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

---

A cold, cutting wind sweeps across a land of snow and ice.  People stand together, looking the same in thick cloaks and furred caps, rallying around a large man.

The People:

Usser!

We are hungry.

We are cold.

We have no homes and war with our neighbors still rages!

Usser:

My brothers and sisters,

All looks grim.

But now is our finest hour.

We are hungry but we will have bread.

We will make it with our cold and pained hands.

We are cold but we will build fires.

Even though we are tired.

We have no homes but we will build them from wood and stone.

We did not ask for war, but we will have peace.

The People:

Usser!

How can you ask us to do these things?

We are too hungry now,

We are too cold now,

We have no homes now,

And the enemy is at the gates.

Usser:

We must do these things.

We have no food and no one will feed us.

We are cold and no one will warm us.

We have no homes and no one will build them.

Except us.

But we do not toil alone.

We toil together.

And with every step I shall be walking with you.

From now until my dying breath.

The people cheer.  The work is hard, and many die of hunger, of cold, of war that they did not want.

But they conquered the hunger with the grain they grew.

They conquered the cold through building homes for all.

They conquered war through peace and solidarity.

Where none would give it to them, they took peace, land, and bread for themselves.

*******

Brooks yawned deeply as he entered his quarters.

He had just returned from the formal event, which had dragged on for another three hours as many there had gotten increasingly drunk.

He’d felt obliged to stay at least as long as Klezul Hoshe.  Qlerning manners made that quite clear.  Once the playwright had left, the guests had continued to celebrate, and probably would go on long into the night.

It had been his chance to escape, though, and during his trip back had written a report on all he’d seen and heard.

Once he’d come back aboard, Jaya had volunteered to continue the watch, for which he’d been grateful.  Her report had indicated that nothing much had occurred, save for a few attempted Glorian drone fly-bys.

“They were quite sedate for the time you were in transit.  I believe they did not want to risk their fly-bys being seen as an attempted attack on your shuttle,” she had told him, to both of their amusement.  No matter how much the Glorians thought themselves better at war, in practice they knew they had to respect the fighting prowess of Union ships.

Changing out of his dress suit, he picked a comfortable outfit for sleeping that was an acceptable suit in case of decompression.  It didn’t matter that his cabin was deep in the ship and the Craton was in safe harbor.  Some habits were immortal.

Perusing his messages, he saw an update from Urle, but it was marked as non-urgent.  He gave it a glance but resolved to answer tomorrow, but as he was about to close out for the night he got a notification of an incoming call, marked as high-level and important.

It was Trevod Waites-Kosson.

Biting back a curse, he turned on just audio.

“Ah, Brooks, excellent,” Trevod said.  “Just the man I need, I did not want to speak to a flunky.”

“What do you want?” Brooks asked, letting just a hint of his testiness slip in.  He was not at the man’s beck and call.

“I hear you were at the party tonight?  I didn’t want to take too much attention off Hoshe, so I did not go myself.  Of course, I can’t say his works interest me much.  Though you caused some stir, I hear, with that old archeologist, hm?”

“If this is a social call then I will have to be going,” Brooks replied flatly.

His cheek did ache slightly where Nadian had punched him, but he’d treated it on the way back so there’d be no bruise.

“No, not really.  But I admit I was entertained by what I heard.”

“All right, well good night, Waites-Kosson.”

“Ah, ah!  I do have something worth talking about.  You’ll be getting the official orders in a few hours, but you’re going to need to be turning over those three criminals you’re sheltering tomorrow.”

Brooks mind raced.  Criminals . . . ?

“You mean the women asking for asylum?  Do you understand what that request means?  You can’t have them.”

“Oh, Captain,” Trevod said, his voice mocking.  “I knew you would say this, but who are they seeking asylum from?  Their employer they claimed was out to get them is dead now – at the hands of one of your officers.  And in their escape – which violated their contracts, I might add – they killed two people.”

“Who are they accused of killing?” Brooks asked carefully.

“Baro Jett and Earl Thompson, two others working for their deceased employer.  They were found with their throats slit in the establishment where they had worked.”

The whorehouse, Brooks knew.  Where they’d been tricked and forced to stay with Baro Jett and Earl Thompson being the muscle that kept them in line.

“Regardless of the present state of the threats to their person – which we feel are still valid – they are also requesting economic asylum.”

“Gohhi does not recognize that claim, Captain,” Trevod snapped back.  “Just because your people think-“

“They are on my ship, and they are not leaving,” Brooks said.

