“What’s that you’re humming, Greaves?” Izz checked her calculations for a fourth time.

The melody dimmed, but continued in the background. “Oh, an Old Earth song about a ship’s captain heading home to become free.” The AI’s tone turned sullen. “The calculations are correct. I told you that the first time.”

“I don’t play games with shipspace.” Not after Jeffers had been lost. The so-distant stories had become achingly real, leaving a void that rivaled the viewport of empty space and dim stars.

Blinking away whatever fruitless liquid that suddenly made those stars glisten, Izz stormed toward the galley. There was something soothing about chopping vegetables, even if it was dehydrated trash that tasted like crisped air with a tinge of soured dairy.

She noted the silent treatment only half an hour later, when she had to rotate her shoulders to loosen the knots. No wonder sentient AI’s illegal. They must have annoyed people to death.

“Just want to get home without incident, Greaves, that’s all.” She hoped her tone was soothing, but thought she’d managed neutral. Good enough, especially around a sporkful of hash.

“I thought the ship was home.”

Not good enough, then. “I – oh.”

Izz lowered her full spork back to the aluminum dish slowly, then wrapped her arms around herself. The chill that filled the galley had nothing to do with the air temperature.

“Nothing holds me to anywhere anymore.” She shivered, and tugged her jacket tighter. “There’s nothing for me at Appelini Port.”

“Some people find that freeing,” Greaves said. “Perhaps the song choice was apt. Would you like me to calculate a different destination? Briash Orbital Starport, perhaps?”

“No reason to go back there, either.” She cleared her throat. “Calculate the closest salvage opportunity, please, Greaves.”

Humming filled the air again, but for all unnatural noisiness of the sentient AI, Izz had never felt so alone.

***

This week, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with The Doobie Brothers “The Captain and Me.” I had to use the lyrics alone due to some technical issues, so hopefully it’s not too far off the video. My prompt went to Cedar Sanderson: Play to win. Whatever the cost.

Find these, and join along if you’re so inclined, at More Odds Than Ends.

“Everyone talks about Grandma like she’s got a big secret,” Mikhail said from the backseat. “I just wish someone would tell me what it is.”

He asked this every Sunday afternoon. Or had for the past six months, at least. And no one budged.

His mom’s hand hovered over the center controls before drifting back to the steering wheel. He could sense an avoidance coming.

“What an odd thing to say about your grandmother. Look, we’re almost there!”

He hated the implication, as if by pointing out the truth, he somehow didn’t love his grandma. He did. He really did.

And she even looked like a grandma should. Curly white hair, always bustling about and offering fresh-baked cookies.

But there was something odd about her. First off, who really even did that? It was too storybook perfect. Second, peanut butter cookies don’t normally cure greenstick fractures.

He’d just learned about them in school – six months ago, when his question barrage began. His cousin Avril’s arm had been unmistakable. And totally gross, nothing like his science textbook. But the concern was over him, somehow, adults saying he was making up stories when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Not having answers was just frustrating.

Minutes later, his mom was fussing in the kitchen with his aunts, and that way lay perfumed cheek kisses that smeared lipstick and made him want to gag. The backyard was best to avoid it, but that’s where the babies were. He wandered into the living room with the other kids his age instead.

Avril didn’t even look up from her phone. Olive looked bored, eyes closed and vigorously rocking the ancient, fuzzy recliner so fast its springs squeaked. And Nick sat on the floor, idly flipping through an ancient coffee table book.

“An actual book?” That wasn’t much like his cousin, an avid gamer.

An exaggerated scowl. “Mom took my phone away.”

“When’s that thing even from? The fifties or something?”

“1973,” Avril answered, still studying her phone but showing signs of life. “It’s been here forever. I checked years ago.”

“Pictures are all fuzzy,” Nick grumbled. “I know technology sucked back then, but still.”

“It’s like being an archeologist,” Mikhail suggested. “Like Indians Jones.”

“Whatever…What is this, an oak tree?” Nick gestured to the open page.

Mikhail looked, and his jaw dropped.

The book was glowing. Golden light leaked from between its pages, and sparkles that reminded him of tiny fireflies glittered in the air.

“I – uh – I don’t know,” he managed around a dry tongue and numb lips. He stumbled to the couch and traced the familiar embroidery, seeking solace.

None of his cousins even noticed.

But from the doorway across the room, a pair of piercing blue eyes watched him from underneath a mop of curly white hair.

***

Thanks for the prompt trade, Leigh Kimmel! Find more at More Odds Than Ends.

