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 >

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

---

Romon began to pace, his eyes sparkling.  Y had his interest, and if the man had ever had any desire to speak to Jan Holdur, he had forgotten it now.

“I have spent nearly fifty years watching my fellow man,” he continued.  “From the lowest dregs, dwelling in abandoned stations and stabbing each other for a used needle, to my own sires, squabbling with others like themselves for imagined ‘rights’ to imagined money that we all pretend has meaning.  We are all the same.  Mere beasts, acting on instinct.  We only delude ourselves that there’s more meaning to it because ours is a tangled web that intersects and drives us to greater folly than the rest of the animals.”

He shook his head.  “There’s no greater meaning to it than that.  We are pawns with no master, and so we run amok.  I am no greater, no lesser in this.  But at least I can see that.”

“I see,” Y said.  “I am afraid, then, that I overestimated you.”

“Ah, you hold yourself up as better?  More aware?  More deserving of holding that spurious, hollow, and fictional title of sapient?  How adorable, doctor.  Though,” Romon added, “I had expected better of you, of all beings.  That is, if you were more than a programmable yes-man.”

“You misunderstand.  I overestimated your intelligence in particular – I am disappointed to hear you hold such a cynical view, no better than that of an angry child lashing out.

“You think you are elucidating the ‘true nature’ of sapient beings, holding yourself above, for you alone realize this truth.  But the reality, Mr. Xatier, is that you are following in the footsteps of many failed cynical philosophers who all thought that they had stumbled upon the ‘truth’ of mankind.  Or Desseikind or Sephtkind or even rarely Bicetkind.  Yours is not an original idea.  Yet their ideas hold on only at the fringes, among the most listless and broken – if even there.  You see, such ideas are self-fulfilling.  They achieve nothing, and so – following a Darwinian concept of success and spread – they disappear.  They do not propagate.  They are a failed experiment, only one that their believer holds onto desperately because they can use it to justify any sort of action or inaction that they wish.  And this cuts to the truth of the matter; with your mighty fifty years of observation you believe you have seen the truth.  It would not matter if it was even 5,000 or 50,000 years, to be honest – both numbers are not even a drop in the ocean of time.

“You are not elucidating reality so much as revealing yourself.  Your belief in the faults of reality doom your own to be nothing more than that – your own small cunning has trapped you into a corner you cannot escape, except by losing your ego, which is truly all that matters to you.

“Little more than an animal, having robbed yourself of your own initiative, while even those ‘dregs’ at the bottom could potentially seize an opportunity and uplift themselves and alter their destiny if given a chance.  But you, with the capacity to do anything, you simply hide your selfish and petty desires behind a weak philosophical camouflage.”

Y shook his head.  “Narcissism and childishness, standing solely on an inherited fortune and a large vocabulary.  These are not things to be proud of, Mr. Xatier.  Any fool can do what you’ve done.”

Romon Xatier’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and he was not smiling anymore.

The door opened, making him snap his head over, but it was only a drone, bringing the pate.

It set it down, with a pleasant cry of “Geh’jool!” and then left.

Romon did not touch it, merely watching Y.

Y could see the simmering beneath the man’s surface, wondering what he would do or say next.

A ping came into his data, asking for entry.  He saw who it was.

“We are about to have a guest,” he told Romon.

The door opened.

“Y!” Apollonia said, stepping in.  “The guards said I could just bother you a moment- Oh,” she said, realizing just where she was as she saw the cell that Jan Holdur was in.

“I didn’t know we even had a brig,” she commented, looking at the man in the cell. “Oh, shit, is this the guy who tried to kill that one gal?”

“Apollonia,” Y said.  “What do you need?  I am surprised the guards let you in.”

“Yeah, well I said it was important . . .” Her eyes caught Romon Xatier, who had been standing back from the door, nearly hidden from sight.  “I didn’t know you weren’t alone.”

“It is quite fine,” Y said.  “Did you have a medical emergency?”

“Uh, well I hit my head pretty hard in zero-g, and you’re my doctor so . . .”

“Your concussion is mild, fortunately!  Head to my office in the medical wing and I will be waiting for you.  Don’t worry, we can treat it with no issue.”