“We do not have a death penalty – so they can have their fair trial here, and protection from whatever imagined threats they can come up with.  This won’t hold up, Brooks.  They committed their crimes on Gohhi – and that is truly the crux of the matter.”

Brooks’s heart was pounding now.  The man was turning these women into unwilling bartering chips, it was obvious.

“I’ve already spoken to some of the other major families, Captain.  We’re prepared to push on this – it’s a case that matters.  There’s a lot of concern that this might catch on and we’d have a flood of unhappy employees trying to murder their way out and then claim refuge on visiting Sapient Union ships.  This Daze fellow was an independent entrepreneur, but we all have investments in the sex entertainment field.  We stand to lose a lot of product.”

“You piece of shit,” Brooks snapped, his temper finally breaking.  He’d spent too much time around these selfish, vile people and this was finally the last straw.  “These are people, not products!”

“You don’t need to get so annoyed, Captain.  I’m doing you a favor here, letting you know about this ahead of time.  I am but the messenger, the official documentation will be brought by the lawyers later.”

Brooks had fought down his anger, but he counted it as a blessing that the man was not actually present.  The temptation to take rash action might be too strong . . .

“Well, anyway, Captain, I hope to hear back from you soon, I’m sure that between the two of us we can come to some sort of deal that-“

Brooks terminated the call.

It seemed that sleep was going to have to wait.

---

< Ep 8 Part 34 | Ep 8 Part 36 >

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

---

Brooks was surprised to hear the name of the famous archaeologist, turning again to see the man as he approached.

Farland’s face was weathered, his bright blue eyes set in a rough, handsome face.

The man was famous throughout known space; the Dr. Farland who had found the ruins of lost civilization on Tenoch VII, rescued lost relics from rapacious hoarders in border space – and a thousand other tales too tall to believe.

Yet, here in the flesh, Brooks found himself believing that the man could have pulled them off.

“Captain-Mayor Brooks,” Farland said, regarding him in such a commonplace way that Brooks found it refreshing.

Brooks offered a hand, getting a firm grip in return.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Captain,” Farland said.

“And I about you,” Brooks replied.  “Though stories, in any case, often have only a grain of truth to them – good or not.”

The man nodded, and glanced to Xatier.  “Romon,” he said.  He sounded sour.

“We meet again, old friend,” Romon said with a sneer.  “Only this time there is no bad blood between us, I hope?”

At Brooks’s quizzical look, Farland elaborated.  “Romon Xatier was the intended recipient of a great deal of antiques that had gone missing from a dig site on Xiphos.  I helped make sure they ended up in a museum instead of his private collection.”

“I was as surprised as anyone to learn they were stolen, of course,” Romon replied, his mocking smile making clear the lie.  “And I am most grateful to Dr. Farland for setting the matter straight.”

Brooks nodded, but then Romon continued.

“Captain, you’ve been to Xiphos before, haven’t you?”

Brooks froze for a moment as he realized the trap.

He turned again fully to Romon.  “That’s right,” he said.

“And what was the work you were in at that time?  I believe you were a . . . freelance purveyor of goods, yes?”

Brooks could feel the glare and shock from Dr. Farland on the back of his head.

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Brooks said calmly.  “I was a smuggler there, long before I joined the Union Voidfleet.  I made two runs to the planet as first officer of an expedition to find lost artifacts to sell on the black market.”

He turned to look at Farland.  “We have an unfortunate connection then.  Though I’m glad I never encountered you or anyone else – I wouldn’t have wanted to fight for thieving from a dead civilization.”

Brooks felt a strange calmness within as the trap closed.  Perhaps Romon had thought to upset him, and he had certainly managed to make Farland angry; the accusing glare from the man said more than words.

“I didn’t figure the Union would hire grave robbers,” Farland said.  “I guess I rated them too highly.”

“They didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.  But I am not going to beg for forgiveness, anyway.  The civilization there are all dead – there was no one to suffer the indignity of having their culture stolen from their hands.”

“Do you think robbing those tombs is justified by the fact that they’re gone?” Farland demanded.

“I think that I, and the others with me, needed the money, and that was one of the few options we had that didn’t involve hurting anyone living,” Brooks replied.

“Fattening your pockets, huh?  Well, hell of a thing to be proud of.”

Brooks finally felt his anger rise.  “You say that as if people only ever need money for the wrong reasons.  That was not our situation at all – it’s not the situation of most people out here.  We needed money to simply live, and thanks to the greed of people like Mr. Xatier here, honest work did not provide that.  So when it comes to a choice between my people starving or robbing the dead – I would make that choice again without hesitation.”