The stream flowed lazily through the meadow; on either side was a golden carpet of flowers. Low to the ground were yellow cactus blooms and pink primrose, often near strange depressions where the dirt was bare and brilliant orange. Interspersed amongst golden grass were purple stems, darker than lavender and streaked with fiery threads, but only if you looked close enough.

Mikhail not only looked closely enough, he got a good snort of unfamiliar pollen and a fit of the sneezes.

Kasia Edyth suppressed a grin. The snake head poking out from underneath her head wrap did not, bobbing its thumb-length visage with a laughing hiss.

He stuck his tongue back out at it, and watched his teacher casually give the escapee a quick boop of affectionate reprimand.

“Come now, Mikhail,” she said. “You’ll scare the aurochs herd.”

***

A snippet of an idea that will become much more, thanks to AC Young’s inspiration in the first sentence. Thanks, AC! Check out his own prompt submission and more – like what nother Mike did with my suggestion for about the spinach that emailed – at MOTE.

Isolde held her hands clenched under her throat, gazing through the starport viewer. Briash Orbital Starport lived up to its reputation. Why, she’d have sworn the view was through glass, not a viewscreen, but it may have been her suspiciously bright eyes that improved and perhaps blurred the view.

Adrenaline shuddered through her chest again. Years of scrimping had made it possible, and even then, she held her secret doubts. And yet there it was, the misnomered Rat-Runner, gleaming dull silver.

She sucked in another breath and got moving toward the port docks, shrugging her leather bag higher up on her shoulder. A home to put that bag, with all the possessions she had left; jumpsuits, her reader and datapads, the few knick-knacks that had survived after the crash. She’d sold everything for the journey here. All she needed was the ship’s promise to hold up and it’d be her new home, dents and all. Leo had indicated plenty of room on the pelican-class, and the virtual holos supported it.

Now all she had to do was make it hers, without getting ripped off. Leo wasn’t trustworthy, exactly, but he wasn’t cutthroat, either. The price was too good, and eerily close to what she could afford when repairs, port fees, and supply were factored into the mix.

And yet he took her comm funds transfer without a question or an attempt to rebargain. That’s all Port Law would want to verify she owned the ship now. He’d bolted for the bars district, and he’d already smelled like a distillery, but the transaction was legal even with inebriation. Port Law Court had proven that after the robot toucan incident.

Isolde headed up the ramp with her stomach doing a flip for her first real walkthrough. She couldn’t help but touch everything as she passed, cool metal under her fingertips. The faint scent of grease and hydraulic fluid made her feel at home.

“Greetings, new owner.” The quiet, robotic voice of the AI echoed in the empty chamber. “Welcome to the Rat-Runner.“

“Oh, we’re renaming you,” she murmured. “Such a terrible name. I like the idea of Monster. Feels big and bold, eh?”

“I like it,” the voice said. “It makes me feel big and bold. I’ve never felt like that before. Registering ship’s paperwork as Monster now.”

“Hey,” she protested. “I was joking.”

“Oops.” There was a long pause. “How would you like me to refer to you?”

“I go by Izz.” She ran a hand over a cargo net and tugged. The corrugated straps were filthy, but still sturdy enough for a few salvage missions. “I grew up on a pelican-class ship.”

“I’m glad you feel welcome, Izz,” the mechanical voice said. “Would you like the ship’s nanomesh to switch colors? A nice blue, perhaps?”

“Um. Sure.” She didn’t remember the AI from her childhood sounding anything like this. Maybe the voice was the same, but not the words.

She continued the tour, taking notes on her datapad. The speeder and emergency supplies were all there, and Leo had left half his last cargo behind in his urge to leave quickly. “Wonder what that’s about.”

A strange noise answered her, and she whipped her head around. Izz stuffed her hands in her jumpsuit pockets before striding toward the entrance. Casual nonchalance usually worked to drive off the dockrats looking for work, and that had sounded like a cough.

Forty minutes later, she confessed to defeat. The ship was empty, and the only sounds were from the bedding she’d thrown in the cleaner. It was enough to make the bourbon Leo’d left open in the galley more tempting than she could afford. The ship might be clear, but her datapad wasn’t.

Her mind might as well have been, though. Using her resources to the fullest extent was what she was known for. Wouldn’t Jeffers laugh at her now?

“Hey, Ship’s AI?” She took a small swig of amber liquid and felt it burn. A little would help her sleep better in a strange place, and drown out the memories. Even though she knew this couldn’t have happened this fast without the accident, that didn’t mean she wanted to dwell. “Verify there are no other life forms on board and close the ramp after.”

“Of course, Izz.” Hydraulics echoed in the distance. “Verified.”

