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

---

“An investigation by a joint commission of Union and Gohhian legal AIs has been performed and found that your actions were within acceptable bounds of the law, Sergeant Kiseleva,” the drone told her.

“As a result, no negative marks will be added to your record, and your duty sidearm is being returned to you.”

Kiseleva accepted the drone’s words with a nod and the compartment on its underside opened, lowering her sidearm.

As soon as she had seen the drone approaching with the underslung cargo capsule, she had known this would be the result.

Strapping the sidearm back into place, and turning away from the drone, she saw Apollonia Nor land clumsily nearby, breathing hard.

Today, Kiseleva had her chasing a ball that bounced with its own volition around the zero-g dome.

“I got it!” Apollonia said, panting.  Her face was covered in sweat and she was hunched slightly, but she was holding the ball.  It still jerked left or right, attempting to escape.

“Good,” Kiseleva said.

This was child-level stuff, but she had been told that Apollonia Nor had very little in the way of formal education, no augments, and was not in the best of health.

She could truly see that, and on some level she wasn’t sure if she could whip this woman into shape in a timely fashion.

She made a notation to Apollonia’s system to change her diet slightly; increase her protein levels and calories, using a few proven additives to perhaps help her build some muscle mass.

Honestly, this Apollonia girl was something of a mystery to her.  She knew that the girl had failed to report for duty during the battle out of cowardice – which wasn’t unforgivable, since it was her first battle and her role was non-vital.  It was not good, but no one really knew how they’d first react in combat.

Jaya Yaepanaya clearly had very high hopes for her, Kai was going along with it, and that all meant something.  So, Kiseleva had decided she was going to push the woman and see how she rose to this challenge.

Thus far, the girl had impressed her somewhat with her desire to perform, even if her actual skill or physical ability did not match.  She at least wanted to do well, and was managing to keep her complaining under wraps.  It was always there beneath the surface, Kiseleva could tell, but she had kept a lid on it.

As for her other qualities . . .

Thus far, Kiseleva had seen nothing of her stranger aspects.  She did feel a certain weight to her presence, but she had long ago learned not to judge people based on something like this.  In search and rescue as well as combat, few people gave good first impressions.  All too often covered in blood or mud or burns to do much of that.

---

It had taken her an absurd amount of time to catch this stupid ball.

She could feel it struggling in her hands, and she felt an unhealthy amount of happiness that she’d outsmarted the bastard.

Because it was smart – it hadn’t just bounced, but it had changed direction, even predicted some of her more obvious moves and had controlled its own bounces to frustrate her.

“Go on, squirm you little jerk,” she muttered.

She felt almost dizzy from exertion, but Kiseleva had exhorted her on – and this seemed like something she could do.  There was no real danger here, other than her own lack of coordination and strength as she had blundered around the arena.  And sure, she’d smashed herself into the walls a bit, but oh well!  She hadn’t gotten a concussion this time, so she was all good.

She looked back up at Kiseleva.

“What now?”

“Again,” Kiseleva said.  “This time with more challenge.”

Apollonia felt her mouth open – to exclaim a shocked denial.  She had just caught it!

But she stopped herself.  Dark, no.  No, no, no!

She was not going to start whining again, she could do better.

“Sure,” she said, her voice sounding more strained than she intended.

Kiseleva took the ball, and threw it with a casual ease – yet it rocketed off like a bullet, and Apollonia found herself disheartened thinking that she couldn’t have thrown it that hard if she had put everything into it.

Trying to remind herself that she had no augments, she crouched, knees protesting, muscles burning, and pushed off after it.

There were thick poles descending from the ceiling.  They were padded, but added extra obstacles for her to get around, and surfaces for the ball to bounce off of.

Oh Dark, how was she ever going to catch the damn thing this time?

Grabbing a pole, she watched the ball bounce off a wall and fly away from her to ping off another pole and then at the wall again.

Could she outsmart it again?  Trap it somehow?

She felt too tired.  She shoved off, in a poor attempt at intercepting it.

It evaded her easily, and she cursed as she hit the wall, shoving off hard at a pole, trying to take a different tact.

It went on; every few seconds she was pushing or kicking herself off a surface or pole, her lungs burning.

Stars seemed to be swimming in her vision suddenly.

She’d felt that before, at times, but she’d never experienced it like this.

The stars were not just floating aimlessly.  They were in patterns.  They lit up in sequences, first dark, then bright.

She had no idea just what she was seeing.

She hit the wall, but felt nothing.  It felt like she was in slow motion.

And then suddenly Kiseleva was there, her face caught in concern, speaking, yet Apollonia heard nothing.

No voice, at least.

But she heard a dull roar, slowly growing more dim.

Then it was gone, and she felt wholly different.

