Chapter 1

Solomon Green stood on fore-deck of Sinaan Reis, a medium-sized transport vessel that he’d taken to a good friend of his to be “upgraded.” He wore what he almost always wore when he was off-ship, as he had been moments ago: a simple black pair of slacks, a simple white shirt, and a black jacket that spanned the great divide between business casual and not giving a shit. Of course, inside the jacket was more than one concealed weapon.

His friend, James “Doc” Macallen, had let Sol know that the upgrades were illegal, and that he’d have to stay away from the federales unless he wanted trouble. He didn’t have to tell him this, of course. Sol knew that already, and his business meant that he would be as far from the feds as he could get. But Doc was meticulous. Operating an illegal repair shop was risky business, even in space. All it took was one upset customer to make all kinds of trouble for Doc, and then he and his shop would have to relocate, if he could. Sol had known Doc forever, and knew that he’d already relocated once. Not fun.

With the bits Sol had saved up, he was able to put out a nice down payment on Sinaan Reis, and even buy himself a few months of leeway before the monthly payments would have to start pouring in. Of course, those months were now up.

Like the ship, and like Sol’s business, bits were illegal. The government called them risky and unregulated. But for Sol, and for any like him, it was precisely the fact that they were unregulated that made them attractive. The legitimate alternative to bits was Federal Reserve Credits, which everyone just called credits.

People in Sol’s circle of ne’er-do-wells called them Rezzies, after the Reserve Bank that vouched for them. They also called it commerce instead of smuggling, and free market instead of black market.

The nomenclature was hardly appropriate. Their market wasn’t free. Since the federalization of the outer planetary colonies, unlicensed “commerce” was illegal (for the safety of the populace, of course), and though Sol’s runs were mostly low-risk operations, the possibility of fines, confiscation, and even jail time meant that Sol built a premium into the price of transport. It was that premium that would help him pay for Sinaan Reis, and had already helped him pay for the illegal modifications. Also, he wouldn’t mind a nice little home on the coast of the New Mediterranean in Kithira, a former outer planetary colony that officially had enjoyed peaceful relations with the Federation government, and therefore retained some of its independence. Some of the women in Kithira were...

The ship’s com cut Sol’s daydreams short. “Sparrow, this the Station, you’re cleared to set sail.” Sol had given the station the callsign Sparrow, preferring to be as anonymous as possible, particularly Inland. Nobody had to tell Sol what station they were talking about. The Station, technically known as Space Station Gamma Epsilon 5, though dubbed “Independence” by the inhabitants, was a large and sprawling complex that sat at the edge of the inner systems that were seat of the Federation’s power. It was a center of both legitimate and less legitimate commerce, and a waypoint between civilization and the outer reaches known as The Isles. It was large enough to provide travelers with nearly anything they could need, but small enough that the federales kept something less than a full watch on it.

It was also where Doc kept his garage. The improvements were mostly to the engine, which now had FTL capabilities that rivaled some of the Federation patrols (Sol was told not to go that fast unless he absolutely had to, because the feds would absolutely look out for a ship that could sail that fast). But the ship now sported a small armament – hidden from view unless it was necessary. It wouldn’t save Sinaan Reis in a firefight with the federales unless he had the element of surprise; but pirates were still a factor in the outer reaches, particularly the Isles, despite the feds’ promise to take care of them.

Sol gently unberthed his ship, and slowly moved it a respectable distance from the Station. Then he hit the throttle. The deep rumble was satisfying as hell, and Sol smiled as he felt his body become glued to the seat due to the acceleration. Doc sure as hell had upgraded the engine. The ship’s artificial gravity matrix took more than a moment to compensate for the acceleration, and it took no time at all for the ship to be going fast enough to engage the FTL drive. Damn if that didn’t feel good, Sol thought to himself. It would be a constant inner struggle to avoid traveling fast enough to attract attention.

Sinaan Reis was made to avoid attention. It was a fairly standard model of ship, a Pelican-Class BLM Spacecraft Model II, at least from the outside. It was painted in nondescript fashion, a dull gray. The call numbers on the side could be hidden if needs be, or altered at will, thanks to one of Doc’s improvements, but that would hardly help if a fed was already determined to take notice of the ship. Mostly they were for avoiding pirates, and for circumstances when he needed to beat it the hell out of somewhere before anyone took actual notice of him. Insurance. Insurance was costly, and you hoped you never needed it. But you’d be an idiot not to have it.

