New to Other-Terrestrial? Check here! Or if you need to, jump to the beginning of the episode here!

---

The Glorians were obvious above all others – literally.  He grimaced as he saw the towering cybernetic warriors who called themselves Dreadnoughts, violent psychopaths by design.  Whoever had decided to include them in the Glorian diplomatic party were seeking trouble.

Next to them he did see unaugmented people, not insignificant in rank themselves.  He hoped they’d be able to rein in the murderous urges of their larger brethren.

He did not see any Gohhians he recognized; if Waites-Kosson or Xatier were present at the party, they were not around this area.

Walking in and taking a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, he sipped it lightly.  It tasted terrible to him, bubbly and sour but not at all with a kick.  The data tag on it informed him it was the height of fashion right now.  Merely an accessory – more for its pleasant golden color than for actual drinking.

A Qlerning nearby raised a hand in greeting.

“Captain-Mayor, we are very pleased you could have made it,” the being said, coming closer.

Brooks recognized him as Gleh Parvennakka of the Qhenber Theatre Troupe, and one of the principal actors of the upcoming play.

Offering his hand, Gleh shook it vigorously.  “We are so honored to have been invited to perform upon your vessel,” he said.

Brooks let the being continue to pump his hand, smiling easily.  “For our part we are very pleased to host you.  Your play has achieved great fame and I look forward to seeing it.”

The Qlerning paused for a long time.  “I hope it will meet your expectations,” he finally said.  “Excuse me.”

He seemed insulted, Brooks thought, but he wasn’t sure why or if he had inadvertently given one.

He’d had plenty of interactions with the species, but that didn’t necessarily mean a lot.  There were great subtleties and nuances to Qlerning cultures, and they were not a monolithic species; different Qlerning cultural groups had their own customs.

Putting that puzzle aside, he moved through the party.  He had no goal in mind, only to ‘show the flag’ in his own way.  The many guests – artists and capitalists masquerading as public officials, even high-ranking members of Gohhi’s security forces – all noticed him.  Some did a double-take.  The looks they gave him were, at best, ambivalent, and from many he sensed open hostility.  Even from some of the artists, he was sad to note.

But if one fed from the hand of a class of wealthy patrons long enough, eventually you accepted the interests of that class.

Finding himself near a drink table with actual human staff, he set his decorative drink down.

“Give me something actually for drinking,” he told the bartender.

The man nodded sharply and made something he did not recognize.

“Sunrise on Venus,” the man said with a smile.  “You’re gonna need it.”

“Many thanks,” Brooks told him, tipping his head and taking a drink.  Its strength burned, but he found he liked it.

A crash behind him made him turn.

A human server had, it seemed, been bumped into by a Dreadnought, who was glaring down at her.

Murmurs, laughter, and a few mocking claps came from the crowd as the waitress hurried to pick up the dropped glasses.  Drones were already zooming in to help.

Brooks walked over, kneeling to assist as well.  The young waitress was visibly flustered, and some of the glasses were rolling back off her platter as she tried to hurriedly put them on.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she murmured.

“You’re fine,” he said to her calmly.

“You don’t have to help sir!” she said as she realized he was there.

“It’s what anyone would do,” he said, glancing up.

Other guests near him were looking at him with disdain, but he glared back, daring them to comment on basic decency, holding eyes until they looked away.

When all the glasses were back on the tray, the young woman stood, her face bright red.

“A little stressful tonight,” she said with a lopsided smile.

“I can imagine,” he said.  “Good luck.”

She smiled and moved off, and Brooks stepped out of the way of a drone that was scurrying off, the floor now clean and dry both.

A shadow loomed over him, and he looked up into the face of the Dreadnought who had, he presumed, caused the incident.

“I took you for a servant.  But I see now you are a slave,” the cybernetic being said.

There was little humanity left in his voice; it rang with a metallic reverb, deeper than almost any natural voice.  He stood almost eight feet tall, broader than two men.  His entire upper body appeared to be armor or cybernetics, with only a portion of his face and head still human.

Brooks ignored his taunts.  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.  You are . . . ?”

The being let out a disgusted sound and looked away.