Romon was watching Apollonia now, and she was staring back openly, clearly finding his stare bothersome.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you on the ship,” she said to Romon.  “I’m Apollonia Nor.”  She offered her hand.

“I know who you are,” Romon replied quietly.  He did not take her hand, and continued to stare.

She withdrew it, clearly taking his action as the insult it had been intended as.  “You must be from Gohhi,” she said dryly.

“And why would you think that?” he asked, still quietly, his smile returning.  But there was something dangerous in it.

It was not lost on Apollonia.  Y could tell the change in her endocrine system as she became angrier.  

“You just have the look of someone who thinks they’re important.  The clothes, the cologne, the greasy hair.”  She turned back to Y.  “I’ll see you shortly.”

She left the room, and Y watched Romon.  He continued to stare after her.

“I think I must excuse myself,” Romon then said.  “I feel the inspiration for a poem has come to me, machine.  I must not keep it waiting.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 24 | Ep 8 Part 26 >

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

---

“My dear, let me tell you how extremely sorry I am for all that happened to you.  I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure that this never happens again.”

Romon Xatier was an excellent liar, Y thought.

He was watching the interaction between the man and Ensign Peony Vale through a camera, one of many public cameras that lined most areas of the ship.

He often took time to watch through a few dozen cameras at the normal interactions and movements of people.  For some time it had been essential research, learning how humans interacted in a naturalistic way.  It helped him to act in a way that made them feel more at ease.

But it had become something he simply enjoyed.

He could not say he was pleased right now, however.

Ensign Vale was blushing slightly and looking downward.  She seemed to believe the man, which he found disappointing.

But she did not know much about Xatier beyond this one meeting.  And the man, while retaining something of his aloof, vaguely aristocratic bearing, certainly passed off his words as true.

Perhaps on some level he even believed them, and Y wondered if perhaps he was becoming a cynic.  If asked to prove why he thought the man was lying, he could only have ascribed it down to a ‘feeling’.  The biophysical signs existed to some degree, but were muted and muddled enough to render confidence low.

Hardly enough to write a report on.

“Thank you,” Vale told him.  “I admit I’d never gone onto Gohhi, I’d heard some stories and this made them all seem true . . . but I’m glad to know there are decent people here.”

Smiling in a way that seemed at once intimate and casual, Romon leaned in, tapping his lips to her hand.  “You flatter me,” he said.

A few moments later, after bidding a farewell to the smitten Ensign Vale, Xatier passed the two Response guards at the doorway and entered the brig.

“Good day to you, Romon Xatier,” Y said, not looking up.  “Jan Holdur is presently asleep, but if you wish, I will rouse him for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Xatier said.  “I will simply wait.”

Y said nothing to that, merely offering a mechanical nod and continuing his work of monitoring Holdur’s restraint suit.  Even in his sleep the man fought.

It did not require his full attention, but he was happy for the moment without distractions anyway.

He allowed himself a sense of glee.  Romon Xatier had come back, as he had predicted.

“Would you perhaps like a refreshment while you wait?” he asked.  “I imagine the Sapient Union’s chef machines will not compare to the fare you are used to, but they do make a very good Hetharian eel pate.”

Romon Xatier’s head tilted slightly.  “Very well, machine.  I am curious to try what your kind thinks passes as food.”

“For an appetizer we have Yangshan peaches – they may not be Norobian in taste, but I believe you will find them similar enough to be pleasing.”

This time, Romon stopped.  “You seem to have a very good idea of what sort of meals I prefer, machine.”

“Yes, you frequent the restaurant Harth’s, one of the finest establishments on Gohhi, with some regularity, although only when the famed chef Haznar is present.  He is famed for his Hetharian eel pate, after all.”

“My, it seems you have been paying attention.  But I doubt Haznar has come onto your ship, so I do wonder if your chefs can even make the pate edible,” Xatier commented, smiling slightly.

“It is a difficult dish to make, by human standards, requiring just the right level of understanding of the eel’s biology and the chemistry of cooking to render the poisonous flesh safe to eat.  This is why I had to program in the instructions myself, to my standards.  I had never tried it before, but you can be certain it is safe, as I tested it repeatedly.”