With small wings on the sides for planetary touchdowns, and the engines fixed to the back of the ship, most of the beast was the transport cavity between the fore-deck and the aft. Today, that cavity was full nearly to the brim with off-market food, medical supplies, weapons, some tobacco and even alcohol that Sol was hoping to sell through a “free market” distributor who lived on Kithira. The fore portion of the ship had two floors. The top floor contained the fore-deck or the helm, behind which was a pair of rooms. Sol had set one of those rooms up to be an office; but it doubled as a mess hall. Across from the mess hall was a very small gym. Directly under the fore-deck was the crew’s sleeping quarters, reachable by a utilitarian companionway. There was room for 4, 8 if they doubled up. But the ship had no crew or passengers save Sol by and large. Today was no exception.

So Sol thought. He was checking out local conditions in Kithira City on his com when he heard the voice.

“Hello Sol,” the voice came from behind him. Like lightening, Sol had turned around to face the source of the sound, with his weapon drawn and hot.

“Stay right there,” Sol said, not moving his gun.

The owner of the voice was a woman. She looked like a teenager. And the voice matched her. High pitched. She stood several yards away with a hand at her hip, looking for all the world like she was going to ask Sol for a lollipop, or a soda. She had on a simple outfit, purely utilitarian, that hid her features. But her green eyes, red hair, and creamy complexion spelled danger in a few years. Hell, they spelled danger right now.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sol asked the girl.

“I’m Sophie,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“And what the fuck are you doing on my ship?” he asked.

“Your friend, Mr. Macallen, told me to board your ship while he was working on it. He must like you,” she said.

“He’d better.” Sol told her. “I paid him a small fortune for the work he did on her. But why did he ask you to board my ship?”.

“He told me to tell you that he acquired me in a game of cards, and that he no longer required my services,” the girl responded. She smirked as she said it, like it was an inside joke.

“He acquired you? Are you an AI or something?” Sol asked her, still pointing the gun at her. Slavery was illegal, but poorly regulated. Still, Doc – who she’d called Mr. Macallen – wouldn’t have bought a slave. Sol knew him to be a decent person, as far as criminals went.

“Yes,” she said, holding her pose. Human beings didn’t stand perfectly still like AIs did. Some manufacturers had tried to fix that, but an AI that robotically bounces up and down is even more awkward than one that stands still, like this one was doing.

“What’s your function?”

“Human-cyborg relations. I am fluent in over 6 million forms of communication.” she said.

“What the fuck?” Sol cursed.

The AI smiled. “Just kidding, Sol. I have no primary function.”

That wasn’t a surprising answer. Many AIs served no specific function, and were extremely malleable in terms of their utility. But most of those were not made to look so damn real, at least from a distance, wearing baggy coveralls. Sol lowered his gun and asked the AI to approach. It walked towards Sol and stopped when it was about two feet away. Even once it was closer, Sol had a hard time finding evidence that she was an AI and not, as he had originally thought, a human girl. She was damned convincing. Some of these manufacturers weren’t playing around. And Sol would bet bits to bacon that this was an illegal model.

The most obvious tell – and, in fact, the only obvious tell – was how still she stood. Once she stopped, she lowered her head slightly and pouted, but she could have been a photograph of a pouting girl. She’d been programmed to act human, but an AI was an AI.

“I’m sure Doc left me a message. He wouldn’t sneak a robot-girl onto this boat without leaving me some kind of an explanation,” he told her. He couldn’t think of the AI as anything other than her. Damn if her face wasn’t convincing!

“He did. Want me to play it?” She told him.

Sol nodded.