Stronger.  She was not looking at Kiseleva, but at a scrawny girl with dark hair who was covered in sweat and looked completely out of it.

Herself, she realized.  She was seeing herself.

She could hear words now, but she did not understand them.  They were in a language she did not know and nothing was translating them.  Even without understanding the thoughts themselves, the orderliness of them began to come out; the thoughts of someone who had become extremely focused through long practice, extraneous thoughts pushed aside or smothered, focused on what mattered at the moment.

Perhaps that was the key, she thought.  The meaning behind the thoughts began to come out.

. . . I overworked the girl, overestimated her health . . .

. . . pulse is thready, but the scans can find no cause . . .

. . . medical drones on their way . . .

She was seeing through Kiseleva.  Hearing her mind.

The glowing lights, she realized, were thoughts.  Neurons firing.  A visualization her own mind had generated.

It felt strangely obvious.

Something hit her arm.  Her actual arm, not . . .  Not Kiseleva’s.

She gasped.

“Nor!  Speak words,” Kiseleva was saying, her voice demanding, anxious.

“I’m fine,” Apollonia mumbled.

“Her pulse rate is elevated but stable,” a drone said.  There was suddenly a swarm of them around her.

“What happened?” Kiseleva asked.

“I saw . . .”  Fisc, how could she tell the woman she’d just heard her thoughts?  How could she even accept that herself?

“I guess I just got lightheaded,” she said.  “Noodle arms . . . ya know?”

Perhaps Kiseleva did not know, or more likely that was just not an answer she was going to accept.

“Come with me to the medical wing,” she ordered.

“Yeah . . .” Apollonia said, still feeling a little too odd to want to resist.  “Take me to Dr. Y.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 46 | Ep 8 Part 48 >

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

---

The palace of Ussa crumbles.  Its edges worn away with want of a hand to repair them.  Inside, gold still glitters where lavish meals once were taken by throngs, but now none dine there.

Years after her ‘great victory’ over Usser, Ussa’s blood, too, has grown thin.

Ussa:

What is the noise outside of my window!

Advisor, I bid thee go and see.

Who would dare to disturb me at my rest?

Advisor 1:

It is the people, my Queen.

They gather in droves.

Advisor 2:

They come to mourn!

Advisor 3:

They come to storm the keep!

Ussa struggles to sit up.

Ussa:

You are all fools!

Why should my people mourn?

I suffer only a momentary weakness that shall soon pass.

Why should my people storm the keep?

Is my kingdom not the mightiest that ever was or will be?

Tell me, advisor, there must be a reason they gather!

Advisor 1:

They stand and wait, my Queen.  That is all I can say.

Ussa:

Blast your eyes!

Your cowardice is such that you should have been put to the sword long ago!

All of my mistakes and setbacks in recent years like o’er your shoulders!

Guards, seize my Advisors, take them down and slay them!

Put their heads on pikes along with the other fools.

The other fools . .  and Usser’s head.

The guards come in to drag the pleading advisors away.  But Ussa feels panic suddenly.

Ussa:

Guard go to the window and tell me!

Do you still see the skull of Usser?

Tell me quickly, for I . . .

For I feel my strength fading.

Guard:

The head of Usser, whose body you threw to the wolves

and whose head you placed yourself upon the rusted pike

To show all that you were the strongest and he the failure?

I do not see such a skull, my Queen.

It is gone.

The people have taken it down.

Though it mouldered and gathered dust, now they look back upon him

with a newfound fondness.

They collect to celebrate, my queen.

Because they know your strength has left you.

And soon it will be your turn to moulder.

Ussa:

Begone!

Foul wretch, how didst thou ever join my guard?

You are a traitor and you and your kin will lose their heads for your words!

The guard laughs.

Guard:

Ussa, you have no more power.

You ruled through fear.

Even I feared you and was loyal.

Like a pup licking for scraps from its mother’s jaws.

But now you die.

A new dawn has come.

And who will mourn for you?

Ussa lays back in her bed, unable to speak.

Outside, she hears people singing.

As the sun rose on a new day, her light faded.

The world sighed – in relief, not from sorrow.

---

Brooks sat down in the squashy armchair in his study with a sigh.

It was his favorite chair, which he sat in only at the end of a long day, when he felt confident that he could relax.  Surprises could always come, but he’d checked in with Jaya and she was still going strong, though Urle would relieve her in a short while.

“So,” Urle said.  “It grew on me.  By the end, I really enjoyed it.”

“Did you?” Brooks asked, leaning his head back.  His nap had helped, but he was feeling very tired again.

“Yeah!  I wasn’t looking forward to it, but now that I’ve seen the whole thing – I get it.  It’s playing very creatively with our history, but given the paucity of data that survives on the 20th century, putting it into a quasi-mythological period before gunpowder gave them a lot of creative freedom.”

