Last of the Immortals (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 3) by Blaze Ward

had picked an oceanic world with a modicum of steam technology to visit first. And had landed in this very bay.
    Sykes walked casually through the older parts of the city, down near the original wharfs and factories that had processed fish. A few of the buildings still did, for export to other parts of the planet and system, and many parts of the Republic of Aquitaine . The famous mutant tuna of Ballard were probably the second most profitable export from this world, reaching as much as ten meters in length and frequently serving as the apex predator in Ballard ’s enormous seas.
    Only the import and export of knowledge and scholars out–weighed the fish, at least in value.
    Sykes checked his local almanac and turned to his left.
    There.
    Approaching zenith in the southern sky, visible as a waxing quarter moon today.
    Alexandria Station .
    Home of The Sentience . The AI who claimed to be the savior of humanity.
    Pandora .
    Nothing on his person would incriminate Sykes, if he were accosted. Everything was in his head, safely tucked away. Plans. Schedules. Contact names. Wiring diagrams.
    The modern assassin’s most effective tool was his mind.
    Especially when stalking the most elusive, the most dangerous creature in the history of mankind.
    The AIs who thought themselves gods.
    Sykes smiled to himself.
    Deicide was such a lovely job title.
    He turned a corner and headed down the little side street into what he would have called the Kasbah on his home world. Narrow streets, not much larger than alleys, running hither and yon at angles and in directions personally intended to insult Euclid and Jefferson.
    Old Ithome. Pre–starflight, or rather, Hiatus–era, since all worlds save one were the result of starflight, and that one was dead.
    A city from the Time of Darkness .
    Sykes imagined he could smell fish oils on the bricks of the streets. That, and sweet burning incense from a strange little boutique he passed that appeared to be a Chinese apothecary.
    Wonders of the modern universe.
    He continued past a noodle shop barely bigger than the cook inside before he found his destination.
    The store dealt in exotic books for the most part. In an era when almost all human knowledge was available at your fingertips, especially on Ballard , some people still preferred the mass and gravity of an actual book. Paper printed with ink and bound in cloth or leather.
    There were books everywhere. In the front window, proudly displayed. Stacked on every shelf on every wall. Piled carefully on any surface flat enough and sturdy enough to handle them.
    Old books had a smell unique to themselves. It had permeated the wooden shelves that lined most of the shop, possibly even worked its way into the old stone of the walls themselves.
    The door had a little brass bell on it that had tinkled when he entered. It seemed to summon a small gray tabby cat from somewhere in back.
    Sykes was inspected and sniffed. The cat suffered to be scratched with a low rumbling purr for a few seconds, before she suddenly scampered off.
    Kitties.
    When he stood up, the shop–keeper had appeared as well.
    In late–night videos, the merchant in a place like this was always played by a middle–aged male actor with a penchant for seediness. Usually pudgy and bald as well. Today was a welcome change.
    A woman had appeared behind the waist–high counter. Sykes was about average height for a man these days, bland and entirely unmemorable of appearance, as was a useful necessity in this line of work.
    This woman looked him in the eye.
    She was rail thin and tall, with skin the color of his first morning mocha and black, curly hair that had been buzzed with the shortest trimmer setting possible, leaving just enough to hint at how rich it might be if she let it get longer.
    The face was merely average, which was a let–down, given the intelligent twinkle in her eyes as she greeted him.
    “Good day, sir,” she said in a low alto voice. “What brings you to Ballard