He inclined his head to Xatier.  “You have attempted the dish on at least three occasions, haven’t you?  Though it seems you were unsatisfied with the results from the fact that the eel cannot be stored at home for more than six hours, and you ended up eating out those three nights.”

“Someone’s done their homework,” Xatier replied.  “Do you truly find me that fascinating that you can devote so much time to my study?”

“Oh, you need not worry about my time being wasted,” Y replied.  “This was a cursory glance of mine at the public databases.  For as long as humanity has been in an information age, they still do not seem to quite grasp how informative the accumulation of such data can be.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.  You believe yourself a recluse, but you do go for walks.  You do look at things.  You do make micro-expressions.  Many things you purchase are through hidden channels, but many times their movement is open and publicly viewable.  Are you ever curious how much cologne you use a day?  Based on your frequency of buying your various kinds I can tell you.  You used more today, as a matter of fact, and one of the kinds you use less often than others – you prefer it when meeting people you wish to manipulate, such as Ensign Vale outside.  Do you feel it makes you more relatable?  I am sure with your refined tastes you came to this conclusion not because you have been manipulated into that feeling but purely through your own high-class tastes.”

“So what is your point?” Romon asked him.  “That we are all unwitting pawns?  I find the idea that we are all aware – whether crafted indirectly, uncaringly by nature or by the calculated and thinking hands of a designer – to be the greatest lie we have ever told ourselves.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 23 | Ep 8 Part 25 >

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

---

“You’re from the Sapient Union, aren’t you?” Urle asked the woman across from him.

“Yes . . .”

She looked nervous and Urle could certainly understand that.

Her name was Sem Kassa, born, the records said, on Garden Ridge Station 137 in the quad star system of Gliese 282.  Ten years ago, when she was 16, she had hopped a transport ship and disappeared.  No one had known why, her family were still searching, but beyond Union borders they could not find any traces of her.

Kassa’s stress signs increased in the presence of any men, which he unfortunately understood, given that she had been ’employed’ as a prostitute in a no-holds barred brothel.

Kai Yong Fan leaned closer to her.  “If you want, I can get a woman to conduct the interview,” she said.

“That would be fine,” Urle added calmly.  “But I am second only to the Captain in authority and will have to be involved with the diplomatic side of this either way.”

“No, it’s okay,” Kassa said softly.  “I’m just in shock still.”

“That’s understandable.  I’m sorry to have to put you through this,” Kai said.  “But we need to get the facts quickly to make sure we can keep you safe.”

Kassa’s eyes went wide and she looked up at Urle, then Kai.  “You won’t send me back, will you?  I can’t go back!”

“We’ll do everything in our power to prevent that,” Kai said.

“We will not be sending you back,” Urle told her.  “If you feel your life would be in danger if you went back.  Do you feel that way?”

“Yes!” the woman said, panic in her voice.  “Daze will kill us!”

“Daze is dead,” Urle told her.

“He’s been shot before and not died, the man is a cockroach, he won’t die just from-“

“He is dead,” Urle said definitively.  “His vitals went flat.”

While attempts to revive the pimp had been made on the dock, it had been too late.  Kiseleva’s bullet had hit him in the heart and spine, leaving little intact.  He’d been too far gone by the time he hit the floor.

He’d crossed a line, threatened a combat response officer, and paid the price.  Perhaps he’d just made a mistake or maybe where he came from he thought he was untouchable, but it made no difference now.

Sem Kassa seemed more in shock, leaning back in her chair in silence.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said in a hushed voice.

“He can’t hurt you or anyone again,” Kai told her.

The woman nodded slightly, but still seemed stunned.

“What happened for you to get to us?” Urle prompted gently.  “Can you tell me?  It will help.”

“Yesterday . . . Ozgu overheard Daze talking to Baro and Earl.  They’re his guys, his . . . enforcers.  He thought that I was getting too old and too much trouble.  He told them to take me to an airlock later that night, that he’d already bribed the guards.  It was less of a pain than selling my contract.”

Kai leaned in.  “Too much trouble?”