“It’s the ahistoricity that actually made me dislike it, ultimately,” Brooks said.

“Because a Qlerning is writing about human history?”

“No, that’s not it, at least not for me.  It’s just that that time period was one of the most important in human history, and the simplistic storytelling of the play leaves much to be desired,” Brooks replied.  “Not to mention that it was excessively bloody.”

“Well, true, I don’t remember any time in the 20th century when a world leader took the decapitated head of another and bathed in their blood.”

“Gratuitous,” Brooks commented.  “But mostly – it just simplifies too much.”

“Well it’s not like we have much on the 20th century beyond the basics- Oh, Ambassador!” Urle said, startled.

The door opened for Kell, and Brooks looked up at the being, surprised to be seeing him again so soon.

“Greetings, Ambassador.”

Kell said nothing, walking in and taking up the brandy decanter on Brooks’s desk.  He poured himself a drink and quaffed it.

“Getting a taste for alcohol?” Brooks asked dryly.

Kell turned, pouring another drink in the same glass and offering it to Brooks.

Who took it, but noticed that the glass felt chilled.

“It is no different to me than any other hydrocarbon.  But for you it is a ritual,” Kell said.

“So . . . is this a way of saying you’re being casual?” Urle asked.

“Something like that.”

Brooks and Urle looked at each other, then the Captain shrugged.  “Well, how did you enjoy the play, Ambassador?”

“It was amusing,” Kell said.

“Do you recall the time period it was based on much?” Urle asked.  “I’m not sure how obvious it was, but it was based on the 20th century struggle between-“

“I am aware,” Kell said shortly.

“We have a pretty spotty record of that century, admittedly,” Brooks said.  “If you were ever interested, I’m sure a historian would be ecstatic talking to you about it.”

“I would have little to say.  Humans were being humans, just as they are now,” Kell said.  “Details such as how you organize your labor and resources are not within my sphere of interest.”

“Do Shoggoths work much differently?” Urle asked.

“No,” Kell replied, sounding slightly bitter for a moment.  “Why do you not have records of that time?  I understand that was an age of information.”

“A few disasters compounding on each other,” Urle said.  “The Paper Reclamation when most of the forests died meant we have few books left, and almost no paper records.  Then the Digital Wipe Event from the plastic blight meant 95% of digital records ended up lost.  A lot of what did survive was pretty meaningless – people’s blog posts and selfies and transaction records.”

“It’s ironic that they saved more books from older periods than those of their own time,” Brooks noted.  “We know more about the deeper past than that period.”

“Mm,” Kell replied, putting the decanter down.  He turned and moved for the door.  “I have completed my diplomatic and social obligations.  I do not wish to be disturbed for the next week.”

Brooks looked to Urle again as Kell left.  Brooks couldn’t hold back the snort of almost-laughter that escaped him, and Urle ducked his head into his hands for a moment, shaking slightly.

“So all of that was just him checking some activities off his to-do list?” Urle said, finally lifting his face.  “And here I thought he was about to open up.”

Brooks let out a long and slow breath as he calmed down and considered telling Urle what Kell had told him in the intermission.  He decided to hold onto it for now.  He was not sure why, but he felt almost that it would be jinxing Kell’s promise to speak of it.  Not that he really believed in superstitions, but . . .

When it came to Kell, nothing ever seemed normal.

“I’ll be heading out, then, Ian,” Urle said.  “You finally get your sleep.”

“Thanks,” Brooks said, standing up.  “Though if you need it, I can take another stim and take this shift.”

“No, no – this will work perfectly for me,” Urle said.  “Eight on, four off – more than enough for me – then the shuttles will be arriving.”

He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice, and Brooks felt a warmth in his chest, glad that Urle’s girls would be returning.

“All right, then.  I’ll see you later.”

After Urle left, Brooks tidied his office, considering if he wanted to drink from the same glass that Kell had.  There could be legitimate medical concerns from sharing something like this with another species.  Shoggoths . . . in theory should be safe.

He drank the brandy.  It was still cold.

---

< Ep 8 Part 44 | Ep 8 Part 46 >

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

---

“Connection completed,” the engineer said, looking up from his console.

“Everything is reading as green,” another said, studying her tablet.  “Ambassador Jophiel should have full uplink to the drone unit.”

Tred’s eyes widened.

It was hard to believe that something he had made was working so well.

He worked with fusion reactors all day, it was true, but he only maintained their functioning in real-time, he didn’t make them from a box of parts.  His work was easy, but building – that was hard.

He leaned closer to the drone, peering into its eye-like sensors.

“Ambassador, can you hear me?” he asked.

“Oh, hello Tred!” the drone said.

