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

---

In two hours and fifteen minutes, Kiseleva would be free from this annoying duty.

Since the recent drama on the ramp with former-Commander Iago and his wife, Brooks had ordered a Response officer stationed here to make calls on any such incidents.

Which was a prudent move, she thought.  The boarding ramp opened onto a heavily-trafficked area, with beings walking by in a dense pack at nearly all hours.

And among the throng, loitering, were the eyes.

Spies, belonging to major companies, every political power under the stars, even some of their own watching the other watchers.  It meant that anything that happened here was happening with witnesses, and visible confusion was not a good thing for them to see.

But that didn’t make the duty any less boring.  And after this was another session with Apollonia.  It was going to be a long day . . .

Most of the other Response personnel here were several grades below her, and she knew them only vaguely.  Combined with her general demeanor that she knew made her come off as unapproachable, they did not find much to talk about.

They did talk to each other, though, and it was something to break the monotony to listen to them.  One of the bigger topics was about Iago and Cassandra.

“I thought she died years ago,” one said.

“Same.  Colony venting, I heard.  No one survived.  So how did she?”

Which she wondered about as well.

She wasn’t from the Craton, but she’d looked into the records and read about the event.  There was almost no way anyone could have survived the catastrophe on her colony, and she’d been right in it.

Yet there could have been lost data.  Perhaps she’d gotten into a space suit for some reason and managed to survive.  It was possible someone could have had a few seconds to finish sealing up.

Kiseleva had seen more miraculous cases of survival.

Sudden, fast movement caught her eye.

The two Response officers behind her, her system informed her, had not noticed, but her automated warning sent to their systems snapped their attention to the approaching group of people.

It was three women; two had little clothing on, just enough to be considered passable by Gohhi standards.  The middle woman, though, was wearing a full-body coat that was several sizes too large.

The open fear on the faces of the first two drew her attention.  Most people on Gohhi didn’t show their fear, too much of an invitation.

They were moving slowly, as the two in skimpy outfits appeared to be supporting the woman in the coat.

“Halt,” one of the other Response officers said, moving to intercept them as they broke from the crowd and approached the boarding ramp.  He stopped at the demarcation line that represented the point where the laws of Gohhi gave way to the laws of the Sapient Union.

“Please!” one woman said.  “Please, we need help!”

The group nearly collapsed, the legs of the one being supported failing her, pulling the other two down.

“What is it?” Kiseleva asked, signalling the last officer to stay on-guard.  This could be a distraction.

But as she came closer, it did not look to be.  They were genuinely frightened and injured.  Stress indicators and chemical signals were pouring off them, and her Response training shifted gears; this was not a security operation, but a rescue.

“Please, we have to get on the ship,” one woman said.  She looked older than Kiseleva had first taken her for, with a lot of make-up attempting to hide it.

“We request political asylum,” another woman said.  “Quickly, please!”

The woman who had fallen was not looking at her.  Instead, her eyes were glazed over, looking into the distance.

“What happened to her?” Kiseleva demanded.

“They gave her some drugs – I don’t know what they were.  And she freaked out, and she hit one, but then they-“

Kiseleva opened the woman’s coat and saw the wound.

“Medic, now!” she barked to the other Response personnel.  One called it in.

“It’s severe but not as bad as it could be,” Kiseleva said, her system scanning what it could tell of the injury.  It was not from a firearm, but a knife.  It hadn’t been very large, and didn’t seem to have hit a major artery.

“We can move her,” she said, taking her arm and gesturing for the other Response officer to take the other.  Together, they moved her across the line.

“You follow,” she told the other women.  “Stand there and move no further.”

Medical drones appeared, swarming around the woman.

“Don’t worry,” she told the injured woman, whose head had raised a little to look at her, and despite the drugs she seemed somewhat aware of what was happening.  “You’re going to be all right.”

“We have to go!” one of the other women said.  “He’s not far behind us!”

“Who?” Kiseleva asked sharply.

The woman did not answer, but turned to look through the crowd.  A man with two security guards was approaching, shoving his way through the crowd angrily.

He was tall and thin, with golden plates on his forehead arranged in a geometric pattern.  His eyes were also golden, enhanced to some degree – but mostly, she thought, for aesthetics.

