Scion

by James Islington

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

John Wick meets Altered Carbon in this fast-paced cyberpunk thriller by the #1 NYT bestselling author of The Will of the Many and The Strength of the Few.

Azure is the best at what he does, and what he does is work for the Keres corporation as a fixer, with the occasional protection job here and there, like this new gig, protecting an extremely wealthy older woman from people just like him. However, even with his advanced cybernetic upgrades Azure is on the backfoot as wave after wave of assassins come after his client. New York Times bestselling author James Islington’s first science fiction novel is filled with the clever twists that made The Will of the Many a beloved bestseller and Booktube favorite. With Scion Islington has forged a gritty future that evokes the best of his cyberpunk and anime influences in a science fiction thriller.

Release date: September 1, 2026

Publisher: S&S/Saga Press

Print pages: 240

Sample

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.

“Well that was awful,” I mutter to myself, perching on the dead Argos while the gel sets and gazing out over the half-wrecked garden. No need to rush. Anyone with an Argos won’t be employing humans as well: guards occupying the same space as biosecurity need recog training or at least stand-down access, and that’s such an easy point of failure that owning one of these things would be all but futile. There won’t be more Argos—Argoses—Argi?—roaming the grounds, either. They’re insanely expensive, and tend to see one another as intruders.

Even the man I’m here to kill doesn’t have that many tokens to throw away.

Eventually I climb down from the headless, bloodied monstrosity’s back, toeing it cautiously with my boot before limping onward. It’s a five-minute walk through the rest of the EMP garden to the main house; it takes me almost ten, cursing under my breath for most of the way. Why does this guy even have this much lawn?

I crouch low as my target’s dwelling finally comes into sight, using shadows and sculpted shrubbery to mask the remainder of my approach. The building up ahead is pretty typical of the people I tend to kill. Large, of course. Very large. All stylishly sharp geometric angles, water features, and tastefully lit glass. No atmoshields needed on a clear night like tonight; the upper-floor windows are tuned to opaque, but I can see him downstairs slouched on the couch, watching the holo. There won’t be anyone else to worry about. He’s a lifer, according to his file. They never allow other people to sleep in the same house they do.

I fish the thankfully still-intact Faraday pouch from my pocket and open it. There’s tech everywhere again now I’m out of the EMP ring, but there’s a reason anyone serious about their safety relies on biosecurity: anything electronic is just far easier to meddle with. Not my area, to be honest. All I know is that as I plug the q-com into my ear, the drones I can see high above buzz cheerfully to the opposite side of the house, and none of the environmental sensors that surely litter this place indicate to the man inside that I’m here.

“You there?”

“No. All the alarms just turned themselves off as you arrived.” The disgruntled feminine voice on the other end is more than a touch sardonic. That’s pretty normal. “You took your time.”

“Biosecurity.” I shuffle toward the house. Keeping an eye on the man inside in case he turns around, but not bothering to hide myself otherwise. Atti would have already given me a heads-up if she hadn’t taken care of all the tech.

“I warned you. Those Bats aren’t as easy to kill as you seem to think.”

“I took care of the Bats before they saw me.” Bats are a far simpler, cheaper, and more passive form of biosecurity: when they detect an intrusion inside the EMP ring, they simply fly out of it and trigger an alarm. “The Argos was the surprise.”

There’s a long enough silence that I gently tap the q-com, checking it’s still working.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” I agree.

“You alright?”

“I’m a little injured.”

“Define ‘a little.’ ”

I consider lying. “My left leg needs work. Stitch spray and revs are doing the job for now.”

“So at least a week.” I don’t say anything. “Two weeks?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Ah.” A small exhalation of breath. “Well… that works out, anyway. Your next job came through a few minutes ago.”

There’s a note of reluctance in Atti’s voice. Not like her at all. “Why does it ‘work out’?”

“It’s… more defensive than usual.”

I keep creeping toward the house. “No.”

“They already know you won’t like it, and they’ve assigned you anyway.”

“No.”

“It’s been four years.”

“No.”

An exasperated silence, then, “The tokens on this one are too big to pass up, Azure. And even if that wasn’t true, you can’t afford two weeks in the air. You know that as well as I do.”

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.”