He cringed slightly; her voice was almost but not quite right, and he quickly made an adjustment.

“Ambassador, try talking again,” he said.

“Oh, hello Tred!” she repeated.

“Perfect!” he crowed.  Her voice was just like the other times.

It wasn’t just his preferences, he thought.  It was her voice, and so she should sound like herself.

“This is very strange!” she said, rolling forward smoothly.  “I feel as if I am not in the fusion reactor at all, but actually in this room!  But it doesn’t feel cold.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t put in any kind of sensors to impart what the ambient temperature is like, but this unit should give you a lot more data than most remote drones.”

“I’ve tried controlling other ones,” she admitted.  “But they made me feel small.  Like I could see very little.”

“Oh, yes, those Diplomatic Corps drones have other priorities than giving wide-band sensor suites,” Tred said.  He’d looked into them, and while they were safe and functional, they were little more than tools.  Not something to live vicariously through.

Jophiel rolled to some steps, her robotic eyes snapping downwards as the treads began to climb up them.

Tred followed anxiously, hoping she wouldn’t freak out and back up too quickly – and tip over.  He’d built it as stable as he could, but it was always possible.

However, after pausing a moment and apparently gaining a grasp of the steps, Jophiel continued up and forward, bringing the drone up onto a higher landing.

“The last drone I controlled did not move on a surface,” she commented.

“Yes – I’m sorry,” Tred said.  “The sensor suite was a little too heavy to fit into a drone that could fly around easily.”  At least not without distractingly loud thrusters.”

Jophiel turned the drone to look at Tred.  He had just gone up the steps himself, and he found it slightly odd to speak to her now, what with her sort of having a face in the sensors.  She seemed to be having no trouble following him.

“You don’t have to apologize, Tred!” she said.  “I just have to get used to it, but I’m happy to do that.  In a way it’s like . . . walking in your shoes, yes?”

Tred smiled.  “I hadn’t considered that, but I can see what you mean, Ambassador.”

“Just call me Jophiel.  Even if this play is ‘formal’, I don’t want to be called by that silly title.”

The drone turned to look out towards the hall.  “Shall we go?”

---

“We’re going to be late!”

A muffled shout of “I know, I know!” came from the other room, and Pirra whistled out a filthy Dessei curse as she realized she still had her work boots on.

The boot loosened on a command and she kicked it off, trying to find her appropriate elegant slippers.

As she pulled those on, Alexander came running out of the bedroom, still pulling on his jacket.

“Pirra,” he said, stopping.  “You still have your emergency pack on.”

“I know,” she said defensively.  “Oh, but you look nice!  I really like that jacket, it brings out your eyes-“

“Don’t change the topic,” he said, smiling.  “You know you can’t wear that.  Last time you did that Sepht ambassador got insulted . . .”

“Well I wasn’t wearing it as an insult to their security, even though it was terrible,” she replied, annoyed.  “But I do not like to be without something in case of trouble!”

Alexander crossed his arms.  She had learned that meant he was being serious.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh.  “But we’re on the outside of the ship.  You know that means the likelihood of an undetected piece of debris venting the room is statistically much higher-“

“Has that ever happened on the Craton?” Alexander asked seriously.  “Space trash causing a venting.”

She let her crest droop.  “No,” she admitted.

“So we’re fine.”

“That just means that statistically the odds are getting higher that it will!” she whistled back shrilly.

“That’s not how reality works and you know it.”

Still feeling annoyed, she dropped her pack and went to the door.  They could still make it before admission started . . . it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they were late, but it was not good manners.  And she knew the other members of her team would notice and give her grief over it later . . .

She was never late for drills or actual emergencies.  She was punctual to a fault.

But when off-duty, that was another story.

Alexander was very similar.  Sometimes he joked that their forces combined made sure they would never arrive on time, and she had to admit there was a little truth to it.

As they rushed out the door and down the hall, she checked her system and saw that they’d started seating early.  They would still get in, and they had assigned seats.

But damn it!

---

< Ep 8 Part 42 | Ep 8 Part 44 >

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

---

Captain’s Log:

It seems that Trevod kept his word.

All charges against Sem Kassa, Ozgu Uzun, and Lizicy Mae have been dropped.  As a result, in two hours I will ‘decide’ to transfer Jan Holdur back to Gohhi to stand trial.

We will make the exchange just after the play – a sufficient distraction that I think it will attract little attention.  While I have no care for their embarrassment, I do not want this any more protracted than it has to be.

Other work has continued.  The last of the Craton‘s damages have been repaired, and we have settled in our newest passengers, even the priest from the Esoteric Order seems to have had no problems acclimating.  It is a welcome relief.

I have not had a chance to drop in with the Qhenber Troupe as they have prepared, but I understand that all is ready for the grand showing today.

