before she can open her mouth. “Let me guess. It’s personal.”

“But reliable,” she assures me cheerfully.

“Fine. Then what happens once my two weeks is up?”

She chuckles. “If we reach that point, I suppose I’ll look at extending your contract.”

Not exactly an enthusing idea as far as I’m concerned, but a reasonable approach. I’m expensive. I probably wouldn’t hire me for more than two weeks at a time either.

Our footsteps echo as we reach another stairwell and descend. The walls on either side of the way down are transparent, fish with glinting scales shimmering their way through long seagrass to our left and right.

“What’s down here?” We reach the bottom, and it’s clear this isn’t more living space. One wall showcases the base of the aquarium—partly just sand pressed up against the glass, at this depth—and otherwise, there’s only a short utilitarian passageway ahead.

“Maintenance access for some of the house systems. Air scrubbers, recyclers.” Old Woman stops after only a couple of steps and places her hand against a pillar. A hidden panel slides away to reveal a keypad. A few soft beeps later, and part of the wall swings open. “And this.”

I follow her onto a narrow concrete strip. Fluorescents blink to life, lining the roof of both the platform and the four-metre-wide, transparent tube that runs alongside it. The glaring white is a harsh contrast to the placid warmth of the aquarium lighting behind us.

“An old Loop station?” The curved glass door to the cylinder ahead reflects my surprise back at me. I thought these things were all abandoned.

“Not that old.” She presses her thumb against another pad on the wall; there’s a whirring of machinery, and I step back as a reflective, bullet-shaped pod discharges itself from a hidden storage area at the end of the tube, sliding to a stop in front of us. There’s an audible hissing of air as it makes a seal with the door, which slides open.

“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say. Loop tech’s been obsolete for decades.

“I had it built a few years ago. It was a discreet way of bringing supplies out from the city. And me, too, sometimes. No tracking, not like the volos. Nobody had to know anyone was out here.”

The city. I assume she means Themis. “Nobody knew you dug five hundred kilometres of tunnel between your house and the city?”

“I did let bots do most of the work, dear.” I open my mouth but she preempts. “I’m joking. Most of the track was already complete and still useable; I bought this place partly because I knew it was under here. The rest was done with bots I owned, designed by an off-net neural I owned, printed and assembled on-site. All of it scrapped after the fact.”

I don’t say anything for a bit. Trying to fathom the cost of such an enterprise, of keeping infrastructure like this a secret, hurts my head. “How long ago?”