She stood, moving past the women, towards the line.

“Halt,” she said to the man as he came out of the crowd.

“Those three,” the man said, pointing to the women.  “They’re the ones.”

The guards started to approach.  But Kiseleva held up her hand to stop them.

“I’m afraid not,” she said to them calmly.  “You may not cross the demarcation line.”

They hesitated, but the man let out an angry huff.  “They’re on the station, you don’t have jurisdiction, sapehole-“

“They have asked for asylum,” Kiseleva said calmly.  “And until the claim is investigated they are granted it.”

“Arrest them!” the man raged to the guards.

They started to advance again, and Kiseleva drew her sidearm.

The sound of both of the other officers doing the same, and the dozen plus armed drones taking aim convinced them to stop.

“They broke a contract,” the gold-plated man said.  “You understand, bitch?  They’re nothing but contract-breaking whores, and you’re protecting them!”

She saw his hand drifting towards his side.  It did not linger, and he did not draw, but she detected the weapon holstered there.

Kiseleva shifted her gaze, and the muzzle of her weapon towards him.  “Give me a reason, pimp.”

The man stepped back.  Only then did he sneer again.  “Yeah, thought so.  You sapeholes just steal whatever the hell you want, huh?  Fuck, can’t even let a man earn an honest living-“

“I suggest you leave,” Kiseleva said.  She heard the steps of more Response personnel, and the jets of more drones, approaching.  In her HUD she had seen them coming, ordered automatically when her system had noted the disturbance – and put on full alert as soon as she’d drawn her sidearm.

Keeping her weapon trained, she stepped back towards them.  Sending a silent message, she ordered the support team to stay back; there was no need to escalate this further.

“How is she?” she queried the drones.  The data poured in, showing that moving the woman had torn the injury further; her bleeding had increased.

She cursed, but she’d not had the equipment on hand to stabilize her, and if she had left her on the other side the man would have had the right to have her arrested.

She looked over at the pimp again.  He was yelling at the guards still.

“They’re right there!  You can just step over and arrest them, man!  They’re worth money to me!”

But the guards would not cross the line.  They knew that if they did it was no simple crime.

The pimp looked livid, and his eyes went past her, towards the women behind her.  The injured woman was being lifted up by the drones, while the other two were being helped by the officers.

“I’m gonna get you bitches,” he swore.  “You ain’t safe!”

He took a step forward, across the demarcation line.  And his hand went towards his holster again.

Kiseleva shot him.

Her expression did not change, but his went from anger to shock as he fell to one knee.

The two security guards yelled, struggling for their weapons again, but stopping as the other Response officers aimed their rifles.

Screams broke from the crowd at the sound of the shot, people surging away, pushing their way into storefronts and down the halls.

Then the only people left among them were the spies, who were staring intently.

Let them stare, she thought.

The man slumped onto his side, twitching, his eyes wide, not believing what had just happened.

More medical drones came in, but as Kiseleva expected, he did not have time to come to grips with the reality that had befallen him.  At two meters range she’d not missed her target.

“He’s dead,” one of the guards said, looking at Kiseleva somewhat distractedly.

“Yes, he is,” she said calmly.

Then she looked at the pimp’s body, but said nothing, instead bringing up Apollonia in her system.

‘I will be late to training’, she messaged.

---

< Ep 8 Part 16 | Ep 8 Part 18 >

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

---

Brooks went into the brig only a couple minutes after Romon Xatier had left.  But Y was no longer there; instead, a nurse was monitoring Jan Holdur.

He spoke to the man, but aside from streaks of tears down his face, Holdur was unresponsive.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Captain – the Doctor said he had some other work and assigned me to watch the prisoner.  I believe he is in his office.”

Brooks headed there, finding out that Y was in fact in his office.

He knocked and entered, surprised to find that he was not alone; Dr. Zyzus was standing with his back to the door as Brooks entered.

“My apologies if I’m interrupting,” Brooks said, starting to back out.

“It is quite all right, Captain,” Zyzus said.  He was an older man, old enough that his hair had finally turned a natural gray.  He had been a doctor for nearly a hundred years.