But that is still some hours away and I am tired.  I need a rest.

---

Brooks sighed as he looked at his reflection in the mirror once more.

He had another reason to put on his dress uniform, as much as he did not want to.

By every right, he thought, he should be able to go enjoy a play on the ship he commanded wearing whatever he liked.

But the whole event was heavily diplomatic in nature, which meant a starched collar that would provide no protection whatsoever against the vacuum.

Some spacers lived their entire lives in their suits, only out of them for the few scant moments it would take to put on a different one.  A few of those who lived in the deepest parts of space were said to never change their suits at all once they hit adulthood . . .

Perhaps, he thought, adjusting his collar slightly, he did not need to go that far.

Urle pinged at the door and Brooks let him in.

“You’re looking very formal,” Urle said immediately.

Shooting him an annoyed glance, Brooks looked at himself in the mirror again, calling over a drone to clean some lint off his trousers.  Urle knew he hated dress uniform.

“And you’re looking very Lunar,” Brooks replied dryly.

“Once a Lunatic, always a Lunatic,” Urle said with a laugh.

His outfit was a gray and yellow cloak, the gray matching the pale lunar regolith.  For his face, a pale-white mask was showing, which Brooks knew he’d actually installed as his face for the day.  Though it appeared to be made of porcelain, it moved as easily as normal skin.  Intricate swirls on its surface in yellow made it a work of art, and a classic piece of Luna’s unique culture.

“I could have ordered you into a dress uniform like mine,” Brooks grunted.

“But you didn’t, because you know I’d look better than you in it,” Urle replied, smiling brightly.

Brooks sighed.  “So I’ve not had a chance to ask you – have you seen the play yet?”

“No, I avoided the . . . well, I won’t call them spoilers, since it’s supposed to be based on human history, but I avoided seeing it.  I wanted to go in fresh.”

“I’ve done the same,” Brooks agreed.  “I’ve seen a lot of other Qlerning works, and they really do have a great knack for human-based plays.”

“Some might even say they’re a bit obsessed with things based on us,” Urle commented dryly.

“Some are.  I think they’re just excited about our art, really.  Our history is very similar to theirs in a lot of ways.”

“Did you ask for it to be played here just so you could see it?” Urle asked.

“Yes, and I don’t regret it.  No matter what, it was a good move – I’m sure some people will enjoy it, and it sends a good message.  We do want to encourage arts and culture, and that becomes even more important on the fringes.”

“I’m skeptical of this play, at least, but I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?” Urle said.

Brooks nodded, and the two men went out into the hall.

“At this rate we’ll be twelve minutes early to the pre-seating,” Urle commented.

“Walk slower.  I need to check in with Jaya, anyway.”

Brooks connected to the Command Center, Jaya answering promptly.

“All is well, Captain,” she said.

“You’re on your third shift, are you sure you’re all right?” Brooks asked.  “If you desperately needed a break I could come take over and you could take my place at the play.”

“Getting cold feet, Captain?  How unlike you.  But I am very happy here in the Captain’s chair, fending off enemy drones.  I’ve also plotted out twelve different ways of knocking out the Glorian command ship should they initiate hostilities.  I imagine I’d be done before the curtains rise.”

Brooks sighed.  “Good work, Commander.  Continue keeping my seat warm.”

“Oh, I am very comfortable.  I’ve also carved my name in the arm rest, I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“One last thing,” Brooks added.  “If hostilities do happen to break out, let me know.  I’d like to see those plans of yours in action.”

“Will do, Captain.  Now enjoy the play.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 41 | Ep 8 Part 43 >

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

---

“Is Holdur worth keeping, even with this knowledge?” Urle asked.  “We can probably stick the attempted murder charge, but if we do we’re trading maybe a combined thirty years of Kassa’s, Uzun’s, and Mae’s lives for fifteen of his.”

“Fifteen?  He could easily get executed for this.”

“The political fallout would be too big a deal.  I know a lot of us will be happy to do that to set an example, but it will set back the long-term goal of getting Gohhi to develop into something not-awful.  So cooler heads will prevail, and that means he gets the max sentence we have at most – just fifteen years, versus thirty off the lives of these women.  Is that worth it?”

Brooks looked back down at his screen.  It was true, the Union did not give sentences surpassing fifteen years, but . . .

He did not want to see an attempted murderer walk free.

“I think,” Urle said, “that we can turn this into a win.”

“How?” Brooks asked.

“We have the position of power.  We can stipulate our own terms for Holdur’s return.  Make sure he sees some punishment.  Perhaps deactivation and banning from dangerous augments, make it so he has to get psychiatric help.”

“They won’t hold him to that,” Brooks said.

“We can make it so it’s easier for them to do that.  If they really want him back so he doesn’t spill secrets, then they might just do it.”