“I . . . I talked back sometimes,” Kassa said.  “And I heard rumors that someone was asking about me.  I mean, I always hoped but I didn’t think my family would ever find me out here . . .”

“How did Ms. Uzun get stabbed?” Urle asked.

“She told us what she’d heard, and we got Baro and Earl drunk.  When they came to . . . find me they left their guns behind.  But they were keyed to their fingerprints, so when Uzun grabbed one they wouldn’t fire and Baro stabbed her.”

She drifted into silence a moment, and Kai and Urle waited patiently for her to talk again.

“But I grabbed a chair and I hit Baro on the head.  I think the corner hit just right and he went down.  Then Mae jumped on Earl, she was really tearing at his face since she was friends with Ozgu . . . He got his gun back, but I jumped on him too, and he was on the floor so we pushed it down and made it fire and . . .”

“You defended yourselves,” Urle said.  “This was self-defense.”

“What happened after that?” Kai asked.

“After that we took their money and systems and left.  Their systems unlocked the front and we were carrying Uzgu.  We used their cards to hire some taxis and sent them off in other directions.”

“To throw off the scent?” Urle asked.

“Yeah.  Daze knew the owner of the company.  So we knew he’d find out.”

“And did you just walk here?”

“We weren’t on Gohhi Main then.  We hired a produce hauler shuttle to let us on and got here about two hours ago.”

“How long ago did you escape?” Urle asked.

“I don’t know . . . it feels like days.  Maybe twelve hours?”

“All right,” Urle said.  “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Kassa.  With your information we can move forward.”

“The others won’t have to go back, either, will they?” Kassa asked, her face pale.  “They’ll be killed.  Even if Daze is dead, we did something . . .  I don’t know if Baro or Earl are still alive, but if they are oh god they’ll come for them, and even if they’re not someone else will just want to make an example-!”

“They won’t have to go back,” Urle promised.  “We can keep you safe.”

Kai said nothing – despite what he’d said, there was a chance they could be sent back.

Because they didn’t know all the facts.  She had just lied to him.

A Response officer, another woman, led Kassa out, and Kei turned back to face him.

“Ozgu Uzun was stabbed less than thirty minutes prior to them showing up on our doorstep,” she said.

“So she’s wrong about the timeline,” Urle said.

“If there’s any more surprises waiting, this could become an issue,” Kai said.

“We’ll smooth them out.  The biometrics are very, very hard to fake without some nice tech that she doesn’t have.  She was legitimately terrified for her life – and those of her friends.”

“Yes, she was genuinely scared, there’s no doubt.  But what did the biometrics say about her story?”

Urle’s voice was grim.  “She lied about a lot of that.”

“And it also matches what the last woman said,” Kai agreed.

“So they got their story mostly straight, but it’s not the whole story,” he said.  “We’re going to have to find out what the truth is.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 22 | Ep 8 Part 24 >

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

---

As the vehicle began to roll away, Trevod watched it with disdain.

For all he’d given that little man, Brooks had talked to him like he was an inferior.

He could not say he’d ever experienced that from someone so much lower than him, and he felt the urge to tell his men to put the Captain out the airlock without a suit.

Ah, but as much as he would like that, it would not be worth the trouble.

He told himself that, at least, while his insides squirmed.  Because he knew, ultimately, that if he did that, he would be signing his own death warrant.

Money did not stop bullets, did it?  And that was all he truly feared.  Someone actually coming for him who could not be bought off.

Here, he was a god.  In the Sapient Union he was just a person, and it terrified him to think how close he could skirt to his own destruction just with a whim.

A stablehand approached.

“Would you like to ride back, sir, or shall I have a car brought for you?”

“I’ll ride,” he snapped, seizing the reins the man offered.  “I may ride all day,” he said.

The man bowed deeply, but said nothing.  Trevod wanted to lash out at him, but took some deep breaths.

“And what of Rebel, sir?” he asked.

Trevod looked at the horse.  He was beautiful, perfectly trained for guests, but he did not think he’d even want guests over again for some time.

“Get rid of it.  Sell it for food, I don’t care.  It’s been sullied and I want it out of my sight.”

