Scion

Chapter 1

I’VE OFTEN WONDERED TO MYSELF, over these past few years, what a peaceful life might look like. Lazy mornings, I imagine. Quiet days. Good meals and easy company.

As the Argos tries once again to separate my head from my shoulders, I can’t help but consider the possibility—not for the first time—that I may not have always made the best life choices.

I backpedal. Burning, screaming pain in my left thigh.

It’s a clear and bright night. Sky crawling with pinpricks of light from LEE satellites, adding a sheen of silver to the garden I was originally sneaking through and am now very close to dying in.

It’s a nice garden. A vast, manicured lawn, tastefully interrupted by shaped shrubbery, feature walls, and gravity-fed fountains.

Cool hues of bioluminescent purple and green illuminate the most impressive sections.

The view is very much spoiled by the ten-foot-tall monstrosity stalking after me as I drag myself backward.

An Argos traditionally has a hundred eyes, but this one has a lot less.

Thirty, maybe? Forty? The biotechs’ nod to mythology here was a little disappointing, honestly.

Still, a creepy eyeball patchwork covers the thing’s entire headless body.

Neck, arms, legs, torso. Front and back.

And all the eyes I can see, unfortunately, are very much fixed on me.

A little adrenaline’s good for the reflexes, so my revs only tamp down my fear to manageable levels as I try not to focus on how much blood I’m losing from the gash in my leg.

Taking in the Argos, though, I can guess it’s a lot.

The thing’s bipedal but has six gorilla-like arms that end in half-metre-long claws.

One set glistens in the faint light that’s illuminating our—if I’m being generous—battle.

Blood is wet and dark down its arm, and all across its chest.

My blood. Lots and lots of my blood.

“Just… hang on… a second.” I continue my less than dignified retreat around the gasped request. There’s undoubtedly a stand-down command, but I’d need to issue it in its owner’s voice.

And even if I had a recording of my target and a modulator that somehow worked in an EMP ring, there’s no chance I could guess the right words.

Security consultants always make sure their clients set it to something stupid and random.

“Elephantine pogo castration.” “Cantankerous urinal marinade.” That sort of thing.

So, yeah. The monster doesn’t oblige and let me catch my breath.

For something so big it moves with inconvenient agility and speed, leaping to cover the last half dozen metres between us and apparently aiming to finish with four of its arms buried squarely in my torso.

Disliking the image, I use an awkward foothold and my revved limbic musculature to fling myself out of the way.

There’s a distinct whiff of air against my face where a slicing row of claws almost removes it.

“Ngh.” Damned tempting to use a cognitive rev to kill the agony in my leg, but the risk is forgetting it’s hurt at all. Gene-boosted or not, asking too much of a structurally damaged body part never ends well. And not ending well right now would be the ending.

I am, as usual, keen to avoid that.

The Argos wheezes from the large, toothless, mushy mouth that sits in the centre of its chest, I think coming to the realisation that its many, many claws aren’t currently skewering me as planned.

I could almost mistake the sound for frustration.

It isn’t. Even biotechs aren’t stupid enough to make these things with emotions.

The monster swivels its body, dozens of eyes remaining locked on me. Its muscles are already cording for another leap.

Not ideal, but still enough of a respite for me to stagger to my feet, the short blade I keep tucked into an ankle sheath finally in hand.

Just a Ceramic, unfortunately. I’d feel a lot more confident with a good Plasma blade instead—if three thousand degrees is hot enough to slice through metal, I’ll wager it could slice through some Argos quite nicely—but even the basic chips in that would have fried the second I scaled the wall here.

There’s not much time to lament the situation, anyway; the creature comes again, all extended claws and murder-y intent.

If it recognises the blade in my hand as a weapon, it simply doesn’t care.

I’m not insulted. These things aren’t exactly engineered for subtlety or caution: like all bios, they’re given limited intelligence and made for purpose.

And this one’s very specific purpose is killing things.

Fortunately, that’s one trait we share.

I flick the knife underhand; the shiny white blade reflects cool purple and green in the garden’s ambience, almost pretty as it arrows through the air. Less so as it slices through an eyeball and sends jellylike fluid spraying everywhere, but I find I don’t mind the trade-off.

