Black Marion

3

When Sasha woke, she was curled on her good side and thickly wrapped in covers. The left half of the bed was bare, but mussed enough to have been slept in. She dragged her eyes to the shaded window, and past it, saw the morning city moving with life—falcons in the sky and on the lanes, busy bodies trying to get to work.

It was Monday. Her name was Alexandra Davis-Myeong and she was twenty-nine years old. She was not working today at CyberSec as she would be, because she was recovering from a three-month coma, an explosion at the 42 Eastern midground loading docks of Sector 19, and a transport accident.

The bed was soft and warm enough that she would have liked to believe this.

She pushed upright to properly wake and a nausea came down on her head. It wasn't exactly physical. Maybe the remnant of a dream. She swallowed revulsion in her throat, shut her eyes to keep it contained. The moment was gone as quickly as it came, leaving her relieved, lost, and empty.

At least she had a routine today: the washroom behind the tall bedpost, the closet with clothes that purported to be hers. She cleaned and dressed in simple, comfortable things, and then wandered into the halls.

She smelled cooking, wonderfully poignant. She heard the clutter of it from the kitchen, and when she arrived she saw Vaughn pouring the rich contents of a steaming pot into a storage container. A bowl of porridge rested on the long table behind the Regent.

Vaughn glanced up. He smiled handsomely.

"Good morning, love. How are you feeling?"

Sasha paused for a brief moment.

"I'm well. What time is it?"

"Seven forty-two. You'll have to forgive me for eating breakfast without you—I have to leave in a few minutes, and I didn't want to wake you."

To work, Sasha assumed—whatever that might mean for a Regent. She didn't quite know; administrative things and other matters that didn't reach the public ear. She had an impersonal knowledge that no one ever asked—no one with the power to ask ever cared, when they were all provided with the greatest luxuries of the State.

"May I come with you?"

"I want you to rest here today," said Vaughn. He scooped out the last of the soup with a large spoon, and then set the container inside a storage drawer that was nested in the wall. "Neiman will be here at eight to keep you company. This is lunch" —he gestured to the soup he'd set aside— "and I will be back to prepare dinner."

"I'm not sure that I can sit around for an entire day," said Sasha. "May I leave the apartment?"

Vaughn washed his hands and came around the counter. As he did so, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a ring of electronic keys, removing a two-inch cerulean tab and a thin card. "Here. You can have my backup apartment keys. Just don't drive anything, please."

She took the cerulean tab. Though grateful, her gaze inevitably drifted to the connector band on Vaughn's wrist. That band contained the primary access keys to his apartment, his vehicles, his wallet, even to the government restricted zones of the State.

Perhaps noticing her gaze, Vaughn smiled and said, "I'll stop by the shop this afternoon and get your old chip reinstalled in a new conn. Here, in the meantime."

He passed Sasha a thin card. A row of serial numbers and microchips on one side, a familiar logo on the other. Blueworld Enterprises. A network port machine manufacturer.

"There's a machine in the workroom," said Vaughn. "Yours, actually. You've spent most of your life in the network, so getting back in there might help with your memories. And if not, I'm sure there will be something to keep you entertained."