*******

On a cold winter day, fires roar in Ussa’s hall to keep the chill of winter at bay.

The doors to the crowded hall burst open and a mighty man enters, flanked by an entourage of strong and sturdy men and women, dressed as equals.

Herald:

Who is it who enters the hall of Ussa the Proud and Free?

Who trods in as if an equal to the one who has no equal?

In the name of Queen Ussa,

Strong of limb, fair of face, who can be held by no chains,

I demand an answer.

Usser:

From a far-off land I have come to bring greetings and solidarity

to Ussa and her people proud.

Even in our distant land we have heard of her and her deeds

Of her bravery in overthrowing the tyrant Breon.

My people, too, have thrown off the shackles of slavery and taken their fate

into their own hands.

Ussa:

Who are you, cousin?

We have not yet heard your name, though you stand in the warmth of my fire.

Usser:

I am Usser, leader chosen by my people, who have seized all that produces and proclaimed it for the common good.

We come in friendliness to your people and bear gifts of hope that the red fires of change will bring us all good futures.

Ussa:

You are welcome then, cousin, to my hall.

May the people throw up great cheers in your name, for you are clearly a brave people.

As for King Breon, he yet lives.

In my mercy I did not slay him, but he serves me now.

Ussa gestures to an old, confused man, dressed in rags and chains, serving as court jester.  He sits on a mockery of a throne, attended by children whom he thinks are his subjects.

Ussa:

You see how he pretends to still be a king when he is my pet?

It amuses us to keep him, and is rightful justice for all that he has done that he should now sink so low.

Usser and his people seem bothered by this, but do not say anything.

Usser:

Perhaps such a fate is fitting for a failed king.

Our own and his line met as quick an end as could be found,

For we see no need to keep them alive as trophies.

But come, cousin, let our people meet and mingle and spread joy amongst each other!

Usser’s people move to mix with Ussa’s.  Soon, there is drinking and singing and merrymaking.  Usser seems quite pleased, but Ussa soon grows more and more angry.  She beckons her advisor and speaks to him quietly.

Ussa:

Usser and his people are beloved by my people.

Could it be that they would come to love him more than they do me?

Would my people forsake me and send me to a fate like I have sent Breon to?

A mere pet, a puppet of flesh that serves my interests.

Advisor:

They are nothing compared to your grandeur, my Queen.

You see how their clothes are plain?

Their hair unadorned?

Their hands stiff with callouses from work?

Ussa:

You speak to compare them to me, and it is true – they are not as grand as I!

Yet my people’s clothes are plain.

Their hair is unadorned.

Their hands are stiff with callouses from their labor.

Perhaps in time they will come to see Usser as their kin more than I.

For they have more in common with each other than they do with me!

The Advisor had no wisdom to give.

Ussa:

Your silence speaks volumes!

You disgust me with your ineptitude.

But I know what I shall do.

We must not let Usser’s voice be heard.

Advisor:

How will we do that, my queen?

He speaks the language of the toiling man.

As you say, he too works and so they have this in common.

Ussa:

We will spread poison.

Spread lies of his misdeeds.

Tell of his follies.

Tell my people of their grandeur, convince them that Usser is not like them.

But a bumbling caricature that they should be shamed to be like.

And then, even when there are similarities they will not see them.

They will look upon their brother and hate him.

Advisor:

My Queen, you wish to manipulate your people with lies and poison?

Is that not dangerous?

Will our people not become fools, unable to see their own noses in the confusion this will bring?

What will we do when we do not have one man among us who can see or think straight?

Ussa’s face, cold and beautiful, beheld the advisor like an enemy.

Ussa:

They will have no god but me.

They will love none but me.

I am Ussa and they are mine.

Now and forever.

---

< Ep 8 Part 21 | Ep 8 Part 23 >

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

---

“They look authentic,” Brooks commented, glancing back at them.

“Ah, yes, you’re from Earth, aren’t you, Captain?”

“That’s right,” Brooks replied.

The man clapped his hands together.  “Well, I’m glad I can get a chance to meet you.  I had not thought it would happen so easily, to be honest.  We’ve got quite a lot to talk about!”