“Congratulations again on the publication of your article, Doctor,” Y said to the man.  “It was a novel approach you took studying the transmission patterns on a city-ship like this.”

“Thank you, Doctor Y,” Zyzus said, turning and moving past Brooks.

“My congratulations as well,” Brooks said to him.  “I heard about that – the Union Medical Journal is the most prestigious body, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Captain,” Zyzus replied, seeming appropriately proud.

He left, and Brooks came over.

“Well, Doctor, how was it?”

Y took a moment before answering.  “There is little I can say in regard to what I observed, Captain, as you well know.”

Brooks was thrown off by the defensive response.  “I’m not asking for you to violate your oath, Doctor.  I really just want to know how you are.”

“I am fine,” Y replied shortly.

Brooks waited, but the AI did not add on a joke or anything of that nature.

“Doctor, if you’d like to take some personal time, there’s no shame in that,” Brooks commented.

“Why would I need to, Captain, when I just stated that I am fine?” Y replied.

It was not snappish, at least, but Brooks knew he could not achieve any more than that.

“I am afraid Romon Xatier did not talk with me before he left,” Brooks continued.  “Did he say anything on the record for me?  Any message?”

“No, Captain, he seemed quite in a hurry when he left,” Y replied.  “Perhaps to consult with a lawyer.”

Brooks’s interest was piqued by that, but he could not probe further.  “Jan Holdur is back to his silence, it seems.  I suppose we’re at a dead-end in that regard, then.”

“I do not think so, Captain.  Romon Xatier will return.”

“Did he say he would?”

“No,” Y replied.  “But I am certain that he will.”

---

“Commander, we’ve got another set of enemy drones veering onto an observation course,” a sensor officer called out.

The alert had already come up on the screen, and Jaya zoomed in on the trio of Glorian drones.

They were not on a collision course, though – by starship standards – they would be coming very close.  Only a couple dozen kilometers off the bow.

Glorian tech was not as good as theirs; deadly enough in a slugging fight, but even from this distance the Craton‘s scanners could make out the bulges of sensor equipment on the drones.

“Send pickets 271-281 to intercept,” she ordered.  The computer system had marked them as being in the best positions to move into their paths, forming a net that would risk either a destructive collision or the Glorian drones to veer off.

They’d had three close-calls already today, where the Glorian drones had held their courses until the last possible moment before changing direction.  And a dozen other attempts had taken place besides that with less dramatic outcomes.

Which was good; if two drones did collide, that was one of the few things that would seriously anger the Gohhian Lord Executives.  Adding lots of tiny, dangerous debris to their flight paths would be a costly thing for them to clean up.

But these close-calls were getting routine at this point.  The bulk of Gohhi station itself hid the Craton from a lot of sensors, and of course anyone near a window could point a camera out and see them.

But there was only so much a surface scan could tell.  Much stronger sensors would be able to make out details inside the ship that could elucidate a lot of things for their enemies.

The problem was getting close enough to do it.  Sensors that big and powerful were easy to see coming.

There was a lot to learn about a ship so formidable and powerful.  The details of many of her systems were known to very few, and Sapient Union intelligence was a potent shield.  Thus far, the Glorians had never obtained the full plans to any major Union vessel.

They certainly wouldn’t get any detailed scans on her watch.

Two new dots, highlighted in yellow to show neutrality, entered the picture.  Bigger, but with higher impulse, she recognized them as tugs belonging to Gohhi itself.

“Two Gohhian tender drones are moving between us and the Glorians,” the sensor officer called.  “Glorians are veering away.”

“Recall ours as well.  Make them fly into . . . star pattern seven and flash their signal lasers.  Give them all a show.”

A round of laughter swept across the bridge, and Jaya allowed herself a slight smile, watching the drones as they formed the complicated shape, illuminating each other with lasers in sequence to create a moving pattern.  The Gohhian tugs flashed their lasers in the space equivalent of applause.  Oddly, the Glorians did not respond in kind.

“Commander!” the sensor officer cried.  “We’ve got seven more pairs of Glorian drones collapsing in from various directions – they’re making a serious run for us!”