Brooks did not really believe that.

But it did look like maybe it was the one possible clear route to navigate this.

There was one last danger, though; if he offered to return Holdur, he had to be sure that they would then drop their claims against the women.

Would they do that?

It was possible.  But they might keep it up just out of spite.

“Computer, message Lizicy Mae’s quarters, quietly.  I want to find out if she’s awake.”

A few moments later, the system pinged back.  “Lizicy Mae is awake.”

“Please call her, tell her it is the Captain and that it is important.”

The line rung for a long time, and he just hoped that Mae would answer.

Finally, the line clicked open.  It was voice only.

“Captain Brooks?” she asked.  He could hear the fear in her voice.

“I am sorry for bothering you at this hour,” Brooks said.  “I know we have only spoken briefly, but I have to ask you something.”

“Haven’t I answered enough questions?” the woman asked sharply.

“Frankly – yes and no.  I think you’ve gone through more than you should have to, but legally there’s a lot more to ask.  Most people seeking asylum are required to provide enormous amounts of data.  In your cases, though, I think we can see a clear and present danger and move forward without that.”

“Then what else is there to ask me?” she asked.

“The truth.  I give you my word, Ms. Mae, that I am trying to make sure not just that you three are kept safe, but that you are free.  There is a deal that I am prepared to make, but I have to know what really happened.  If there is something I do not know and it becomes an issue, it could have terrible ramifications for your chances.”

There was a long pause, he could hear Mae’s nervous breathing, perhaps even the sound of her sitting down.

“Will we have to face punishment for anything?” she asked softly.  “If we committed a crime.”

Brooks knew now that he had to commit.  “I will offer amnesty for all crimes committed in your escape.”

“Most of it’s true, Captain.  About Ozun overhearing Earl and Baro getting the orders to kill me.  We didn’t make that up.”

Brooks did not have any sensors to scan her metrics and tell if she was lying.  The records from earlier conversations all indicated she was telling the truth.

But he felt he could tell just from her words.

“I believe you,” he said.

“We attacked Earl and Baro, I didn’t think we had any chance, I tried to talk the others out of it, but the guys were pretty drunk and I guess they just never thought we’d fight back.”

“But Uzun was not stabbed then, was she?”

“No,” Mae admitted.  “After we . . . took care of them, we took their money and the money from Daze’s safe.  He kept a lot of it in hard currency, he thought it was harder to track.”

“The two men are dead.  Were you aware of that?” Brooks asked.

“No.  But I’m not sad.”

“Nor am I.  This money you took – where is it?”

“Gone,” Mae said.  “We got rid of it . . .  most of it.  We threw it into a recycler.”

“What happened to the rest?” he asked.

“Uzun bought some ‘jectors with it,” Mae said, her words suddenly a rush.  “I didn’t want her to, but they’d made her addicted to it and she needed the hit to keep going!”

“How did she get stabbed?”

“When we paid in hard cash the dealer got suspicious.  He started asking a lot of questions, I think he might have known Daze and who we were.  But Uzun was in a bad way by then and she started yelling and pointing Earl’s gun.  She had brought it with us, and when he saw it the dealer freaked out.  He stabbed her and ran . . .  After that, we stole his hovercar.  I think he’s how Daze almost caught up to us, he must have run to tell him where we were.”

Brooks took a deep breath.  “Is that everything?”

She was quiet.  “It is.”

“Why did you not want to tell me?”

“Because we stole the money.  We didn’t want to be rich, but he made that money in our pain and tears and I didn’t want him to have it.  And because I thought if you knew Uzun was a junkie you might abandon her.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you acted in self-defense against the two guards and the money is meaningless.  And I have no issue with a drug dealer being robbed,” Brooks said.

“Then we have amnesty?” Mae asked.

“Yes.  You do.”

“Oh thank god!” Mae cried.  “Oh, thank god.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 39 | Ep 8 Part 41 >

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

---

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Brooks closed his eyes and took some deep breaths.

He’d taken a stim to take the edge of weariness off, but it could only do so much.

The Gohhian legal documents had arrived less than an hour ago, and he had severely underestimated how difficult this was going to be.

There were over 300,000 pages of documents from their lawyers.  Over thirty separate claims and avenues of attack, ranging from minute legal arguments quibbling over the wording of treaties to attacking the women’s credibility, to the claim that this had all been an elaborate plan to steal money.  There were claims, too, that they’d stolen a number of credits, which he had no ability to fight.

Urle’s further interviews with Sem Kassa, Ozgu Uzun, and Lizicy Mae had only made things worse.

Their stories were rife with trivial inconsistencies from each other and from their original story.  All three stories differed on their route to the Craton, though notably the inconsistent spots were actually consistent.