The heads-up display at the front of the ship sprung to life, with Doc’s torso and head in view. “Hey there,” Doc said “sorry about the hush hush, buddy, but I knew you wouldn’t agree to take care of Sophie unless I snuck her onto the ship. I got her ... a little while ago ... but the feds have been crawling around over here something fierce, and I didn’t like the idea of disassembling her, or her sending her to just anyone. You and I go way back, and I know you must get lonely. So she’s my gift to you. A bonus, I guess. She’s handy with a motor, and knows all of the parts of your ship backwards and forwards. And I’ve modified her to have access to the undernet, so she can look things up for you and all. I’ve given her a bag with changes of clothes. She doesn’t sweat or anything, but if you have her working in the engine room, you’ll want her to have something to change into. Also, I had them and I sure don’t need women’s clothes in my pod over here. I think some folks would some have questions for me if they found that. I’m not sticking around at the Station for much longer, and if anyone in the galaxy can find me, it will be Sophie. I hope you don’t need my help any time soon. But if you do, she’ll get you where you need to be. Doc, out.” The image disappeared.

“So you’re illegal,” Sol said to her.

She smiled and bit her lower lip. “The Federation Criminal Code prohibits biologically accurate artificial life forms. Yes, Sol. I’m illegal.”

“Well isn’t that fucking swell,” Sol said. “I’ll have to send Doc a thank you note for sending me an illegal sex bot.”

Sophie pouted again. “I have no primary function. I am not a sex bot.” She nearly sounded offended, Sol thought, if such a thing was possible.

Sol scowled. “And what purpose did you serve for Doc?”

She smiled brightly. “I was his daughter. I helped him in the garage.”

Sol was taken aback. “So you two never...”

“Had sex?” she asked. “Mr. Macallen is a homosexual, Sol. He did not desire to have sex with me. He called me his daughter.”

For someone who dealt with people on a daily basis, Doc had always been a very private person. Now Sol had an inkling as to why. The Criminal Code also prohibited homosexuality. The central systems had draconian enforcement of the law. Up until recently, gays had escaped to the Isles. It remained to be seen whether the federales would begin to enforce the law there. So far, they were focusing on “crimes” that hurt their lobbyists’ bottom line – like smuggling. But apparently, Doc had wanted a daughter; and then he’d gone and gotten himself in trouble with the law. So the daughter had to go. Sol wondered whether Sophie knew the whole story, or if Doc had either kept it from her, or wiped it from her memory. Either way, Sol respected Doc’s privacy, and their friendship, enough not to ask the AI for more information about their relationship.

“Do you know how to fly a ship?” Sol asked her.

“I’m very adept at piloting a spacecraft, Sol,” she answered.

“Doc teach you?” he asked.

“He didn’t have to. I was programmed with that knowledge. But he and I went flying several times in his Model Y,” she answered.

“Model Y ... well, this is quite a bit bigger than that. But the principal is the same,” he said. “I’ve never had a first mate,” (or wanted one, he thought to himself). “Do you want a job?”

Sophie lowered her head, blushing, and smiled. “Thank you, Sol.” She said. “I’ll make you very happy.”

Someone had had some serious fun programming this, Sol thought. The blush was convincing, as was the girly pose she’d struck.

“Ok, well in that case, you sure don’t need to be wearing that monkey suit. Doc said you come with some other outfits. Put one on and meet me back here,” he said.

“Gladly,” the AI said to Sol, and turned to walk away.

Well fuck, Sol thought to himself. Sol quickly wrote a message to Doc’s secure line: “Tnx for the recommendation. Your friend seems well-fitted to the job.” Keep it cryptic. Never write anything incriminating, particularly when you’re sending the message over the net. You never knew who was watching.

Within moments, a message was sent back: “Glad you like her. She’s highly qualified. Take care.” Sol assumed the last line meant “take care of her.” Nobody was likely to be reading their conversation. But one couldn’t be too careful.

When Sophie emerged from the companionway, she was dressed in a much more minimalist outfit. Sol immediately regretted telling her to change. She had on a loose-fitting tank top, and a pair of shorts. It was not unlike something that Sol himself might wear when out in the far reaches of space, with no crew – though his shorts were a good deal longer and looser than Sophie’s. But that was specifically because, with nobody in sight for hundreds or even thousands of miles, Sol had no need for modesty.

Now, Sophie was here and looked, eerily, like a teenager. Her red hair framed a pretty round face with green eyes that sparkled with intelligence and life. Her tank top hung loosely over breasts that could be called a handful, and Sol could tell from the impression they made on the tank top that she wasn’t wearing a bra. It left exposed a belly button, and the outline of waist bones. Her belly was nearly flat, but it protruded ever so slightly from the short shorts. She was still looking directly at Sol, but he could have guessed that her ass was to die for. Her long legs were flawless. This machine was a work of art. And she was very very illegal.