He saw the fist coming, but did nothing to avoid it.  Farland’s punch hit his jaw like a freight train, and Brooks saw stars, stumbling.  Gasps and a single cry came from the crowd as people saw the attack, but Brooks did not fall.  Standing back upright, he met the man’s eyes.

“I’ll give you that one, Doctor,” Brooks said calmly.  “But if you try another then you’ll have to earn it.”

A woman came hurrying up.  She was beautiful, notably younger than any of the three, and she put a hand on Farland.  “Nade, what’s going on?” she asked.

Farland was still glaring at Brooks, and Brooks kept his gaze locked with the man, feeling that his anger had evaporated.

He was not proud of everything in his past, but he could not change it, either.  And he’d had good reasons for what he did.

“It’s nothing,” Farland said, turning away.  He let the young woman lead him off, her fussing while he said something that made her smile – though concern remained in her eyes.

“This evening has gotten more interesting than I anticipated,” Romon said, smirking still.

Brooks looked at him like the vermin he was.  Movement past him caught his eye, however, and he looked past Romon to see the Qlerning playwright, Klezul Hoshe, approaching.

Qlerning expressions were often very hard for a human to read, but the concern of the alien seemed quite obvious.

“Are you all right, Captain-Mayor Brooks?” the being asked.  “I saw Dr. Farland assault you . . .”

“Just a minor disagreement,” Brooks said with a smile.  “Nothing to concern yourself about.  But I am pleased to get a chance to speak with you, Master Playwright.”

The Qlerning bowed humbly.  “As I am to speak with one of your reputation.”  The being leaned closer and spoke in a whisper.  “These Gohhians are insufferable . . . walk with me, we can do each other a favor.”

Brooks grinned, for the first time the night not feeling an outcast.  “I’d be glad to.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 33 | Ep 8 Part 35 >

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

---

Two hours into the night, and Brooks realized there were not enough Sunsets on Venus to make it tolerable.

He’d stopped after two; even with an enhanced liver and kidneys the alcohol could only get filtered so quickly, and the last thing he needed was to get drunk and tell the Glorians or Gohhians his full thoughts on them.  Wars had probably been started over less.

He’d seen Klezul Hoshe, the writer of Ussa and Usser several times, but the being was always surrounded by such a crowd of people waiting to speak that he’d drifted away.

The crowd did not seem to be growing thinner, however, and with growing irritation at the people who did not even know how to queue properly, he filtered into the group, moving towards the being.

But the wealthy seemed to have no grasp of letting others in, which he felt was probably a metaphor for reality.  Deciding he’d wait a little longer, he moved out of the group again.

Few people here wanted to speak with him, it seemed; upon seeing his uniform, face, or probably both, most people turned their backs on him.

Still, he was certainly making the point by being here, and keeping a calm smile on his face the whole time he knew would annoy those who were watching him.

“Captain Brooks,” he heard a deep voice say.

Turning slightly, he saw Romon Xatier standing near him.  He was wearing a well-tailored black suit, his undershirt the same shade and his tie a dark red that barely stood out against it.

“Mr. Xatier,” he said.  “I did not think you were present – I had not noticed you.”

“I arrived late,” Xatier replied.  “Only fools wish to be at these events a moment longer than necessary.”  His lips went into a slight smile.  “But who could pass up the opportunity to speak to as famous an artist as Klezul Hoshe?”

Brooks could agree with that.  “He’s had quite the crowd around him all evening.  But in his culture the later he speaks to someone the more honor they do him.  It implies they’ve been waiting.”

“Even if they simply show up late,” Xatier continued.  “You should see events on Ngoash.  They never even start until three hours after their designated time.”

“Ah, have you been there?” Brooks asked, finding that unexpected.

“Unlike many of my contemporaries, I have been all over the known galaxy,” Xatier told him.  “I saw enough of it to last me two lifetimes.”

“And yet you came back here – I am surprised.  Gohhi may be a hub of known space, but it’s hardly a garden spot.”

“Unless you have money,” Xatier said, smiling slightly again.  “And then it is true freedom – an eden in hell.”

“Wealth is just a prison of its own,” Brooks commented.  “You’re as trapped as anyone else in such a system – you just get more creature comforts.”

“Spoken like someone who knows nothing of wealth,” Xatier replied.  “But you are certainly consistent in your views, Captain.  I hear that you spoke quite frankly to Trevod Waites-Kosson, and I admit a certain admiration has grown in me as a result.”

Brooks wondered how word of that had spread – certainly Trevod would not have spoken too frankly about their conversation.

“My thanks,” Brooks said, feeling the polite words were necessary.  “I am afraid I know too little about you to offer a sincere compliment.”

