Humans fidget, bots don’t, and Giant didn’t. He wasn’t broadcasting his name and personal details like most people either, which means he has something to hide.
But he’s not hiding the fact that he’s an assassin. He’s hiding the fact that he’s a bot, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one.
Immortals. Who gets ‘em? Maybe bots don’t get as much nooky as us meatbags.
Chapter 7
At the bottom of the rolling ramps, I run across a short, carpeted-blue hallway lined with elevators. In a few quick strides, I join a throng of people at the ticket counters. They split off in groups, lining up to buy passage on the various starlines operating out of Liberty City.
A group of four armed and uniformed officers from spaceport security goes running by, heading for the ramps, their hands on their sidearms.
I stare wide-eyed at them for a moment along with everyone else who just ran down the ramps from the tram. One of them spots the DX-22 on my hip. Gray eyes linger. I make my gaze appropriately wide and staring. Shocked. The officer looks away with imagery from his holoband flickering in front of his face. He’s back on target. All four officers go tearing up the ramp and out of sight.
And then I’m on to my own business, frowning as I scan the glowing names of starlines that appear to jump off the signs above the ticket counters and float like graffiti in front of my face.
Holobands are an advertiser’s dream. Look away—nope still looking at the damn sign because your brain had the questionable impulse to focus on it just long enough to trigger a sticky ad. It takes a mental effort to minimize those stickers, and then new ones get stuck to that spot in the top center of my field of view. Rather than try to fight it, I work with the system, focusing on the name of each starline for an equitable second and a half each.
Stylized logos flash before my eyes: Centauri Starlines. Nebula Cruises. Singularity Express. Fringe Runners. Sirius. Luxor Starlines.
Bingo. That’s the expensive one. Luxor.
Walking as fast as I can without looking obviously rushed, I head straight through the maze of glowing green lasers that’s supposed to get people to worm around like snakes. Only five people wait at the Luxor ticket counter, besides the two already weighing and checking luggage. I’m not going to zigzag like an idiot to reach the front of the line.
Rather than wait for the group of five, who look like a family heading home after vacation, I walk straight up to the man who is standing at the front of the family and say, “Hey, ombay. Mind if I go first? My wife and I got into a bit of blaze last night, and she’s gonna leave without me if I don’t catch her in time. I didn’t even have time to pack my bags.”
A sympathetic story for a tired old husband like this guy. He offers a flat-lipped smile and his chin dips in a nod. His wife is looking on with a frown. Crosses her arms with a scowl, like maybe I deserve to fly back on my own. But she’s too late. I’ve already got the husband’s approval.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Thanks, brother.”
I slip past him and step up to the ticket counter. A stunning woman with glowing lilac eyes smiles prettily at me. The name above her head reads Vara Arliss. “What can I do for you, Mr. Arovitch?”
She’s a bot, and not the immortal, transcended-human type. She’s the unwittingly enslaved, non-sentient AI version.
“Four tickets to Earth on the next flight out.”
“Of course, sir. Will that be one family cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Tier one or tier two?”
“Tier two.”
“Very good. And the IDs for the rest of your family, sir?”
“Friends, not family. They’re meeting me at the gate. The tickets are for them.”
A glance at my rear-view picture-in-picture shows the family behind me grinding their teeth. The husband and wife are arguing, and she’s gesturing at me. Too late now.
“That is somewhat irregular... What are their names, sir?”
“Sienna, Damaris, and Omar Trevos.”
“Okay... I see them here in our system. Looks like they’re going through security now. That will be five thousand nine hundred and sixty-two credits.”
The number flashes up in the sticky center focal area of my display. I accept the transaction and the sum automatically gets deducted from my default wallet. It’s a dummy one that I had set up in Roman Arovitch’s name, and the credits are mostly saved from the salary that Mohinari has been paying me.
Still slags my jets to be walking away from this job empty-handed, but maybe Omar will pay me back when he gets to Earth.
Vara-the-bot is glancing around my shoulders with a quizzical tilt to one eyebrow. “Do you have any bags you would like to check?”
“No.”
Buying tickets for a family cabin but the family is nowhere in sight. A four-day trip to Earth, but I’ve got no bags to check, not even a carry-on. The rest of my party didn’t check bags either, couldn’t have, because they bought tickets from a much cheaper starline. A human would flag that behavior as suspicious.
I wait for the bot to pick up on it.
“Have a nice flight!” Vara says instead.
“Thank you,” I reply, and turn away from the ticket counter with a smile.
The blue knapsack icon for my digital inventory flashes with the number 4 as the tickets enter my virtual possession.
“Hey!” family man calls to me as I’m walking away. “You lied to us! You’re not catching up with your wife. You’re not even married!”
“Yeah, sorry about that. It was urgent. Figured the truth wouldn’t get me very far.”
“Do something, Asher!” his wife cries. “He’s getting away with it!”
“I cut a line, not your throat,” I point out. “Just get on with your day.”
“Fuck you!” the woman cries.
I’m tempted to reply in kind, but instead, I just walk off, heading for the security checkpoint. No point getting my blood pressure up for an entitled civvie like her. Let it go. I take a deep breath. Hold for a count of three. Then let it out.
Feeling better already.
My therapist taught me that while I was locked away on Mars in that Coalition Prison. ARCmax.
The therapists there had their work cut out for them.
Chapter 8
The line for security is snarled with meatbags, bots, and cyborgs. No way to cut this line. I have to have eyes everywhere to see a threat coming. My holoband makes that easier, but not by much. Watching four different PIP windows and what’s in front of me at the same time is quite a chore. Any guy who bumps my shoulder or brushes my arm could be the next assassin with me in his sights, so I can’t relax my guard. Not until I’m able to take off this disguise.
I manage to let a few people behind me go ahead and thereby squiggle my way between too innocuous-looking groups: a middle-aged woman with her adult daughter, and a pair of young women who look like newlyweds going on their honeymoon.
I feel safer surrounded by women. It’s a stereotype, but statistically they’re a lot less likely to be contract killers.
As I wind my way along, I keep a hand close to my gun. It would be suicide to use it in here, but I could probably still make it to my ship, the Cloven Hammer. It’s landed here on pad nine. Security might not catch me in time to keep me from blasting off, but the Alliance interceptors I’d have on my six after that would be another story.