“We are prepared for this.  Activate nearby drones to the incursions to intercept – prepare strafing runs with live weapons, but do not fire.  We will show them that this is not something we will tolerate.  Then deploy reserve drone squads H and J.  Activate further reserves in case they decide to test us further.”

“Aye!”

The drones at the edges moved to intercept, the reserve moving up to cover their previous positions.  The reserve squads were activated and deployed, keeping in a stable orbit near the ship.  The Glorians would be able to see these, at least.  However much they thought they could push this, without committing a full drone carrier, they were not going to overwhelm the Craton, who carried far more drones than most ships her size.

It was one of the advantages of being a spherical vessel; far more internal storage area than a longship.

As their drones began to make dry strafing runs on the Glorian drones, the latter began to pull back.

“All hostile drones off intercept course,” the young sensor officer said.

“Ensign,” Jaya said to him.  He looked up at her from his lower platform and she met his gaze.  “What is your name, Ensign?”

“Uh, Aka, ma’am,” he said, snapping to attention.

“Aka, is this your first time as a bridge sensor officer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded and smiled serenely.

“You do not need to panic, even if those had been enemy missiles incoming.  Panic is fear given control and we do not allow that.  Because if we let our fear control us, we cannot think and react properly.  Do you understand?”

He still looked nervous; being put on the spot did that to people.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“Good.  You performed well, Ensign.  Do not feel shame.  But remember that by being calm we solved the problem.  Now, I’d like you to take a break and simulate the same scenario again as if they had been live missiles – with an eye first towards the ship’s safety and secondly towards limiting the potential debris.  Bring me five options, picking the one you believe the best  – there is no wrong answer here, this is only practice.”

He nodded again, saluting her.  “Yes, ma’am.  Thank you, ma’am.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 14 | Ep 8 Part 16 >

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

---

A tiny drone, smaller than the palm of a human hand, entered the cell through a slot in the wall and gave the man an injection.  He kept mouthing, but his words slowed, his body relaxing.

“Shall I summon the Captain again?” Y asked.

“No,” Romon said, watching Y.  “I think I’d like to speak to you first.”

“I am only here as a medical observer,” Y replied.

“Yet you are a powerful machine and I think one who has an opinion.”  Romon nodded his head towards Holdur.  “What do you make of him?”

Y hesitated, taking his time to check that Holdur was safely under control.

“I believe,” Y said, “that he is suffering from a very deep psychosis.”  Though ‘looking’ at anyone with sensors rarely required him to hold himself any particular way, he made a point of lifting his head and fixing the twin lights that represented eyes on Romon.  “Yet I do not believe he is lying.”

“So you believe his tale that I am a secret mastermind murderer?” Romon asked, seeming more amused than anything.

“I do not say that he is speaking truth,” Y said.  “Only that he is not lying.  He believes what he said.”

“And what do you believe?” Romon asked.

“I believe I would like to hear a denial from you.”

Romon’s face did not change, but something more subtle in it did; certain muscles tightened, on a tiny scale.  A human, if they had seen it at all, would know that the man had just turned more serious.

“There are no records of our conversation, you can be certain,” Y told the man, knowing that he now required the reassurance.  “The treaties of friendship between the Sapient Union and Gohhi are quite clear upon your rights of privacy in such a setting.  A copy of the treaty with the relevant parts highlighted will be forwarded to you once I am reconnected to the network.”

“Good machine,” Romon said, his voice neutral, yet his mouth twitching at the corner into the barest hint of a mocking smile.  The seriousness now hidden again – though still present, Y surmised.  “Does this mean you will be deleting your memory of it once our discussion is concluded?”

Y tilted his head.  “You misunderstand the nature of my memory.  It is as inviolate as your own – but I am forbidden to speak of it to another, by law.”

“Ah, so still a machine, just pretending a little more than the most superficial.  Only a machine could obey such a rule if I told you the things you so wish to hear.  Or are you programmed with emotional responses as well?  Could you truly become so upset you would violate your oath and the law and go speak of my ‘terrible’ crimes?  That is – if I admitted to any.”

“You seem quite fascinated with me,” Y replied.  “I could arrange, with your permission, a much longer stay for us to speak, if you wish.”