“Oh?  Dr. Y has said nothing?” Romon asked.

“He is legally bound not to,” Brooks replied.  “And he is an honorable being.”

“Honor or programming?  I am as yet undecided which,” Romon replied.

“If you think Y is just a complex calculator, you’re just denying the evidence,” Brooks said.  “He’s more alive than most people I meet.”

“He certainly is a complex being.  But whether he truly experiences reality as we do is something I am difficult to convince of.  Does he feel?  Does he have faults?  Or is it simply all very quirky, intelligent stimulus response?”

Brooks shifted, facing the man fully.  “I’m not sure what you’d like as evidence, really.  A receipt saying he felt angry or sad, printed out from his torso?  The Sapient Union accepts his species as being truly alive in a meaningful sense.  Even if you are not in agreement with all of our principles, that has to carry some weight.”

“If only it did,” Romon replied.  His eyes travelled past Brooks then.  “But perhaps we can get another opinion.  Tell me, Captian, have you met Doctor Nadian Farland?”

---

< Ep 8 Part 32 | Ep 8 Part 34 >

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

---

“Is someone else joining us?” Alexander asked, concern on his face.  He glanced at her, and she knew he was concerned not about another guest but that some kind of emergency would call her away.

But she had no warnings popping up.

“Yes,” Iago said as Cassandra went to the door.  “I meant to message you about it but I forgot, sorry.  We weren’t even sure if he’d be available, but we invited Father Sair to join us.”

Pirra wasn’t even sure who that was.  She took a moment, puzzling if the translation of ‘father’ was accurate.  If it was, who was he father of . . . ?

“Alexander, Pirra, I’d like to introduce you to Father Sair,” Cassandra said.  She seemed to be bursting with excitement and nervousness as she gestured to the man.

He was a tall young human male, light skin and hair, his eyes green.  He appeared younger than any present, which made the ‘Father’ appellation even more confusing to her.

His outfit was odd, too; almost everyone on a ship wore something that provided at least some protection against being vented, but this man just had crude brown robes on.

“Hello,” she said politely.

“Oh, hi,” Alexander said, sounding odd.  He stood and offered the man a hand.  He shook it, his face serene.

“I hope my presence is not an issue,” he said, a gentle smile on his face.

“No, I’m fine with it,” Alexander said, almost too quickly.

“I don’t mind,” Pirra said.  She really didn’t, but she did know she was missing something and hoped it would be set straight soon.

“Please, Father, sit here,” Cass said, gesturing him to a seat.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, taking the chair.  A lopsided smile crossed his face.  “This looks far better than what I typically eat,” he admitted.  “I never ate out much, as you might guess.”

Iago seemed amused, but Pirra did not get the joke.

“Father Sair is the one who Saved me,” Cassandra said, sitting down and just beaming at the man.

“Saved?” Pirra asked.  “Are you in something like Response?”

Iago cleared his throat.  “Oh, Pirra, Father Cathal Sair is a clergyman for the Esoteric Order, our faith.”

“Oh!” Pirra said.  “So Father is a title . . . ?”

“Yes,” Cass said.  “I’m so sorry, it didn’t occur to me to tell you . . .”

“It’s fine,” Pirra said, unbothered.  She looked at the Father.  “Is this a faith from ancient Earth?” she asked.  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about . . .” she trailed off as she realized she only had heard that the church was called the ‘Esoteric Order’, but not the name of the religion itself.

“Infinitism,” Sair offered.  “And it’s understandable – we are widespread but diffuse, especially in Sapient Union space.  Though most of our congregations are more than two,” he said genially, looking to Iago and Cassandra.

“Three,” Cassandra said softly.

“Two,” Elliot said.

It went quiet again.  Cassandra looked to her son, but she did not look angry, only slightly hurt.  Iago, however, looked angry.

“To finish answering you, however – yes and no,” Father Sair said.  “Our faith existed on ancient Earth though it was not known well.  But likewise we existed on other worlds . . . even Enope,” he said, smiling a little.

“It couldn’t be on Enope prior to contact,” Pirra said confused.

“Perhaps some would say that yours – and others – were only similar,” Sair continued.  “But in our eyes we see a continuation between species.  It’s very powerful to believe, isn’t it?  Perhaps as close as we could ever come to true evidence.  Though I am pleased to still accept the Infinite on Faith regardless.”

“Oh, all right,” Pirra said, unsure what to say.  Iago was looking at her, and she couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just looking serious.  Hopefully she hadn’t been rude accidentally.

