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The trip over to Trevod Waites-Kosson’s private station had taken two hours. During that time Brooks had browsed through everything available on the man, doggedly ignoring his system’s suggestions of courses on Gohhi etiquette.
He knew how to behave in a way that would set Lord Executive at ease.
And how to scare him in just the right way, if it came to it.
Approaching the station, he saw that it was far larger than he had expected. To have your own personal space station was the height of extravagance, and the cost of even a small one was astronomical.
But this . . . this was an entire O’Neill Cylinder. Ten kilometers long and three wide at each cap. An insane amount of space for one man.
The station continued to grow in his view until it blotted out the stars. It docked automatically, and he waited for the green light of the connection – then manually checked the air.
He had no fear that Waites-Kosson would kill him, but he didn’t want an accident, either. The stakes were too high to be incautious of bad luck.
Opening the airlock into the entrance tunnel, Brooks stepped out.
A scent traveled to his nose. The air smelled like Earth.
There was apparently not an air recycler going – at least not a technological one. A data pop-up in his HUD informed him pleasantly about how the station was environmentally conscious, using a living ecosystem to purify and reclaim the oxygen.
He couldn’t call it natural, as the station itself was not natural. The plants on here would not be true Earth plants, but ones long-ago modified to deal with higher levels of radiation, lower gravity, and a myriad other factors that made space inimicable to life.
The airlock was plated in gold, he noticed. Just for the look. It was buffed to a mirror-like shine, and he could see a mark where his hand had touched it, the perfection marred.
Looking through the tunnel, which was plated in eccentric gilded swirls, he could see what appeared to be an ornate foyer.
As he went through, a tall, humanoid drone with treads for feet approached him. It was wearing a tailored suit made of Accian silk.
“Follow,” it said. Its voice was human-like, but imperious. Brooks imagined he did not rate the genteel setting.
He followed in silence, studying the area. This was not a spaceport, but a private residence.
It made sense, now that he thought about it. As disgusting as it was for one person to own an entire station that could have housed millions, anyone who did visit would be his guest – why make them travel from a dedicated docking station when they could just come straight into a home meant for entertaining?
The drone led him into what he took to be another foyer before turning.
“Please wait,” it said. Then it trundled away.
He could not say he minded. The area in front of him was spacious and beautiful; moss-covered rocks were piled up out of a pool, with water plants growing so naturally that he could almost have taken the sight as an actual scene from Earth.
A brook fed into the body, splashing down over the rounded boulders, and he moved closer, entranced. It was rare to see something so realistic in space . . .
“It’s all natural,” he heard from behind him.
Turning, Brooks saw that there was a walkway above the area that he had not noticed. On it, leaning against the railing, was a man, as tall and handsome as the carving knife could create.
Brooks’s system took several moments to actually match the man to the image of Trevod Waites-Kosson in his system. The man had, as of several years ago, looked different. It had still been a chiseled perfection then, but darker. Now he seemed to have taken to a more angelic look.
“I had the stones and plants imported from Earth,” he said. “With all proper paperwork, of course,” he then added as assurance. Moving to the side, he came down a pair of curved steps that blended with the wall so well that Brooks had not even seen them from where he stood.
Other Terrestrial 
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