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Brooks knew that going out onto Gohhi Station undetected would be tricky.
Nearly every ship that came in or out likely had eyes on them – friends, enemies, information brokers, even just people who made it their hobby to watch ships. And with the Craton being such a unique and well-known vessel, she would be watched more than most.
A quick visit to the medical wing had gained him a face cover – composed of cellulite and embedded with nano-machines that would mimic genuine skin, down to hairs and shedding skin cells, allowing one to hide their face in the most believable fashion possible. It wouldn’t hold up against dedicated scans, but such equipment would be too bulky for anyone but Gohhi officials to have on-hand.
Which meant he still had to get past those.
Because despite how much Gohhi claimed to value the privacy of individuals, in practice it was just another commodity for sale to the information brokers. But that also meant that money could grease the wheels to preserve your privacy.
The most obvious and worst method was to bribe the customs official as you went out. While they would likely take the bribe, it’d tip their hand that you must be someone important, and they’d make ten times as much selling you out a little later.
The best way, as he had learned years ago, was to contact the port administrator through back-channels and bribe him. There was an automated system for it, and after Brooks made the transfer – from his own pocket – he knew that the port official who checked him would receive completely false data that would draw no attention.
The largest problem left, then, was on the Craton itself.
On the ship, people knew each other, and the information systems that enabled them to interface with the ship shared such data with everyone around them as needed. Thus, he needed to even appear like an outsider who had simply come on the ship for business or to view the public areas.
Dressing in clothes more reminiscent of a Gohhi native, and taking back doors to bring himself into the Equator without being seen was slightly tricky, but once there he had no trouble walking out. Any who spared him a glance would get a believable false narrative on who he was, and just what he was doing on the ship.
As he passed into customs, no one gave him even a second glance, and Brooks smiled.
He blended in with a group of engineers having a spirited debate about micro-crack sensors, considering for a moment on joining their conversation as even more cover . . . but decided he didn’t know nearly enough about such things to pass, and to spare himself the embarrassment he kept his silence.
Walking onto the station proper, he noted the watchers trying to seem casual but who were actually noting who entered and left the Craton.
He recognized a few from various Gohhi guilds, businessmen, and public figures, as well as some he believed belonged to unaligned systems or even the Sapient Union itself, spying on the spies.
Most conspicuous of all, by clear intent, were the Glorians. They wore the stripped-down green uniforms, sans insignia, but did nothing to hide who they were. They felt no need, and on Gohhi they had every right to loiter wherever they wished, so long as they did not bother anyone and paid any appropriate fees.
But none gave him more than a cursory glance, and he knew his disguise had worked.
Which was only step one complete.
Mingling into the crowd, he passed swiftly through unobtrusive doors and sloped halls down into deeper parts of the station.
It was a dangerous place – open carry was allowed, as nothing was allowed to interfere with commerce. Especially not something as lucrative as weaponry.
He’d brought a small sidearm from the armory, and something that he hoped would keep him alive; a small and unobtrusive sensor pack on his shoulder. It functioned the same way as a Guardian drone’s sensors, watching all around him at all times, looking for a weapon – especially one pointed his way. It had no capacity to defend him, that wouldn’t be legal or wise, even on Gohhi. But seeing an attack coming could be the difference between life and death.
Gohhi in general was darker than the Craton. A perpetual gloom soaked many of her stations, as no one bothered to pay for lighting the open areas. It didn’t make profit, so why bother? Deep in, it was more true than ever, and everything seemed to be rising from darkness, islands of light and neon growing from the shadows.
It was more humid than he remembered, with drips coming down walls and lichens growing in spots. Others were clearly cleaned regularly, owned by someone who cared about appearances.
Making his way deeper, he found he still knew the routes well enough. Like any old spacer, he’d spent a lot of time in this hub . . . nearly a capital for all of those who called space home, Gohhi had a special place in his heart, despite its many, many faults.
The stink of so many bodies in so small an area grew, the scrubbers just not quite enough to make the air pure. The glitter of styles from a thousand or more worlds filled each area, people showing off their individuality until there was no similarity at all between them besides their ancestors having come, at some point, from Earth.
The entertainment district was as vile as he remembered. It was similar to the Equator ring on the Craton, but nearly ten stories tall, the gravity at the outer most layer noticeably lower than Earth norm, making him bounce upwards with each step.
Neon lights glowed in the humid darkness, and people plied trade in food, drugs, alcohol, and bodies equally here. The press of people grew tighter, and he kept his eye out for the data thieves who he knew would try to connect to his system to steal anything he had of value. He saw a few eyeing him, but after they saw he was vigilant they averted their eyes to try and find easier marks.
Scantily-clad beings, mostly women, danced in window bubbles in the brothels, trying to entice people in. This part of Gohhi was almost entirely human, and so most of the prostitutes on show were likewise, though he did see a few aliens for those who had such fetishes.
The fact that such exploitation was still allowed anywhere disgusted him, but in a place stuck in an ancient mode of development as Gohhi was, it was inevitable.
Passing by a medical clinic that specialized in sexually-transmitted diseases, he finally reached the bar he’d been aiming for – The Black Hole.
While many bars on Gohhi were giant, this one was small and secluded, with lighting set so low that if one wasn’t careful they might walk into something. But that was just how the clientele wanted it, and he surreptitiously took a seat in an empty booth.
A kiosk activated for him to request a drink, and he put in a custom order.
‘I need a face,’ he keyed in.
Then he waited.
In time, a drone came hovering over, carrying a cup of a pale, weak beer. Inside it, when he looked, was a folded slip of paper, and on that a name. It was already dissolving in the drink, and in moments would be completely gone, leaving no trace.
The name was of another bar, one he didn’t know, called the Crooked Door.
His system informed him of the fastest route there, and he saw that it was deeper in towards the core of the station, where the gravity lowered, the light grew yet dimmer, and the poorest and most destitute lived.
Leaving a tip to pay for the information, he got up and headed for the door.
His search had only begun.
Other Terrestrial 
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