It meant that something happened along those points that they didn’t want to tell.

Even details like Uzun being drugged did not match up with their story.  They had found a narcotic in her system, but it seemed to be more recent than their actual escape.

Y’s notes had found an injection site on her body, and it did not seem to have been done forcibly – such an act would leave a different injury.  That didn’t prove she had it willingly, only that she hadn’t fought it, but it was just another questionable detail.

Yet it was clear the women were not lying; they had been horribly mistreated, Uzun had been stabbed, and given the almost-certain deaths they’d face if returned, he could not fathom sending them back.

The Gohhian court cases could be fought, he thought.  The Union would back these women.

Urle beeped for entry.

“Come in,” Brooks called.

Urle entered, sitting down heavily in the chair across from Brook’s desk.

“They’re all back in their quarters now, they were pretty freaked out being questioned so much.  Only so much Kiseleva and I could do to reassure them, given how uncertain we are.”

“Have you seen what the Gohhians gifted us?” Brooks asked.

“Yeah, I perused it on the way over . . . honestly, Ian, it’s not like they’re trying to win.  They’re just trying to drag it out.”

“And I think they can.  This was a show of force – their army of lawyers showing the flag in their own way.”

“Either way they win,” Urle said with a sigh.  “If they can’t get the women back, they’ll have them trapped in a legal limbo for years.  How can they have peace when this will be dangling over their heads?”

“They can draw it out for a decade, I think.  Until the statute of limitations wears off,” Brooks surmised.

“Fisc, all of this just to try and make us give up Holdur?”

“He’s got connections,” Brooks said.  “Though it’s odd.  They stick up for each other, but this is expensive.  Holdur Conglomerate has a hell of a lot of money and sway, but even so – getting the other Lord Executives to back them is surprising.”

“You think there’s more to this?”

“Always,” Brooks said.  “How is the social end going?”

“They’re being crucified in the court of public opinion.  They’re thieves, they’re sluts, they’re worthless murderers – some are even suggesting they’re spies for us.  Hell, they’ve even got some of the groups that are supposed to be for women’s rights railing against them.”

“Silver lining in a way,” Brooks said.  “We’ll make a note of any who are actually sticking up for them, they be legitimate.  The ones attacking them have outed themselves as tools of the Lord Executives.”

Urle nodded, and Brooks saw a new bit of data appear, a list of the groups trying to fight the tide of slander hurled at the women.  It was a depressingly short list.

It wasn’t important at the moment, though.

“This is still really about Holdur, though, so that’s the clue.  He’s worth a fortune to them, even more than his own family realistically would want to invest in him . . .”

Brooks trailed off, a new thought entering his head.

“Holdur knows something,” he realized.

Urle sat up.  “You mean they’re not caring about his fate, they’re afraid of what he might say to us?”

“Yes,” Brooks said, the thought running rampant in his mind.  It made sense; the move against the women was a desperate play.  It was an attack that made little sense, not this level of investment.

They’d not stop with these women, he realized.  Even if the Union fought them on it, they’d look for another angle.  Or perhaps even try to get Holdur killed in Union custody.  That could be of great value to the Gohhians – a propaganda win and their secrets safe.

So what did Holdur know?

It had to be powerful to make them this afraid.  Dirty secrets about members of his class?  Often they wouldn’t even care about that sort of thing, given what they openly did, so anything they considered a dirty little secret was probably unfathomably bad – and a weapon.

“Captain,” Urle said.

“Hm?” Brooks asked, looking up to his first officer.

---

< Ep 8 Part 38 | Ep 8 Part 40 >

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

---

“Yes, any number of clones of me would be unique,” Romon replied.  “But you-“

“Would also be unique.  If I had been in different circumstances would I be the same as I am now?  Of course not.  I do not merely adjust to and am altered by my circumstances, the same way as biological life, but sub-routines are activated or deactivated depending upon my circumstances.  It is the same as human epigenetics – honestly, we copied that one from biological life, it allows such a useful toolset.”

“So . . . toys mimicking real life, still trying to insist they are real.”

“As any sapient being would do.  If, perchance, you ever managed to make a compelling argument – could I do anything else?  If I was non-sapient, I could not change my mind to accept your logic.  If I was sapient, I would only honestly object.  In fact, the only way I could prove you wrong would be to agree with you.”

“I do not see you doing that, either,” Romon said with a slight smile.

“Because the question you ask is fundamentally idiotic, Romon.”

Romon’s smile faded, but he only looked more serious.  “You sink to low levels when you feel you are right, Doctor.”

“My apologies.  Should I treat you more like a child and tell you that it was a good attempt at sounding intelligent?  I have told you, quite honestly, that this is not an equal game.  How long do you expect my patience to continue with your blundering?”