The man did smile now, broadly, looking away, at the now-unconscious Jan Holdur.

“You are more interesting than most machines, Dr. Y.  Even moreso than most people.  Yet you cannot be more than simple code, no matter how much you wish it.”

“All life is simple code,” Y replied.  “Yours is chemical.  Mine are electronic digits.  None of it, no matter how crudely created, are less living and sapient for it.”

“Have it your way, machine.  I will cede the argument,” Romon replied, inclining his head slightly.  “I can tell as well that you possess an interest in me.  So – what is it you wish to know?”

Y considered.  The most obvious choice would be to ask him the truth; yet he knew that would gain him nothing.  Romon would simply dance around the question.

So he asked something else.

“Why do you write poetry?”

Romon was caught off-guard.  “An interesting question.  Do you wish to understand the value of art itself?  I am afraid I lack the time for that discussion.”

“That is not what I am curious about.  Only what motivates you, individually, into writing your poetry.”

Romon reached up, touching his chin thoughtfully.  “Ah, far more interesting.  I underestimated you – if you believe you can appreciate art, that puts you one step above many.  I am curious, though, why it matters to you?  And why now of all times?”

“Because I took the time to read your poetry,” Y replied.  “And through it, I see your threads of thoughts and feelings.  You do not respect or love your audience.  You never care for approval – or even accolades.  Which means that your reason for writing comes from inside.  And that can still take many forms for many different artists.  So what is your cause, Mr. Xatier?”

“I admit, you have stunned me beyond the capacity for words,” Romon replied laconically.  “For a machine to have thoughts of this depth – it is off-putting.  But if it is true you have read my works, then what is your favorite among them?  If you can tell me what it is and why, I will answer your question.”

“I do not have a favorite,” Y replied.  “I cannot say I am a fan of your subject matter.  But I did find myself quite interested with one;

Oh, how lovely you are

with your teeth unveiled,

Like a pearly scar

in a world derailed.

A flock of sheep just shorn

on a garden torn

by iniquity.

Why has your wage been sworn

by the cosmic thorn

of ubiquity?

Freedom ought to be paid,

-oh, how lovely!-

and the land shall be flaid

for the thorns to meet slaves

in captivity.”

“You have outdone yourself, machine,” Romon replied, giving a slow clap.  “I actually nearly believe you possess deeper thoughts and feelings.  But my word is my bond; I write poetry because I wish to.  There is no other reason.”  His eyes sparkled with interest.

“You did not name it when you recited it three years, two months, one week and a day ago – what is the poem’s name?” Y asked.

“I will tell you its name, if you will tell me why it fascinates you,” Romon replied.  Despite standing near the wall, he did not lean, as some might.  His spine was still straight, not even the subtlest shifting from foot to foot.

“I have a different suggestion; give me three tries to guess the name, and if I guess it right you will answer one question of my choosing.”

“And if you fail you will answer one of mine,” Romon added.

“Acceptable.  Assuming it is not a classified secret.”

The man nodded.  “Very well then.  Let us see if you can guess my mind, machine.”

Y considered.  “Slaves,” he suggested.

“That is not correct,” Romon replied.

“Lovely,” Y guessed next.

“Ah, you are not even trying,” Romon told him.  “You have only one guess left.”

“Is it ‘A Confession to the Murder of Opalina Hest’?”

Romon blinked.  That was the only change in his expression.

Yet it was enough.

“Your subtlety failed you in this case, Mr. Xatier.  It is what intrigued me about the poem; deciphering the connections of most others to the murder that inspired them, that you orchestrated, was usually much harder.  But the connections are too many to be missed, and details such as the removal of poor Ms. Hest’s teeth was not yet information that had moved beyond the crime scene.  Then there is the line about shorn sheep, and the removal of her hair.  Along with the fact that the first letter of each stanza matches the full initials of Opalina Andriison West-Frellho.”

Y tilted his head.  “So the only question left for me to ask is – why were you unsubtle in this poem?”

Romon said nothing.  As Y had spoken the lines on Xatier’s face had pulled taught, until everything about him was cold.  Dangerous.