“Welcome back to the bridge,” Sol said. The course was plotted, and so there was little for Sol to do. So he swiveled in the helm’s seat to look at her directly. “Hey, can you grab me a beer? There’s one in the fridge in the mess. I’m guessing you know the layout of the ship, right?”

“Of course,” she said, turning around towards the mess hall. Sol didn’t need a beer. But he did need to see whether his assumption about her ass was right.

It was. She had a healthy bubble butt. Her shorts were too short to completely cover it. Sol wondered whether it would be too obvious to ask her to bend over and pick something up later, then remembered that she was an AI, and probably couldn’t get offended. Then, with small pangs of guilt, he remembered that, according to Sophie, she’d acted as Doc’s daughter for a period of time. Could he stare at a friend’s daughter’s ass?

The answer was yes, particularly (but not only) when that ass belonged to an AI, and had no blood relation to Doc whatsoever.

Sophie returned with the beer. “I should have asked you if you want one,” Sol said to her.

“Thank you,” she responded. “But I don’t need to drink beverages like you do, and alcohol has no effect on me.”

“Hey ... Sophie ... do you have conversational settings?” Sol asked.

Sophie smiled before answering. “Yes Sol. I was programmed to have settings ranging from conversational to robotic. My default conversational setting is to emulate the speech patterns of a teenage girl, or perhaps a college aged girl, because that’s what I look like. But I can emulate anything that’s within my memory banks, or that could be pieced together through my access to the web. If you want me to talk like a 16th century character from a play by William Shakespeare, I could do that, for example.”

“What’s your current setting?”

“Mostly robotic, though not entirely. Mr. Macallen thought it would be best, when I meet you, to be formal but not off-putting, and therefore commanded me adopt that setting.”

Sol considered for a moment, then told her to “just be yourself then. I mean, adopt a conversational setting.” As awkward as having a girl on the ship would be, it beat having a robot sit silently next to him.

“You bet,” she said.

“Can you learn to emulate new speech patterns?” Sol asked.

“Sol, I’m an AI. That’s, like, 101 for me,” she said, smirking.

“So I’d like you to learn the jargon around here, be as natural as you can be. Learn like a girl your age would, I guess,” Sol said.

“Ok,” she said, still smirking, before adding “do you have any music?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Sol said, suddenly self-conscious. He usually did listen to music when on these long voyages – the shortest could last days – but he’d hesitated to put anything on because, in his mind, Sophie might not like it. He kind of chuckled to himself and then turned on the audio feed. It defaulted to his favorite channel, a mix of hard rock with a deep baseline and strong beats. It kept him awake.

Sophie grinned when the first song came on. She began to rock her head to the beat and shift her hips slightly. It was ingenious, really. The music gave her an excuse to move her body. If it was a tad too precise, it would be hard to notice because the sight of a teenager swaying to music wasn’t anywhere near as unexpected as a teenager standing, or sitting, perfectly still. Clever.

Following a tradition dating back to when vessels regularly had two people at the helm at a time, Sinaan Reis had two chairs at the helm, each of which could operate identical controls. “You’re my first mate,” Sol told Sophie. “You’d better sit in your chair.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, and took her seat next to Sol in an identical oversized chair that was situated several feet from the controls.

As she sat there, bobbing slightly to the music, Sol took stock. One of the things that made him good at what he did was his ability to play it cool – to remain calm despite changes in the plan. He rarely looked rattled, and that’s because – through practice – he rarely got rattled. He tried to never appear brash and overconfident. That could get you killed. But he almost always appeared up to the challenge, whatever the challenge was.

This was no exception. Sol had already decided that this new development was unlikely to cause major problems. He was already engaged in an illegal business that was regulated much more heavily than whatever laws made Sophie illegal. If she was able to help Sol around the ship, so much the better. His only potential reservation had been put to rest, directly, by Doc. He trusted Doc, and if Doc had given his word, Sophie wasn’t a spy, and wouldn’t broadcast information about Sol to anybody.

