The nursery was quiet now.
Helga sat in the rocking chair-the same one she had used for three shifts straight, its wood worn smooth by decades of handlers who had held assets far less remarkable than this one. The staff had gone. Eun-mi had practically fled at shift change, her fear palpable, embarrassing. The monitors hummed their low green song against the far wall, tracking respiration and body temperature and a dozen other metrics that meant nothing when the subject could shatter polymer with his hands.
Damon slept against her chest. His weight was wrong for a three-day-old. Too dense. Too aware. Even in sleep, his fingers moved in small twitches, as if practicing grips he would need later.
Helga did not move. She had learned, years ago, not to move when assets slept.
But the still