“I’ve been told that you’re somewhat spiritual yourself,” Sair continued to her.  “An ancient Dessei belief in wind spirits.”

“Er . . .”  Pirra’s crest flipped in sudden embarrassment.  “I wouldn’t really say that.  It’s an old faith, yes, but . . . to me it’s just a part of my ancient culture.  I can’t say I believe in anything supernatural or . . . on just faith.  I prefer to place my faith in my team and others around me.”

She wondered if her words were too standoffish, but Sair seemed to take them quite seriously.  “I can understand that.  Not everyone in the Dark is lost, after all.”

Pirra jabbed a fork into a larger piece of the fish casserole and then swallowed it.  She didn’t fully tilt her head back, but she heard Cass’s startled intake of breath as she did it.

Which, frankly, Pirra knew would happen, she’d done it for that purpose.  It was a power move in a way, and she felt a little annoyed at herself for doing it, but she was feeling somewhat put on the spot.

Sair, however, did not seem bothered.  Alexander was watching her, though, and she decided to try and calm herself before she got truly annoyed.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the conversation, and I know we’ve begun eating already,” Cassandra said, “but could you please say Grace for us?  Alexander, Pirra, I hope you don’t mind?”

“No,” Alexander said.

“Of course not,” Pirra replied, though she had no idea what Grace was.

“Aww, mom . . .” Elliot said, but then nodded and put his elbows on the table, holding his hands straight upward.

It seemed some sort of religious pose, and Iago, Cassandra and Sair all did the same.

“Let us give thanks to the Infinite,” Sair began.  “For it is the Infinite that has brought us together today so that we may live before we die.

Its subtle reach guiding our paths so that we may find each other in a dark and hostile universe.

Though the darkness ever encroaches, when we understand our place in Infinity, we possess an inner light that is undying even beyond its extinguishment.

Amen.”

He lowered his head, eyes closed, looking down at the table – which Iago and Cassandra mirrored, though Elliot looked at her while tilting his head down.  He looked annoyed and slightly bored.

Pirra found herself feeling uncomfortable – not with their actions, but the words themselves.

How horribly fatalistic it all sounded . . .

“Amen,” Iago and Cassandra said at once.  Then they lifted their heads, smiling.

“Thank you so much, Father,” Cassandra said emphatically.

“You do not need to thank me,” he replied pleasantly.  “I am pleased to do it – though you know that all of our words are equally lost within Infinity.”

“That sounds a little . . . grim,” Pirra said without thinking.  “The thoughts being lost, I mean . . . sorry, not trying to be rude.  I’m just not sure if I’m missing out on some understanding again.”

“You have it quite right,” Father Sair said.  “But surely you’d agree that the vastness of space dwarfs us all, yes?”

“Of course,” Pirra replied.

“Anything we do is insignificant in the scheme of the universe,” Father Said continued, his words serious.  “I am no more important – nor less important – than anyone else who exists.”

“So it’s sort of about equality?” Pirra asked.

“To some extent, though I would say the most important part is accepting our own insignificance.”

Pirra didn’t feel she had an over-inflated sense of her importance in the universe, but she also felt odd about intentionally viewing herself as insifignant.

“We are all tiny motes of light,” Cassandra now said.  “And one day we shall dim.  But we shall always exist.”

“I see,” Pirra said.  “I just feel like it could kind of . . . cause people to put their genuine needs aside in a way that is exploitative.”

“Pirra . . . perhaps let’s not talk about this now?” Alexander said carefully.

Father Sair put up a hand to calm Alexander.  “We can change the topic if you wish, but she’s not causing any insult.  I quite understand her questions.”  He looked back to her.  “You’re quite right, Mrs. Pirra.  But we believe that even motes of insignificance deserve lives of meaning and plenty.  Equally – we have no grand leader of our faith who sits on a golden throne . . .”

“Wearing a giant hat?” Pirra asked, hoping the joke would hit properly.

Sair seemed to get it, his eyes sparkling and a slight smile returning to his face.  “I don’t think we have any hats associated with our faith, now that I think about it.  Perhaps I could ask about getting one, though.  A beanie could be quite striking.”

“Father!” Cassandra said in faux shock.  “You’re being ridiculous again!”

He smiled more openly.  “Oh dear, I forgot for a moment how serious I should be.”

They both laughed, and Pirra decided that while she could not say she found his faith very . . . compelling . . . the man himself seemed all right.

“Let’s drink to friends,” Iago said, holding up his glass.

Alexander grinned and raised his.  “Sounds like a great idea to me!”

Pirra did as well, feeling a little more at ease, along with Cass and Father Sair.