But did she change things for Sol? He decided to adopt a wait-and-see attitude. The matter must have meant something to Doc for him to have foisted it on Sol this way.

Sophie broke the silence.

“Soooooooooooooooooo,” she began, “what are we doing?”

“You mean other than flying a spaceship?” he asked.

“Duh,” she said. “I mean, where are we going? And why?”

That was a natural enough question. “We’re heading to Kithira to meet with a representative for some local distributors of food, medical supplies, and the like. Our mission is to give our load to her in exchange for bits and ask no questions. She’ll farm the load out to several distributors who will see to it that the goods get where they need to go.

“The good are illegal,” Sophie said.

“Of course,” he explained. “But they’re still cheaper than whatever else is on the market. And some of it is not available other than illegally. Particularly the medicine.”

“Have you ever been caught?” she asked.

“Once, when I was just starting out. I didn’t even have my own ship. I had a loaner that Doc arranged between me and someone he knows from back home. So I was already paying a shit ton for this machine. And I get stopped by a fed on my way into one of the Isles. This was right as the feds were taking over enforcement. And this fed boards my boat and says to me ‘you got some nice stuff here. You must have paid a lot for it.’”

“You bribed him?” Sophie asked, covering her mouth with her hand.

“He basically asked me to, so yeah, I did. I ended up losing a ton of money on that run. I’ve come close a few other times, but that was it,” he said.

“Why would medicine be illegal? Why would any of this be illegal?” She asked.

“Well, you’ve asked the big one there, haven’t you?” Sol began. “The government would tell you that they regulate commerce out of concern for safety. The news is always reporting on people who supposedly got hurt due to unregulated products. It just so happens that most of the providers of regulated products live in the central systems. The people they contract with to run the products all have cushy relationships with members of the Federation Senate or someone in one of the regulatory agencies, either personally, or through lobbyists. And the decision on the part of what used to be called the Confederacy of Planets – the outer colonies – wasn’t made by a body that represented anybody other than intergalactic corporate interests, which were owned by a cabal of people located in the central systems. So, when you have a law written for one reason, and it doesn’t seem to accomplish what it claims to accomplish ... follow the money, right?”

“And the news reports? They’re just false?” She asked.

“Beats the hell out of me. I’m not a reporter. All I know is that the people who own most of the major news corporations are the same people who own the banks, and so on. Follow the money. No matter what, always follow the money. If people get all excited about safety and ask their government to write laws, you can bet the people writing the laws aren’t interested in safety so much as protecting their own asses. And the reporters aren’t dumb to that.” He lectured. “But my guess is that you know this already. Am I right?”

She actually fucking laughed.

“I think whoever programmed me was a conspiracy theorist. I could actually tell you the names of all of the major shareholders in the top six news conglomerates, and give you a list of other major corporations they own in over a dozen other industries, without connecting to the net,” she said. “Impressed?”

“Or horrified,” Sol said, chuckling to himself.

“I’ve had to learn to suppress some of my conspiracy theory tendencies. It doesn’t make me fun to hang around with. Nobody likes a libertarian. And some of what I was programmed to believe is probably bullshit. Not that part, though. I think you’re right. I was just trying to make conversation.”

“You got me all worked up and everything,” Sol laughed.

“You’re cute when you get indignant,” she told him.

Sol looked at her. She’d slouched in her seat so that her lower back was resting on it, and her feet were up on the dash. She arched her back, as if to get more comfortable, pushing her breasts out, then looked back at Sol with her eyebrows raised.

“You’re not so bad looking yourself,” he said, after a moment.

“Damn straight,” she said. Looking back ahead again at the stars.

“Sophie,” Sol began, “you’re programmed to know that some of the other things you’re programmed to know are bullshit?”

Sophie frowned. “Not exactly. I’ve learned to be skeptical, even of my assumptions.”

Sol considered. “Not a bad idea,” he decided. It wasn’t a bad idea at all.

There was no day or night in space, so Sol always set the lights in the ship to automatically begin to dim at whatever time would be the evening at his final destination. He didn’t always go to sleep according to the lights. But this way, he acclimated himself, at least mentally, to his destination. When the lights began to dim, Sol got hungry for dinner. He turned to Sophie, who was still slouching in her chair with her feet up on the dash.

