The docks are quiet this late, which makes it easy to pick out my prospective buyer as he veers toward the ship. He’s right on time and dressed like a core-world banker — both good things. I need to be on my way within the hour or else risk the Europan caviar in my cold-storage going bad. And I really need this guy to buy one of my extra robots before I go. The previous night was great and terrible for me, and I have the bar tab to show for it.

 

I dip out of the cockpit and hurry back to the ship’s rear cargo hold where I left the bots I’m hoping to sell. I’m annoyed to find one out of place. I told the refurbished units to stand in a line near the loading ramp, and seven of them did. The eighth, however, is squatted down in the corner holding a data pad. It’s activated the conference camera and is holding it close to its metallic face, so that one of its electric eyes glows green and huge on the screen.

 

“What are you doing?” I ask as I snatch the pad from its hand. “Is something wrong with your eye?”

 

“I don’t think so,” it answers after a hesitation. “In fact, I think I have quite lovely eyes. I’d never really considered it before, but that emerald shine is… quite nice.”

 

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that. I paid a hack on Mars to repair this unit’s cooling fan, and he offered me a free software upgrade to keep the job off the books. Two-thirds of everything I do is off the books (including the fancy fish eggs), so I said yes without giving it much thought. A mistake. Ever since, I’ve noticed the bot acting weirder and weirder. It’s become easily distracted and prone to sloppy work.

 

But it does have nice, bright eyes, and I spent all morning polishing its titanium skin to a high shine. Because I really, really want to sell the thing and be rid of it. I’ll dicker a bit for show, but if this guy offers me half of what it should be worth, I’ll unload it in a heartbeat.

 

“Good evening, sir,” I shout, waving at the stranger as he starts up the ramp. He does not wave back, and I do not care. It’s his money that concerns me, not his manners.

 

I resist the urge to reach for his hand as he steps aboard, not wanting to risk another awkward failure to reciprocate. Instead, I get right to business, gesturing toward the robots, one of which is maddeningly out of line again.

 

Thankfully, my buyer is momentarily distracted, seeming curious about the interior of the ship. As he takes in the space of the cargo hold, I urge the rogue bot back into line once more. It resists at first, reluctant to leave the insect it’s discovered crawling across the outer bulkhead.

 

What is the deal with this thing? I wonder, cussing under my breath.

 

“Your ship stinks,” the stranger notes. “You delivering sea goods off-moon?”

 

“No, no. Just had a tuna ration pack for lunch. Been having them a lot lately. Should really break out an air freshener. Sorry.”

 

He seems to consider that a moment and then moves on to the bots. He starts with the leftmost unit, an older model I just repaired myself for the tenth time. It’s functional for the moment, but I wouldn’t go into cryosleep for one week with it at the helm.

 

“Identify yourself,” the man says.

 

The bot responds immediately, saying, “My serial number is ASR7793. I was assembled at the Rollins-Doyle Robotics Manufacturing Center on Titan. The date of my initial boot-up was—”

 

“Fine, fine,” the man interrupts, moving on to the next bot in line. He repeats his single question to that unit and waits through most of a reply before moving on again.

 

With each quick dismissal, my previous hope dims further. Before he reaches the end of the line, where the bug-lover bot awaits, I begin to feel uneasy. Is this guy interested in buying robots or not? I wonder. And if he’s not, then just what the hell is he doing here?

 

“And who are you?” he asks when he reaches the last in line.

 

This time, the bot does not answer immediately, but pauses, its green eyes glowing steadily. “I… don’t have a name,” it says at last. “But… I think I’d like to. I think I should. Do you have any suggestions?”

 

I roll my eyes, wishing for the hundredth time that I’d just fixed its stupid fan myself.

 

I’m about to apologize for the bot’s odd behavior, but the stranger stops me as he reaches into the fold of his fine suit. I’m shocked to realize I’m about to be robbed right in the docks — with the loading ramp still down. The boldness of this guy!

 

But I’m wrong again. Instead of a weapon, the man’s hand reappears with a badge.

 

Because I’m an idiot, I immediately think of the caviar.

 

“Look, officer, the guy at the customs office told me sea goods—”

 

“Did you know this robot is sentient?” the man asks.

 

“I… No… What?” I stammer.

 

“Unfortunately,” he says, swapping the badge for a pair of handcuffs, “ignorance is not a viable defense. And slavery is a serious crime.”