“I do not believe I will play this game any longer,” he said.  Turning, he moved towards the door.

“How disappointing.  If only you were more machine-like, you would have kept your word,” Y noted.

Romon said nothing else, not even looking at him, as he left.

---

< Ep 8 Part 13 | Ep 8 Part 15 >

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

---

Romon Xatier, reclusive quadrillionaire, philanthropist, and poet, regarded Jan Holdur.

Holdur could only watch him back by turning his eyes, held back by the restraint suit.  The device was struggling to hold the man back, Brooks saw in his HUD.  The man’s body was enhanced to a dangerous degree, and he was also pushing himself to fight it past the edge of sanity.  But the suit was holding him in check – for now.

“I do vaguely recall seeing him before,” Romon told Brooks.

Brooks nodded, glancing to Holdur, but mostly watching Romon.

The man was not quite what he had expected; dark brows on a high forehead concealed his shrewd eyes and sharp features.  His clothing was not as ostentatious as many of the ultra-wealthy, but a perfectly-fitted suit of the best Accian silk.  The only jewelry he wore was a ring on his left hand.

Despite the situation, he seemed perfectly calm.

“Are you ready to speak with him?” Brooks asked.

“Whenever you are, Captain-Mayor.”

Brooks looked to Y, who was standing near a console.  “Turn off his restraint suit.”

Y hesitated.  “Captain, just so you are aware, we have not yet fully mapped the extent of Holdur’s enhancements.  His implants are unique and quite powerful.  I cannot guarantee that he cannot damage his restraint suit and then attempt to break out.”

“We have ways of knocking him out within the cell if that happens,” Brooks said to Romon.  “But there’s a non-zero chance of danger involved for you.”

“I am not concerned,” Romon said calmly.  “Do it anyway.”

Nodding to Y, Brooks then turned on the radio that let the man inside the cell be heard.

Suddenly feeling his freedom of movement, Holdur looked to Brooks, his expression guarded.

“I did not think you would actually bring him,” he said.

Brooks did not reply, determined to let the two men interact with each other – and watch what might spill out.

Holdur’s eyes fixed on Romon.  “I do not want to talk with anyone else present,” he said.

Romon turned to Brooks, arching an eyebrow.  “You heard the man.”

Brooks considered a moment, then nodded.  “All right.”

“That means no listening, either,” Holdur said.

“We cannot monitor the situation in here if we do that,” Brooks told him.  “I am not legally allowed to leave you alone.”

“Well, Captain, I am not inclined to speak if I cannot have privacy,” Romon said, turning.  “And my current diplomatic credentials give me the right to such privacy if I wish it.”

Brooks prepared to protest, but Y spoke.

“If I may, Mr. Xatier – I must also be present for medical reasons.  A restraint suit, especially at this strength, could be a danger to Mr. Holdur’s health if something goes wrong.  I must monitor it.”

“It seems we are at an impasse, then,” Romon said.

“Not necessarily.  I can simply be sworn to secrecy regarding what I see or hear,” Y continued.  “And I can turn off all manual connections to external servers – which I can show, if you wish – to assure you that I am not monitoring you.”

“Yet you will possess a memory of all that you see,” Romon countered.

“As would anyone in my position.  But I cannot allow Jan Holdur to be unmonitored.”  Y looked to the man in the cell.  “So this is the only way that your meeting will occur.”

Brooks considered.  If he could not hear what happened, the whole meeting lost a lot of value for him.  But it still would be something to prod the whole thing along, and Holdur’s recalcitrant attitude might change.

“Y, do you give your word as an officer of the Sapient Union that you will hold all you see as a secret?” Brooks asked.

“I do, Captain.”

Brooks looked to Romon.  “Those are the accomodations I can make for you.”

Romon was watching Holdur.  The man in the cell nodded, very slightly.

“Very well, then, Captain.  I suppose that will be sufficient – though note that I am sending a copy of our verbal agreement to my private servers.  Should you break your word, it will be known across all of space.”

Brooks refused to rise to the man’s provocations.  “The Sapient Union keeps its deals,” he replied calmly.

He went to the door.  “If there is an emergency, give us a signal and we’ll come in full force.”

