Greaves let out a hiss.
Izz winced and touched her earpiece so the noodle stall owner wouldn’t think she was talking to herself. Then again, most stationers left others alone unless it was a safety issue. The odds had proliferated space beyond anyone’s imagination, with a genetic predisposition toward independence that rubbed most of the original colonists in ways that had them clutching their oxygen masks. To each their own, on most stations, unless the odd wanted to let the oxygen out.
Still, it would attract unwanted attention until the wizened woman who ran the best noodle stall in five parsecs determined she wasn’t a threat, so Izz left her hand near her ear in the universal sign of comms-in-progress. She twirled noodles clumsily with her free hand. “You don’t have lungs. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…”
An eavesdropper wouldn’t have known Greaves was a sentient AI inhabiting her ship, and that was how Izz liked it. She eyed the woman carefully intent on stirring the pot of broth and decided some misdirection wouldn’t go amiss. “Whatever, you cyborg. Do I need to come back?”
“No…”
The woman with the broth turned to a new customer, and Izz took a huge breath in relief. It made her chest hurt. She needed to get used to people again, and stop making stupid comments about not having the normal amount of body parts. Carelessness would get them both caught, and the salvage business would have been impossible without Greaves’ assistance.
And maybe she was developing a fondness for a sentient that she shouldn’t. It was hard not to develop feelings when something – someone – kept you alive in space for months on end, with a bonus of profit to boot.
“You sound like a sulky teenager.” She nibbled at the edges of the noodle ball she’d created. Wavy lengths of pasta flailed for tremulous freedom. She’d conquered most of the escapees before the noodle ball dropped with a splash that splattered her jumpsuit. “Are you done sorting those antique recipes yet?”
“I am a teenager.” Greaves had escaped the postwar purge. “And of course I’m done. Sorted, and sold. Who knew recipes could be so profitable? Look, I’m nervous.”
“About what?” Izz grabbed her bandana and patted her coveralls. At least she’d remember this broth for a while, until she could get her clothes into the cleanser. It was worth remembering. She picked up the bowl and started slurping. “You don’t get nervous.”
“The ship coming in…” Greaves trailed off again.
“It’s really annoying when you pause like that.” She stuffed what remained of the noodle ball into her mouth and chewed, not bothering to keep the conversation going.
“They’re from the war,” Greaves said. “I remember them.”
“Stand by. I’m on my way.” Izz slapped a coin down. She’d paid before the babushka had deigned to give her the steaming bowl, but a tip wouldn’t go amiss in this area. Might help her become forgotten.
It certainly wasn’t for the service.
She dodged clumsy robots thudding with new construction materials, mixed with the chatter of a thousand dialects. Animated flea market bargainers waved hands amidst the trailing scarves of rich wives, sleighs of wrapped packages obediently trailing behind. At the sight of armor-clad marshals on patrol, she slipped easily into the airless construction zone, pulling on the ever-present O-mask filter as blue-white welding sparks flew.
“Old habits,” she murmured to herself with a mischievous grin. Her smile faded as darker memories floated at the edges of her consciousness, and that was enough, even if the marshals weren’t gone. She was a private citizen now, upstanding and proudly freeborn. A responsible adult. Even paid taxes, sometimes.
She spotted a wheel-doored metal tunnel and ducked back onto the dock. Izz stayed under the scaffolding a moment to let her eyes adjust to the port’s floodlights, slipping the O-mask back around her neck where it would be less noticeable. “Almost there.”
Greaves didn’t comment on her rapid heart rate or breath, even though she surely noticed. “Good.” A note of worry flickered through the single word. “Avoid everyone.”
Izz rolled her eyes in exasperation and shoved her hands in her pockets. The four docks between her and her ship seemed endless. A crowd of people, bots, and creatures she couldn’t identify filled most of the docks, up until the near-pristine ramps that security bots enforced if the non-rightful owner tried to approach. “Nearly as crowded as the flea market, but I’ll try.”
The silver-skinned man blocked her path with his bulk near some freshly unloaded plasti-wood crates. “Fry dough?”
She kept her head down and gave a vague gesture as she darted to his left, hand in her pocket seeking the switchblade she’d left in the eye of the stalker she’d caught on Delta-4. She’d forgotten to replace it in her rush to return. “Dock market’s behind me.”
He didn’t move. “Fry dough with sugar?”
“Ask for Zelko’s,” she snapped, and tried to the right. Great. A sentient AI protecting her at all times other than on-station, and here she was, about to get mugged, half a dock away from safety.
“With cooked fruit mash inside?” the man persisted.
She blinked and looked up into glowing sapphire eyes. “You mean jam?”
Greaves set off an alarm siren in her ear that made it hard to concentrate. “Leave! Leave now!”
“Jahm,” the man said with exaggerated enunciation. His brilliant smile literally glowed. “Yes. Jahm. Is cooked fruit mash. Inside fry dough.”
“Zelko’s,” she repeated faintly. The sirens were well on their way to giving her a migraine. She pointed again. “Straight until dock fifteen, then right, then right again. Look for the red scarf with white dots hanging from the second story.”
The silver man barred his teeth and glowed at her again before stepping to the side. “Thanking you.”
“Welcome.” She took five tottering steps before breaking into a run.
Greaves lowered the ramp, but it wasn’t even down all the way before Izz leapt onto the platform and hit the red button for emergency closure.
“What was that?” Izz could feel Greaves’ disapproval in the silence.
“That was an elite assassin, noodle brain.” Each word was bitten off precisely, with the cutting edge only a trained actor could have emulated. “A group known for bringing the night and the darkness, until you welcome death because it is a release from the horror your night has become.”
Izz swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t fallen back on rat wharf instincts. Had she only taken a different path – not tried to avoid the marshals – been the respectable citizen she pretended to be.
“They are interchangeable, with each member looking the same and known as Mr. Blue Sky. These assassins are unstoppable. If one fails, another will take his place.”
Izz wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned her weight onto her right foot, rocking back with a huff. “He just wanted doughnuts.”
“I hope that’s all,” Greaves said quietly. “The Blue Sky assassins were responsible for the Sentient Purge. The man who wanted sweets may well have been the one who killed my family.”
***
Whew! I had no idea what to do with this one, and ended up spitballing ideas with The Guy, who suggested an assassin. I’m going to have to explore what it means to target sentient AIs…thanks, Leigh, for the musically-inspired challenge!
My prompt this week went to Becky Jones. “Burn it. Burn it all. I want no memories.”
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