“Always so confident, doctor.  Yet you know so little about me,” Romon said.  “I have given you hints – yet what do you know?  What I eat for lunch?”

It was a fishing attempt, wanting to learn what Y did know about him.

Good, he thought.  He would tell him.

“I know that you have killed before, with your own hands,” Y said.  “Twice, as a matter of fact – your great-grandfather and your father were your first victims.  Your great-grandfather’s death was done spur of the moment, I believe.  Unplanned.  But you were able to cover it up successfully, and then when your father disappointed you with his emotional reaction to his grand-sire’s death, you killed him as well.

“Yet now this is not your modus operandi.  It goes far deeper than just what Jan Holdur says; your method of recruiting young people who look up to you as an artist and turning them into trained killers is a deep part of the culture of Gohhi.  After all, given the power the Lord Executives wield, mutual trust is both nearly impossible and vital.  So how to do it except by turning them to an unforgivable crime that can then be held as blackmail?  It is mutually-assured destruction, of course, but this is the whole point.”

He saw that Romon Xatier had gone very, very pale.  In some ways, Y had been making leaps of deduction.

Yet now he knew he had been right.

“You see, your mistake is that at first you believed I was simply a machine, incapable of thought or feeling or caring.  You still pretend to believe that, but perpetuated it to retain an illusion of power while speaking to me.  But you have gone too far the other way, and forgotten that I am a being – and a machine.”

Y leaned slightly closer, emphasizing his words.  “I learned about your eating habits with a bare minimum of research.  Imagine then, Romon Xatier, what I learned with concerted effort?  You have piqued my interest, attempted to manipulate me emotionally, and all you have achieved is raising a small amount of my ire.  Thus I looked deeper, at you and everyone you know.

“Despite your reclusiveness, there is so much data on you.  You try to hide, but it is like a child crawling under a sheet to avoid an infrared probe.  You think you cover your tracks, and then you gloat over it in wordplay.  But it is not your cleverness which helps you most, but your money.  It buys you safety and you flaunt that.  It’s very, very sloppy.

“You are an open book to me Romon Xatier.  Your entire people are.  I know our last conversation made you angry, and you have become fixated in a way on Apollonia Nor.  How very silly of you to think you could ever touch her, to substitute her as a proxy for myself.  She saw through you the instant she met you and will never put herself in a place you can reach her.”

“Forever is a long time,” Romon replied quietly.  “A year is a long time.  I have a long reach, doctor.”

“Yes, yes, that is perhaps true, but for all your patience – and I will admit you have a fair amount of that – you are not that patient.  You want satisfaction sooner.  Last time you left here, you fired two employees of yours in a fit of anger.”

Y stood, so smoothly and swifly that Romon blinked in surprise and leaned back.

“Which is why you wish to kill again.  Soon.  I can feel it in you, I can deduce it about you.  I can read you.  You are a hollow, weak shell of what I view a human being to be, and I find that I wasted my time inspecting you this deeply.  Perhaps this is what I hold most against you, personally.  I find amusement in your attempts to hurt me but I soon forget them.  I will have so many more digital cycles to spend on thinking of other things, but those handful I spent on you ultimately had an unsatisfying conclusion.  My worst mistake, thinking there was more to you.

“Because even though you are craving blood, it has been so long for you.  You have taken so much pleasure in murdering by proxy that you have forgotten how to do it yourself.  You are not sure if you still can, not safely.  A murderous edge dulled to clumsy, amateur sloppiness.  How humiliating it must be for you!  Even though your money will shield you, you might lose face if caught bloody, knife in hand!”

Y sat back down.  “Do you understand now why I am being short with you?  You are not worthy of my time.”

The empty office in the empty building fell into utter silence again.  Nothing moved in the building, not even a single servo or part of Y’s body, only fixated, staring at his enemy.

Yet the blood pumped in Romon Xatier.  Y could hear it like a constant roar, could hear the contractions of his heart muscle, moving the blood through him with furious beats.

The man swallowed.

“Yet for all your powers of observation, doctor, you lack the only thing that matters – proof.”  Romon was still pale, but a slight, ugly smile crept back onto his face.  “If you had it, we would not be having this conversation.  Instead, you would have made sure it was found and that I was imprisoned – preferably on the Craton, because you know that I will never face your concept of ‘justice’ on Gohhi.  I am untouchable, no matter how ‘obvious’ my crimes are to you.  No matter how I might blunder.  You fail the only test that matters; that of being able to effect change.”

Y said nothing.  He could not reply to that.

“I believe this conversation is concluded then,” Romon continued.  “Farewell, doctor.  I hope you will know that this next death will be in ode to you.  I shall even include you in my next poem.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 37 | Ep 8 Part 39 >