“Such as?” Brooks asked, putting his hands behind his back.

“Well, our friend Jan Holdur for starters,” Trevod said.  “But tell me – have you ever been horseback riding?”

It was an unexpected question, but Brooks took it in stride.  “A long time ago,” he admitted.

“Do you remember how?”

“I expect I can manage,” Brooks replied dryly.

“Good!  You see, I had it on my itinerary that I was going riding, and I just don’t see why we can’t do something pleasant while we talk.”

Brooks agreed only grudgingly – though, he had to admit he would like to see a real horse.  He hadn’t seen one, or ridden one, since he was a child, before the Ring Collapse.

“All right,” he agreed.

“Excellent.  My valet will take you to get fitted for your clothes.  I’ll meet you at the stables in twenty minutes.”

Another butler drone appeared, imperiously telling Brooks to follow.

It took him to another room where a third drone scanned him, then provided him with a riding outfit that he frankly found ridiculous.

“I’ll keep my uniform,” he told them.  It would be sufficient.

When he was taken out to the stable – which was a true historical creation.  Putting his hand on the wall, he could tell it was made of actual natural wood.

It had to cost a fortune, he thought.

But then, this man had his own space station.

“Ah, Captain!  Oh, you didn’t change?” Trevod asked, riding up, turning his horse at the last moment so it nearly hit him.

Brooks did not shy back.  He had only known horses from childhood, but he’d known other animals.

“I’ll ride fine in this.”

“You know, the horses don’t much like the smell of spacesuit oil, but . . . suit yourself.  Bring his horse!”

It was an actual human stablehand who brought out the horse.  He did not make eye contact with Brooks as he handed him the reins, and then offered cupped hands to help him up.

Ignoring that, Brooks moved towards the horse’s head, speaking softly and reaching out to stroke its neck to put it at ease.  It was extremely well-trained, though, and clearly had been made to get used to strangers, as it seemed to accept him fairly easily.  Then, waving the stablehand away, he put his foot into the stirrup and jumped up.

It wasn’t elegant, but he mounted by himself, leaning in to pat the horse’s neck again.

“What’s the horse’s name?” he asked.

Trevod seemed caught off-guard by the question.  “Rebel,” he said.  “But that’s not important.  He rides well.  You’re lucky, Captain – I don’t let most people ride him.”

Brooks did not want to agree with the man, and simply nodded, but he did feel lucky.  The horse was beautiful and powerful.

On another world he’d ridden varnia – a useful, if highly willful animal that few even knew the origin of.  They’d been spread among the stars before humanity had even left their atmosphere, and adapted to worlds quite different from their original planet.

Wherever tech was at a premium or wasn’t suited, varnia could be found used for transport or carrying cargo or any one of a hundred tasks.  Even eating, if you could stomach them.  Their flesh was mildly toxic to humans when raw – though Dessei preferred it that way – but cooking it would denature the poisons enough to tolerate.

The main difference between them and a horse, he now realized, was how much easier a horse was to control.  He found himself over-compensating as he tried to follow Trevod out through a gate onto a perfect grassy field.

Trying to lighten up his touch, he stroked Rebel’s neck again and watched Trevod.  The man had his horse, a beautiful white stallion, in an easy canter, and would glance back occasionally.

“I did not imagine that a star captain would be so comfortable in the saddle,” he commented.

Trevod did not seem as comfortable as Brooks would have expected.  The horses, he surmised, were something he had gotten but did not ride that often.

The fields curved up into the distance, following the interior surface of the cylinder.  Brooks did not know how much of the interior area of the station was made into this faux natural setting, but it extended off for kilometers in each direction it seemed.  He rode through a field of heather, hearing a curlew cry.  Bees flew among the flowers, and he wondered how deep the facsimile went.

Trevod rode nearby for a time, and Brooks wondered why the man had gifted him this; there was no love lost between his companies and the Sapient Union, and this was certainly not just showing off.  The man had to have some sense.

Trevod rode closer, and Brooks readied himself for whatever the man’s plan would turn out to be, but Trevod just seemed amused.

“Let’s race,” he said.

“Agreed,” Brooks replied.