“Saúde!”

---

< Ep 8 Part 31 | Ep 8 Part 33 >

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 >

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

---

A Star Captain wore many hats and among them was diplomat.

Brooks had always known that, he was good at the game.  But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Star-eyed people imagined that being a Captain meant travelling to exotic places and making snap decisions under pressure.  The cynical thought it was all bureaucratic work, while others thought it involved brokering treaties of peace between worlds.

All those things could happen.  But most of the time diplomacy was simply being a face to represent your people at a place you would never want to go.

It was good to remind the intergalactic community that your government existed.  To remind them that you were watching them when they were conniving in the dark, or to reassure your allies that you were still taking an interest in intergalactic affairs.

It meant you had to rub shoulders with your most implacable enemies and see what you could learn about them.  To be the eyes through which effective policy could be created.

Which meant he had to go to a party.

After all, The Legend of Ussa and Usser: A Tragedy of Ancient Earth was an intergalactic sensation among those who were interested in humanity.  Therefore, that an event to honor the writer who created it and the actors who brought it to life would be held was a given, and an important place to be seen.

The peak of Gohhi society would be there – including most of the Lord Executives.

Diplomatic revenues from the Qlerning, independent arts guilds, and even the Glorians would also be present.

He had been dreading this more than anything else he’d faced recently – even his trial.  The stakes were not directly as high, but . . .

Well, no getting around it, he thought, as a drone brought his dress uniform.

The standard Sapient Union uniform was a functional suit, which doubled as a light spacesuit in the event of decompression.  A hood, hidden in a pouch behind the neck, could unfurl automatically to cover the head, while each joint was reinforced with accordioned, air-tight fabric to protect prime leakage spots.  Dark blue, a color-coded stripe indicated the department – command was a silvery gray.  And like every outfit, it had distributed electronics that interfaced with one’s personal system, monitoring their condition while also providing a wide suite of extra functionality.

The ceremonial dress uniform, in contrast, was not a functional spacesuit and was far more limited in its computing ability, robbing it of most of its intrinsic value.

On top of that, he found it ostentatious.

Few agreed with him on that point; it was in its own way an impressive creation, made to a level of perfection that even most spacesuits didn’t get.  Stripeless, the pattern was more of an hourglass in the chest and stomach that mimicked the outline of a jacket and shirt.  The area was filled in with a dazzling silver that appeared like liquid mercury, the surface often taken for actual metal rather than impressively-tailored smartcloth.

Numerous loops of golden braiding came down from the short epaulettes on the shoulders, and a row for commendations crossed the chest.

After dressing and letting the drones pin his various awards, he looked at himself in the mirror. Donning his cap, he checked that everything was straight, and saw that the dressing drone scanned him as being within code.

He set forth, towards the Captain’s shuttle bay that was near to both his cabin and his study.  The shuttle docked there was slightly larger than most, a show piece in itself, displaying the emblem of the Sapient Union.

“Captain departing the vessel,” he messaged Jaya.

“Copy that, Captain.  Hope you survive,” Jaya replied.

He smiled, knowing she dreaded the idea of having to do such events if she ever chose to pursue a captaincy.

The trip took most of an hour in the shuttle.  Its delta-v was low, but fortunately the event was being held on Gohhi Main.  It was still a trip around the station, but the lanes were clear and well-guarded.

He knew he was particularly vulnerable, if anyone actually cared hard enough to try to get him.

But those who wanted to would lack the means to breach the security, he thought.  And those with the means would not see him as valuable enough to risk the potential fallout.

The external cameras warned him of other pods and shuttles dropping off famous guests.  Queued up automatically, he patiently waited until his own pod was able to dock.

As he exited into the airlock, a drone butler greeted him.

“Welcome, Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” it intoned in a warm voice.  “We are very pleased you could have made it.  Are you alone this evening?”

His invitation had said he could have brought another if he wished.  He had not wished to do so.

“That’s right.”

“Please, enter in and be introduced,” the drone said, leading him in.

As he passed through the main gate airlock, he saw that the room was like an ancient ballroom; every wall and surface was made in the most intricate style.  Real wood from Earth had been brought in, though worked in new styles and techniques that made them stand out.

Along each wall were paintings and sculptures, human and alien.  A section of sweeping Dessei sculptures stood next to replicas of some of the great human paintings, and beyond them the more surrealist Qlerning art, which sometimes he did not recognize immediately as even being art.

Pulling his eyes away from that and to the guests, he took stock of just who he would have to spend the evening with.

---

< Ep 8 Part 28 | Ep 8 Part 30 >

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

---

Tred almost knocked on the door to Ham Sulp’s office.

