A Walking Shadow

8. Client

It's not hard for me to find Sakyin's shack. I know where to look—the shadier side of Yed Prior space station, where anything goes. I've heard people refer to it as the "interstellar black market," but I'm not sure I would categorize it that way myself.

The area is dim and sparsely occupied. The stalls are close together, and the street is narrow, giving even me a distinct sense of claustrophobia. There's a faint scent of rotting meat, likely due to the fact that no one seems to clean anything down here. A couple people eye me. I keep walking. The entire place is far too quiet.

Sakyin's shack is squished between two others. One is a stall selling opioids. The owner is passed out in a chair behind the counter. I'm not sure what the other is—all the signs are blacked out, and the door is boarded up. Ominous. Compared to what's on either side, Sakyin's place is hardly noticeable. It's small and plain, constructed out of an odd combination of metal, plastic, and synthetic wood. There are no signs, except for one bearing the word "CLOSED," hand-scrawled in a messy Aludran script.

I knock on the door. She has to be here.

"I'm closed!" barks a hoarse voice from inside. The accent is typical of Aludran vernacular.

"Sorry," I respond in Aludran. I'm not sure what else to say. "I was just wondering if I could talk to you."

"Nope," retorts Sakyin. "Absolutely not. Did you see the sign?"

"I did. When are you going to be open?"

"Whenever I feel like it."

I almost laugh. Typical Sakyin. "Sorry, but I'm a little pressed for time at the moment. I'm not exactly supposed to be here—"

She chuckles. The sound is grating. "No one's really supposed to be here, are they?"

"I just—I just want to hear your opinion on something. I doubt it'll take long."

Pause. "It'll cost you."

I sigh. "How much?"

"Fifty credits."

"That's absurd."

"Hey, that's what you get for disturbing me when I'm closed."

"I'll give you twenty," I say, knowing full well that she isn't going to settle for that.

"Hmm." There's another pause, and I hear the noise of something shifting around inside the shack. "Depends who you are and what you want you hear about. My favorite color? I'll tell you that for free. Classified Tarazoid military info? That's gonna be a lot more than fifty credits, my friend. Information traders have standards."

"Okay. Fair."

"So? Who are you?"

"I'm... a chronicler." It's not the most fitting word, but it's better than journalist.

"A chronicler," she repeats.

"Yeah. I'm collecting stories."

"About what?"

I pause for a second, then say quietly, "Parse."

"Parse? The AI?" There's noticeable alarm in Sakyin's voice, and I hear more papers and furniture shifting around.

"Yeah. I know you've met them."

"They're a client of mine." There's a low whirring sound, and the door opens just a crack. "Come in."

I hurry into the hut, making sure to shut the door behind me. The room is very small, and the lights are dim. It smells musty, like old paper. But my eyes immediately fall on the objects that are strewn about the room, taking up space on the tables and shelves. Papers, books, pieces of technology—Sakyin has it all. And Sakyin herself is sitting on a stool in the middle of it all, scrutinizing me. She's short, and unmistakably Aludran, with scaly tentacles springing out of her shoulders and head, and green-and-orange blotched skin. She's also significantly older and more worn than many people I've seen. I note a couple scars on her skin, including one long green one that runs down the side of her face.