The Argos flails, aborting its charge. Tears the still-quivering blade from its chest and tosses it aside with another kind of wheezing hiss.

No vocal cords, I assume. Not that it would feel pain, anyway—not in any debilitating sense.

Just register the damage and adapt. As I grit my teeth and awkwardly limp-run to the side, I consider how nice that must be.

Technically successful though my throw was, I’m now weaponless and the Argos, unfairly, has an absolute ton of spare eyes.

A Gauss, or any ranged weapon really, would be great right about now.

But even if the Four-O-Nine ban didn’t make them more hassle than they’re worth, I don’t have one tonight for the same reason I don’t have my Plasma.

“Where do you keep your vital parts, Blinky?” I gasp.

Even injured, my revs might be enough to take care of this thing, but the question is how.

I can probably get my knife back, but the issue is knowing where to put it: all bios have a central heart and brain, but biotechs love moving them around for these custom jobs.

And bios like this—unarmoured, nimble, made for hunting rather than defence—will adapt quickly.

I’ll get one, maybe two good stabs before I run out of moves it doesn’t anticipate.

Not to mention blood. My leg is really pumping out the red stuff. I have a stitch spray in my pocket, but applying it will require at least five seconds of time I most definitely don’t have right now.

The Argos doesn’t oblige with even a hint of an answer to my question, instead just charging again.

At least it’s consistent. I use my revs to dive out of its path for a third time, managing to do so well enough to retrieve the Ceramic it was gracious enough to leave on the ground.

Both blade and handle are sticky with clear, viscous fluid. Gross.

I resist the urge to hurl the knife at a slightly different section of chest, and choose to retreat some more, positioning myself in front of an illuminated, waist-high glass wall.

I assume the Argos has my scent—no biosecurity gets made without a focus on olfactory—so finding somewhere to hide in here won’t work.

And my leg’s too damaged to run for the house or the ten-metre-high garden wall.

“Come on. Over here. Thaaat’s the way.” I hold steady as the Argos comes again. Somatic revs primed, this time. Even with the excruciating pain in my thigh, my body’s motionless. Poised. Hands perfectly steady.

About a second before the Argos gets to me, I throw my blade.

Another eye spurts and the Argos once again stumbles and tries to stop. This time, though, I’m flying forward. Sliding beneath swooshing claws and punching out the thing’s right knee. I put everything I have into the blow.

With my revs fully active, everything I have is… quite a bit.

The Argos’s leg, fully taut as it tries to arrest its momentum, explodes sideways with a frankly unpleasant snap. Balance lost and momentum entirely unarrested, the creature plummets into the wall, smashing through what I have to assume is thoroughly reinforced glass as if it were paper.

Paper that has lots of nasty, jagged edges that cut through a whole lot more of its stupid eyes, though.

No time to celebrate; I jump on the thing’s back before it can adapt and use another rev-enhanced punch, plunging my fist clean through a remaining eye and deep into its torso.

Nothing but viscera; it wheezes, tries to buck me off.

I hold on, yank my dripping hand out, and try another eye.

The Argos staggers and twitches vainly as my fist cleaves through flesh.

There’s a bone cage behind this one. I grab a piece and twist, snapping the obstruction, then force my arm through the hole.

I’m up past my elbow. The Argos is struggling to rise, thrashing to dislodge me.

But I can feel something in there. Larger than my fist. Pulsing.

With a final effort I lodge my fingers around the fleshy, throbbing mass and squeeze.

The flesh becomes mush, squelches and oozes between my fingers. The Argos gives one more desperate heave. Twitches. Lies still.

I lie there too for at least a few heartbeats past the Argos’s last, before groaning and extracting myself from its torso.

My whole arm is warm and sticky and very, very red.

Little bits of meat cling to my fingers.

I wipe them reluctantly on the one section of my shirt that’s actually bloodless enough to do so, then locate the stitch spray in my pocket and hose the hole in my leg thoroughly.

The gel dulls the pain even as it seals the wound.

No arteries hit, but I wouldn’t be able to walk without my revs.