He hated knocking; the act of physically striking a door seemed alarmingly violent to him, but occasionally people still did it, especially when a request for entry was going unanswered.

Which, Ham Sulp had kept him waiting over two minutes now.

Making up his mind to actually reach his hand up and rap his knuckles on the door, he froze in mid-motion as it opened.

He hesitated, and then Sulp’s bellow came out to spur him into action.  “Come in!”

Scurrying in, Tred looked around the cramped office.  It should have been spacious, but there were containers stacked everywhere.

Maneuvering around them carefully, he approached the squat man at his desk, who did not even look up.

“I’m here on behalf of-oh!”  He cried out as something touched his leg.  Looking down, he saw that it was the small ship terrier that they’d taken on a while back.

It had its front paws on his shin, looking up at him expectantly.

“She wants you to pet her,” Sulp grumbled.

“Pet her?  Does she bite, though?”

Ham Sulp put down his stylus to turn and give Tred a long glare, before pointedly turning back to his work.  “No dog I train ever bites.  Not unless I train them to bite.”

That did not reassure Tred much, but he obediently knelt, reaching down a hand for the dog to inspect.

She gave him a cursory sniff, then began to pant, her short tail waggling expectantly.

“Just watch out if she starts to lick you, she’ll never stop,” Sulp added.  “Now, who sent you down here?”

“Er . . .”

Tred had carefully arranged his thoughts, just what he’d say.  But he was distracted now, and all of his words escaped him.

He looked down at the dog.  Her name was Angel, his system told him.

She was making a disturbing amount of eye contact with him.  Keeping her eyes locked on his, she turned her head just slightly, and her tongue came out.

The appendage seemed to move in slow motion as it took a long, slow lick on his hand.  She continued to stare at him.

“I haven’t got all day,” Sulp said.

“Jophiel!” Tred said.  “Ambassador Jophiel, I’m helping her with . . . well, she wants to go see the Ussa and Usser play and . . .”  The dog was now licking him more, making his hand moist.  He pulled it away and she jumped onto his leg again, crying sadly.

Hastily, he put his hand back down, and she continued to lick him.

“And what does she need?” Sulp prodded.

“Oh, well . . . I’m making her a special drone.  So I have a list of parts I need to make it work . . .”  He threw the information to Sulp with a swipe of his hand, his system interpreting the motion and sending it to the quartermaster’s system.

“Drone?  You’re not a drone tech,” Sulp noted.

“I got my certification last night,” Tred said quickly.  “All my credentials are in order, and-“

“That’s rather impressive,” Sulp grunted.  “That’s a six-day course.”

“I worked all day on it,” Tred said.  And it was true; he’d gotten up at dawn and taken his test just before the chime of day’s end.

“Well, things do look in order.”  Sulp seemed almost disappointed, Tred thought.  “I’ll have these brought to your work station in fifteen minutes.  That work?”

“Oh, yes,” Tred said, relief flooding him to the point that he almost felt giddy.  But his face went back to bothered in a moment as he still felt Angel licking his hand.  She’d gotten his entire palm at this point, and worked her way around to the back of his hand.

When he did not move, though, Sulp frowned.  “Do you need something else?”

“Just . . . how do I get the dog to stop licking me?” Tred asked.

---

< Ep 8 Part 27 | Ep 8 Part 29 >

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

---

It was the same talking head news show she’d seen in the bar.  They had a still image from the bar fight at the Nozzle – of her.  She was standing, finger pointing, anger carved into her face.

It had to be from when she had been telling them she was from New Vitriol.  She was far back, the Response Team – Kiseleva included – were rushing over to help Jaya.

She had a hard time looking away from herself, though.  She had been so angry; her face, normally an unhealthy pale, was red and blotchy with her anger.  Her mouth was squeezed into an ugly sneer, still yelling out whatever she had been saying.  She could not even recall exactly what she’d said at that moment.

Trying to push past it, she turned on the feed.

The talking heads were appearing, floating around the screen, talking to each other, ostensibly different views, but all the same at the end of the day.

“. . . this crazy woman, Apollonia Nor is her name, she actually started a fight with a damn Dreadnought!”

“I don’t know if she’s crazy or just stupid,” another head said.

“Or high!” a third head said, popping up and floating across the screen.  “She looks like one of the mindshot junkies I saw down on Red Light Row last week who was offering to do some really crazy stuff for just ten credits.”

The second head smirked.  “Are we sure it’s not that lady?  She might just think she’s from New Vitriol!”