---

< Ep 8 Part 19 | Ep 8 Part 21 >

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

---

The trip over to Trevod Waites-Kosson’s private station had taken two hours.  During that time Brooks had browsed through everything available on the man, doggedly ignoring his system’s suggestions of courses on Gohhi etiquette.

He knew how to behave in a way that would set Lord Executive at ease.

And how to scare him in just the right way, if it came to it.

Approaching the station, he saw that it was far larger than he had expected.  To have your own personal space station was the height of extravagance, and the cost of even a small one was astronomical.

But this . . . this was an entire O’Neill Cylinder.  Ten kilometers long and three wide at each cap.  An insane amount of space for one man.

The station continued to grow in his view until it blotted out the stars.  It docked automatically, and he waited for the green light of the connection – then manually checked the air.

He had no fear that Waites-Kosson would kill him, but he didn’t want an accident, either.  The stakes were too high to be incautious of bad luck.

Opening the airlock into the entrance tunnel, Brooks stepped out.

A scent traveled to his nose.  The air smelled like Earth.

There was apparently not an air recycler going – at least not a technological one.  A data pop-up in his HUD informed him pleasantly about how the station was environmentally conscious, using a living ecosystem to purify and reclaim the oxygen.

He couldn’t call it natural, as the station itself was not natural.  The plants on here would not be true Earth plants, but ones long-ago modified to deal with higher levels of radiation, lower gravity, and a myriad other factors that made space inimicable to life.

The airlock was plated in gold, he noticed.  Just for the look.  It was buffed to a mirror-like shine, and he could see a mark where his hand had touched it, the perfection marred.

Looking through the tunnel, which was plated in eccentric gilded swirls, he could see what appeared to be an ornate foyer.

As he went through, a tall, humanoid drone with treads for feet approached him.  It was wearing a tailored suit made of Accian silk.

“Follow,” it said.  Its voice was human-like, but imperious.  Brooks imagined he did not rate the genteel setting.

He followed in silence, studying the area.  This was not a spaceport, but a private residence.

It made sense, now that he thought about it.  As disgusting as it was for one person to own an entire station that could have housed millions, anyone who did visit would be his guest – why make them travel from a dedicated docking station when they could just come straight into a home meant for entertaining?

The drone led him into what he took to be another foyer before turning.

“Please wait,” it said.  Then it trundled away.

He could not say he minded.  The area in front of him was spacious and beautiful; moss-covered rocks were piled up out of a pool, with water plants growing so naturally that he could almost have taken the sight as an actual scene from Earth.

A brook fed into the body, splashing down over the rounded boulders, and he moved closer, entranced.  It was rare to see something so realistic in space . . .

“It’s all natural,” he heard from behind him.

Turning, Brooks saw that there was a walkway above the area that he had not noticed.  On it, leaning against the railing, was a man, as tall and handsome as the carving knife could create.

Brooks’s system took several moments to actually match the man to the image of Trevod Waites-Kosson in his system.  The man had, as of several years ago, looked different.  It had still been a chiseled perfection then, but darker.  Now he seemed to have taken to a more angelic look.

“I had the stones and plants imported from Earth,” he said.  “With all proper paperwork, of course,” he then added as assurance.  Moving to the side, he came down a pair of curved steps that blended with the wall so well that Brooks had not even seen them from where he stood.

---

< Ep 8 Part 18 | Ep 8 Part 20 >

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

---

Urle entered into Brooks’s office, out of breath.

Two minutes ago, Kiseleva had fired a shot down on the boarding ramp.

Brooks had been informed of the commotion as soon as Kiseleva had reported an escalation, and he had seen the shooting.

But he didn’t have all the information yet.  There would be dozens of views through which to view the event.

Which made Urle by far the best to parse that data.

“Kiseleva is outside,” he said.  “I brought her up immediately.”

“How is the situation at the ramp?” Brooks asked.

“Cleaning up.  Zeela’s down there, talking to port officials.  She’s giving me a live-feed . . .  I guess it’s under control.  They seem more annoyed than anything.”

“And what happened?  As best as you can tell,” Brooks asked.