“There’s so few of your kind here.  I’m used to seeing you flitting about like so many peacocks,” he said.  “In your bright colors.”

“Yes, I know gunmetal gray is the default color of Glorian worlds,” Brooks replied.

Another man approached.  “Oh, if it isn’t our lonely Union man, Captain Brooks.”

He, too, was Glorian, dressed in a uniform far more flamboyant, though no less gray than the Dreadnought’s armor.

“Apparently you both know me, but I don’t even know who you are,” Brooks replied.  He met the eyes of the cybernetic hulk, letting him take the words as mocking.

If he was someone of note, Brooks would have heard of him.  Or at least he knew the Dreadnought would think so.

He growled again, leaning closer, menacingly.

“Your friend seems to have forgotten his words,” Brooks said to the other man, keeping his eyes locked on the Dreadnought.

“General Adarno is much more comfortable with action, Captain Brooks,” the man said, his smile turning mocking as he looked at the Dreadnought.  “I, on the other hand, am a man of words and action.  Praefectus Dogan.”  He offered his hand, which Brooks shook reluctantly.

“We may be enemies, Captain, but I have a certain respect for my worthy adversaries,” Dogan continued.

“Enemies are meat to be ground up,” Adarno growled, pitting Dogan with a glare of hate as intense as any he would give Brooks.

“We’re all meat if we get hit by a piece of tungsten moving at a fraction of c,” Brooks said.  Adarno snapped his gaze to him, and Brooks nodded.  “Apologies – meat or scrap.”

Dogan laughed, and Adarno turned away, pushing a startled Qlerning – and clearly holding back enough so as to not cause a scene.  His stomping steps turned more quiet, though audible through the silence that had fallen over the nearby crowd.

“They frankly should not let those brutes out of the house,” Dogan said.  “But they have their use.”  The man smiled to Brooks.  “I’m still surprised your people have yet to adopt their style of soldier in some capacity.  They killed so many of your people during the war.”

Brooks calculated his answer carefully.  It was true that Dreadnoughts, in a ship-boarding action or ground-action, could be spectacularly deadly, especially if they got close.  It took a lot to kill two tons of rampaging machine burning with an all-consuming desire to die gloriously.

“I suppose the numbers do look nicer if you don’t count your own losses of normal personnel,” Brooks replied.  “Or those killed in their ships.”

“All for Gloria,” Dogan replied, smiling again, and offering his drink up as a toast.

He did not wait for Brooks, but then quaffed it.  “Ah, the bartender makes a very nice Sunrise on Venus.  Much better than these frilly gold drinks, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t suppose Adarno is capable of enjoying those anymore,” Brooks replied.

“Oh, no.  For him only nutrient paste and ammunition,” Dogan replied with a laugh.  “He’d not have it any other way.  Luxuries only make you soft, in his eyes.  I am pleased to have a more refined palate.”

“Of which world are you Praefectus?” Brooks asked.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you what is public information, hm?  I am Praefectus of one of the worlds we liberated from the Ouo Ledori.”  He chuckled.  “We call it Hell, I forget their name for it – it doesn’t matter now.  It’s not the most pleasant place, but the work at terraforming continues.  It’s just a matter of freeing enough oxygen from the crust to form a breathable atmosphere right now.  A few more decades it will be a paradise.”

But not for the original colonists, Brooks knew.  The Ouo Ledori had been a loosely-associated collection of 287 systems, of which the Glorians had taken over fifty in a sublight war that had ended over sixty years ago.

“Let’s hope it will get to be enjoyed by all,” Brooks commented.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh.  We know exactly who we want to enjoy it and who is a dead weight,” Dogan replied.  “But by all means, wish for peace, land, and bread for the worthless scum if you want.  Maybe we’ll ship you some of them, and see how you like them, hm?”

“You wouldn’t have anyone left to carry you then,” Brooks replied.

Dogan’s smile was mocking and he drank again.

“Well, this has been pleasant, Captain.  Shall we do it again sometime?  No, don’t answer that.”  The man turned and walked away.

Brooks sighed and drank more of his Sunrise on Venus.  The bartender had been right; he did need it.

---

< Ep 8 Part 29 | Ep 8 Part 31 >