They all shared a laugh, and Apollonia felt her face burning.  Anger and shame – old feelings that she’d often felt in the past, bubbling back to the surface.

The comments weren’t new to her, she’d heard worse, said right to her face.  But now they were being said on a show viewed by how many billions . . . ?

She didn’t want to hear more, but couldn’t make herself stop entirely.  Instead she just skipped to a later timestamp.

It was no longer her on screen, but a view she had not seen personally but recognized immediately; Kiseleva on the boarding ramp.  The pimp, Daze, was still alive, not yet stepping past the line.

“. . . another crazy woman from the Craton.  The Union just pumps ’em out, don’t they?”

“Well, you know what they say about the sapeholes, they really let the wrong people run amok over there,” the second said.  They laughed, as if it was some kind of in-joke.

“I tell ya though,” the third head said, popping up again.  “She’s hella hotter than Nor!  I’d let her violate my rights any day, if you know what I mean!”

“I don’t know,” the second said.  “As much as I’d love to bed a gal that beautiful, I think I like my heart and spine intact.  She’s a literal heart-breaker, just ask poor Daze!”

“I’ve heard,” the first said, “that getting girls dressed up like her is getting to be a popular fantasy down in Red Light.  You know, after this, I might just head down there myself and see what-“

Apollonia stopped it, feeling sick.

She glanced at Kiseleva, who was still looking at the boarding Gohhians.

She didn’t look that upset, Apollonia thought.  How did she brush it off so easily?  As much as Apollonia felt used to a lot of vile things, this was too much even for her.

“Someone’s approaching,” Kiseleva said suddenly.

Apollonia felt her hackles rise again, and she snapped her head in Kiseleva’s direction of gaze.

The man was trying not to seem suspicious, but like the Response officer, Apollonia could immediately tell he was coming towards them.  He was trying too hard to seem casual.

As he came close, he suddenly put up his hand – Kiseleva jumped, towards him, while Apollonia away.

But it was not a weapon.  The man just had a simple camera.

“Officer Kiseleva,” he said loudly.  “Can we hear your side of the story?  For the people of Gohhi, howling for blood for the cold-blooded murder of Daze Allo – what do you have to say?”

Oh god, Apollonia realized.  He was paparazzi.

Kiseleva looked to her.  “Say nothing,” she said sharply.

The man whirled to Apollonia.  “And you, Ms. Nor, do you have any comment on the shooting of Daze Allo?  Are you two cooperating to attack the men of Gohhi?”

Apollonia felt her jaw drop, but she managed to keep from saying anything, closing her mouth with a loud click and looking away.

She was starting to feel light-headed again.

“Response Team to location,” she heard Kiseleva say.  “We have intruder aboard.”

“Are you going to have me shot the way you shot Daze Allo?” the man asked, seeming very unafraid for someone who thought that might happen.  “Can you show me the handgun you shot him with?  Is it standard Union issue or did you use a private weapon?”

He turned the camera on Apollonia again, she looked down and away, putting up a hand to shield herself awkwardly.

She heard boots approaching, the whir of drones, it had to be the Response Team coming-

A large shadow loomed, and she jumped slightly.  But looking up, it was not the Response Team or another paparazzi – but Cenz.

“Oh, hello!” he said, pushing himself between the man and the table.  The photographer tried to dart around him, but Cenz put one of his arms around the man’s shoulders, pulling him away.

“Let me go!” the man screamed, clearly ready for this.  “I am not violating any laws of the Sapient Union!”

“I’m afraid that you are disturbing the peace, sir,” Cenz said, sounding eternally pleasant, his electronic face smiling.  “But I will be happy to answer any questions you have!  Pertaining to the public areas of the Craton, that is.”

The man tried to squirm away, but Cenz’s grip was apparently like iron.  “Unhand me you fucking xeno!”

“I am afraid I do not have hands,” she heard Cenz say, his voice fading slightly as he dragged the man away.  “But let me tell you about what sorts of appendages my people do have . . .”

Kiseleva snorted out a laugh.  “I suppose I owe him another one,” she muttered.

Apollonia found it hard to laugh, or even really think.

Looking over, she saw that the Response Team had arrived, taking the man from Cenz’s grip.  He was still yelling about rights, drawing a crowd.  Some of the other Gohhians, looking as surprised as everyone else, snapped some images of the man as he was led away.

“Excuse me,” Apollonia said, rising from the table.

Kiseleva rose as well.  “Are you all right?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“I think I just need some quiet,” Apollonia told her.  Along with a nap.  And a shower.

---

< Ep 8 Part 26 | Ep 8 Part 28 >