“Do you eat?” he asked Sophie.

“Yeah,” Sophie said.

“Recharge?” Sol asked.

“You mean like with a plug?” she asked.

“I guess,” Sol decided.

She giggled. “Where do you want to stick a plug in me? What hole?”

Sol raised his eyebrows. He’d never heard of an AI without a port of some kind.

“So your body...” Sol began.

“It looks just like a real girl’s, Sol.” She said, lowering her eyes and giving Sol a nearly sultry look.

“What’s your deal?” he asked.

“So, most AIs today can recharge by eating food, right?” she said.

“Right,” Sol agreed.

“So why would an AI need a port?” she asked.

“I guess you wouldn’t. But doesn’t every AI have a port?” he asked her.

“Every legal one does,” she said. She pulled her knees to her chest and wiggled her feet. “I’m special, though.”

“Well, anyhow, do you want to eat dinner with me?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she said, and jumped out of her chair. “To the mess hall?”

“Yeah, that’s where I have all of my food, such as it is,” he said. Inside a cupboard in the mess hall was enough little boxes of pre-prepared food to last several weeks. Sol took out two and heated the contents in the oven. It didn’t take long. Eating, for Sol, was a utilitarian affair. He’d happily visit a bar once they landed in civilization again. But on the ship, he kept his meals to ten minutes at the most. Sophie emulated his silence. When they’d finished, Sol got to business.

“So, when I go to bed, I usually slow the ship down so that the scanners have a better chance of picking something up in time for me to wake up and deal with it,” he said. “Do you sleep?”

“I have to sleep, but I don’t need as much of it as you,” she said. “If you want me to stay up and keep an eye on things, I can do that. I’ll take a nap tomorrow during the day if you’d like. I don’t get bored or anything like that.”

“Wow, we might make some good time this way,” he said. “You don’t have to sit at the helm if you don’t want. I just need someone to monitor things in case there’s another ship out there. I don’t want to get close enough to anyone to attract attention. If you see anything, wake me up.

“Will-do,” she said. “Do you want me to wake you in the morning?”

“Oh, that would be nice.” Sol hadn’t thought of that. “Why don’t you wake me up at 6 am, Kithira-prime?” Kithira-prime was the time zone of Kithira’s largest city, creatively named Kithira City. It was also where his contact lived, and where they were headed.

“Aye Aye, Cap’n,” she said, saluting Sol mockingly. Sol chuckled and told Sophie “good night.”

“Good night, Sol,” Sophie said, and kissed him on the cheek.

Her lips were soft, and Sol was surprised to feel moisture on his cheek where her lips had been.

What a day. What a fucking day. And there were a couple more before they were scheduled to arrive at Kithira.

Sol trudged to his bunk. Unlike the others, it had only one bed, and was outfitted with a utilitarian desk that Sol rarely used. He laid down in his bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

–-

“Good morning, Sol,” a voice said. He ignored it.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” the voice said, again. He felt a hand on his shoulder shake him. It was an unnerving feeling for someone used to being alone for long stretches, and Sol momentarily assumed it was some kind of a dream.

Then he felt lips brush his. He opened his eyes to see Sophie looking down at him. “I thought that would work,” she said. She stood back up and looked down at Sol, smirking at him.

Sol smiled up at her, wanly. “Thanks for the wake up. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’d like to go take a shower.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” she said, and trotted out of the room.

By 6:30 am, Kithira Prime, Sol Green stepped into the mess hall wearing a pair of sandals and a pair of boxer shorts. He was startled by Sophie, who was ready with his breakfast.

“Its going to take me some time to remember that I’m not alone,” he told her. “Should I put on something more appropriate?”

“Not on my account, Sol, unless you don’t want me staring. You look good,” she told him. Sol wondered whether the AI was programmed to say that and decided to just accept the compliment. After all, she was right. At twenty-seven years old, Sol did look good. He tried to visit the gym daily and only now remembered that he’d missed yesterday in all of the confusion. Exercising kept him sane on the long voyages. That and reading. The monitor in the mess hall/office could show movies, a nearly infinite number of which were at his disposal. But Sol typically just read books instead. With his pad, he could bring up any book that had been loaded onto the net. Some could be found for free, but almost anything could be purchased from the undernet using bits.