“He crossed the demarcation line and she shot him down,” Urle said.

Brooks frowned.

“She had to have a stronger reason than that,” he replied.

“Well, yes,” Urle said.  “She says that he threatened her, that he was armed – but he wasn’t looking at her at the time she shot him.  He was looking past her.”

Thinking for a moment, he gestured.  “Bring her in.  You stay.”

Urle nodded, summoning Kiseleva in.

She came to attention, looking calm.  Her heart rate was nearly normal, Brooks noted.

“What just happened?” he asked her.

“I defended myself and the ship,” she replied simply.

“You were in danger?”

“He threatened to get the ‘bitches’.  Earlier he had also called me a bitch, therefore I took his words as a threat against my person.  Given that he was armed, I gave it credence.”  She paused.  “Along with threatening the women who had asked for asylum as well as violating Sapient Union territory.”

Brooks did not change his expression for a long moment, watching her.  She met his gaze back.

He looked down.  “You are relieved from combat duties until a full investigation can be made.  Turn in your sidearm.  Dismissed.”

She saluted, turning to leave.

“Unofficially,” Brooks said.  “You did well.”

Kiseleva looked back over her shoulder at him, and smiled slightly.

After she was gone, Urle rounded on him.

“Ian . . . you’re congratulating her?  She just killed a man!”

Brooks did not seem surprised or upset by his outburst.  “He was a pimp and a drug dealer.”

“That doesn’t mean she can just shoot him!”

Brooks raised his head now, looking at him.  “Nothing of value was lost.”

“I’m not defending the piece of shit,” Urle said.  But we can’t just kill anyone we hate!”

“He made a mistake,” Brooks replied.  “And threatened the wrong people.  Now, others like him might hesitate a little bit more before they hurt people.  I doubt anyone will shed a tear.”

“Some will, in the Union.  And so will the independent news sources.  They’re going to spin this like crazy – they already are.”

Brooks shrugged.  “We will deal with the repercussions, whatever they are.”

A light on his desk flashed.  An external call – rated important.

Now Brooks grimaced.  “Sooner rather than later.  Get on the report, but send it to me before you file it,” he ordered.

Urle took a deep breath and saluted before leaving.

Brooks took a moment to compose himself before taking the call.

Music greeted him, not a person.

“Greetings,” a pleasant voice said.  He could not tell if it was a highly-trained person or an AI.  “Please hold – Mr. Waites-Kosson will be with you momentarily.”

After a moment of more music, it spoke again; “You are now given the honor of speaking to Mr. Waites-Kosson.”

“Hello, Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” a voice said.  It was definitely a human, but only a voice came through, no video.

“Greetings,” Brooks said.  “To what do I owe this call, Mr. Waites-Kosson?”

He thought he knew the name, but he’d had his system bring up everything relevant on the man.

Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the wealthiest humans ever to exist if the numbers were to be believed.  Like most of great wealth, he had been born into it, his ancestors the founders of a dozen of the largest companies in Gohhi – with tendrils reaching into many other areas of wild space.

Like a capitalist Hapbsburg, he was simply the culmination of many of those wealthy houses intermarrying, sharing and combining property.  And now, without ever having done a day’s honest work in his life, the man had more wealth than god.

“Call me Trevod,” the man said affably.  “I admit, I had expected a deeper voice from a man of your reputation, Captain-Mayor.”

“Legends dwarf all men,” Brooks replied.

“Well-said.  But I’m not calling for social reasons, as interesting as that would be.  I’d like you over for an in-person discussion.”

Brooks thought about telling the man to come to the Craton.

But in the scheme of things, Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the most powerful individuals in the universe.  He was a part of the Gohhi ruling class, one of the most influential in it.

He made and lost more wealth every day than some planets.  He’d flouted the laws of every government he’d ever dealt with, the Sapient Union especially.

He would be far too cowardly to put himself in the hands of communists, no matter the promises of safety.

“Very well,” Brooks replied.

“Excellent, Captain-Mayor Brooks.  I have dispatched a shuttle, it will reach you in about an hour.  It will bring you here.”

The call ended.

---

< Ep 8 Part 17 | Ep 8 Part 19 >