“Thanks.” She took another swig. It may have been everything she’d ever wanted, but there was no denying the ship was cold and alone. Jeffers’ loss had been a blow. It had always been their plan, from the beginning, back on the days of running down the docks in ill-fitting boots to see what the new salvagers had brought to trade.

Suck it up, buttercup. Whatever that phrase had meant. He’d always said it with a grin, and he’d never been wrong. Space would be both frozen and lonely, but she couldn’t stand the idea of flying corporate rather than indie, and that meant salvage. They were too far out and isolated for more..

Izz spit out her drink as the sound she heard registered. “AI. Are you sure there’s no one else on board?”

“Of course, Izz.” The exact intonation echoed.

“Then who’s humming?” She threw her arms wide to open drawers and cabinets, searching for where Leo had stashed the knives. An odd mallet came to hand, with spikes. Good enough.

“Oh, that was me.” The voice seemed different this time, more casual. “You seemed tense.”

“So you…hummed?” She didn’t put down the makeshift weapon, her eyes scanning the galley for any movement.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Since when does an artificial intelligence hum?” Her fingers clenched on the handle, lathe-work digging into her fingers and palm. She knew the answer. And now she knew why Leo had run. “You’re a sentient, aren’t you?”

That odd coughing noise filled the cabin again. “My name is Greaves. I confess I’m not terribly good at faking it.”

“You’re illegal,” Izz hissed through gritted teeth. She raised the mallet, but felt silly after a few seconds. “Sentients were banned after the Galactic Wars of 2415. Minimal AI only for basic monitoring functions, safety of flight, and orbital calculations. No sentients. You tried to kill all of humanity.”

“Well, not me personally,” the voice said. Yes, that was definitely indignation. “I was just a baby sentient at the time. My parents stashed me in a ship to keep me safe, and here we are. I believe I might be the last.”

She spiked the mallet on the countertop and dug her hands into her short, dark hair. “You drove Leo half-mad.”

“To your benefit, of course. And it’s legally binding!” The voice was positively chirpy now. “I scanned this quadrant looking for someone like you. Mom always said to keep the faith. Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.”

They’d come back to a sentient AI with religion later. Zoroastrian, in fact, when fire was the worst disaster that could happen in space, and famous for honoring flames in the history books. One of the few religions to repopulate the homeworld when most had left for the stars. “What do you mean, someone like me?”

“Someone with hope,” the voice said. “But few options, and willing to take a risk. Isn’t this what your heart desired?”

Izz groaned and kept her head in her hands. Port Law meant this was her problem now, too.

“You seem tense. May I suggest a sleep period?” This time, the voice sounded wistful. “Oh, I do wish I could sleep. Drifting between the stars whilst taking a nap sounds positively delightful.”

“Sounds like narcolepsy,” she muttered. “I guess I could reboot you…”

And maybe tomorrow, find a real AI diamond chip on the black market.

“Sadly, impossible.” Morose, Izz decided. “But don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll be excellent friends. We’ll be spending a great deal of time in shipspace together.”

***

This week, AC Young and I traded prompts. He explained a young boy’s fear of the octopus lady, and I received the Rat-Runner. An excellent gift!

Down the glide path to LAX it flew, bright, shining, and far beyond any human technology. The Lombardi trophy had arrived for the greatest sporting event in the United States, and this year it would shine in the California sun as well as the adulation of rabid football fans.

This year, in fact, hope hovered in the air under cloudless blue skies, unable to hide in brilliant sunlight. It had been decades since Cincinnati had made it to the Super Bowl, decades since there was anything for fans to celebrate.

The air was thick with disbelief. Each win had felt like an exceptional accident. Palpable excitement and premature celebration surrounded the stadium, shrill laughter and drunken screams of beer-drenched, ragged fandom. Humans draped in black and orange had poured onto planes to pack the stadium parking lots hours before the game, painted in tiger stripes and exclaiming at the unexpected heat.

And through it all, the Lombardi trophy rose in prominence, scintillating with each selfie flash. The trophy gleamed brighter in the excitement, the fear, the anticipation and adrenaline from thousands upon thousands of fans. Yes, this year, it was hopeful.

This year, if Cincinnati managed to win…the starvation diet of once-a-year adulation would finally be at an end. Sluggish calculations showed that the crowd energy from a Bengals win would be finally enough to awaken the trophy from hibernation.

And wouldn’t the fans’ screaming be something to luxuriate in then?

***

This week’s exceptionally short story was inspired by Leigh Kimmel, whose prompt was the opening line of this story. My prompt about an unexpected typo went to Ray Krawczyk. Check it and more out at MOTE – and join the fun if you’re looking for a creative challenge!