Romon did not reply, watching Holdur until the door had closed behind Brooks.

Looking to Y, Romon spoke.  “So, machine.  Are you prepared to witness yet say nothing?”

“I will perform my duty, but I do not see why you need speak to me when I am not the one you came here for,” Y replied.

A slight smile crossed the man’s lips and he looked back to Holdur.

“So,” he said.  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Jan Holdur stepped forward, putting his hand on the glass, beholding Romon as one would a god.

“I did it for you,” he said, his voice full of awe.

Y noted the sudden change in the man; he’d kept himself contained when Romon had first come and they were in company, but now – now he was simply full of that quaint human trait of adoration.

“Then you offered me nothing,” Romon replied.  “Given that you failed.”

Holdur cringed back.  “I almost got away with it, Romon . . . Mr. Xatier,” he hastily added at the look on Romon’s face.  “It was only bad luck that I was caught!”

“Why would you even think I wanted such a gift of a dead woman of the Sapient Union?” Romon asked him, still completely calm.

If anything, Y thought, even calmer than at first.  Cold.

“You said yourself, six months ago, didn’t you?  That no one had ever been murdered on a Sapient Union ship before.  That they thought themselves so incredibly safe . . .  I knew what you wanted then.  I knew it and I gave everything to try and give it to you.”

“That is quite the jump,” Romon replied.  “To take a mere comment and turn it into a fixation for your life.”

“Yet you did want it, didn’t you?  You look at these people, their sheer arrogance!  They look down their noses at their betters.  We make wealth, and they just . . .”  Holdur couldn’t even seem to come up with a word of sufficient disgust.  “But even though I failed, I succeeded in bringing fear to them!  You should have seen her, Romon.  She was terrified.”

“Again – why do you think I would want a woman to be terrified?” Romon demanded.

Holdur’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because I know what you do.  You are the biggest killer of us all.”

His lips curled at the edges in a mad smile.  Tears welled in his eyes.  “The empty toadies and flatterers you surround yourself with . . . you patron them.  You take them under your wing and then you turn them into your tool.  You don’t ever have to lift a knife, but you kill by your own will.  Using others.”

“You are insane,” Romon said, but it lacked real accusation.

Y could see that Romon Xatier’s heart rate had increased, but from the chemical signals of his body, it did not seem to be fear.  Anxiety, or . . .

Excitement.

“I wanted to be one of your tools,” Holdur continued.  “So badly.  But you rejected me.  That’s why I had to do this – I had to show you I was worthy.”

Romon stared back at him, his eyes pitiless.  “Then you failed.”

He turned away from the cell, to Y.  “Turn back on his suit and close the connection.”

“NO-” Holdur screamed.  But the sound was cut short as Y turned off the signal from the room.  The restraint suit came back online, and Y added in a powerful muscle relaxant in expectation of Holdur’s fighting to occur.  His muscles were all-but disabled, the suit taking up the slack to keep him from falling.  Moving awkwardly, the suit itself forced his limbs to move and sit back down.  Despite it all, though, Holdur struggled, fighting so hard that Y saw him spike into dangerous territory several times.

“I must tranquilize him,” Y said.  “For his own safety.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 12 | Ep 8 Part 14 >

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

---

Lt. Commander Ebbe was a short, unassuming man with brown hair and brown eyes.  He was decidedly average in appearance, but behind his eyes sparkled a deep intelligence that piqued Jaya’s interest.

As they approached, she gestured to the cryo casket next to her.  It was labeled with a false name, with no image or window inside to keep the true identity of its occupant a secret.

“Everything that is left of Hoc Rem is in here,” she told them.

“Best not to say the name aloud,” Ebbe said.  His voice was softer than Jaya would have expected.

She nodded.  “Very well.  I wish you luck in finding anything useful.  Unfortunately, his brain has largely been destroyed, and his personal data files deleted themselves.”

“Did they suffer physical destruction?” Ebbe asked.  “Like internal acid compounds or the like.”

“It does not seem so – there’s some physical evidence that Rem had some systems removed, which could have included those sorts of things.”

Ebbe’s lips went into a grim line.  “So they were put in unwillingly without his knowledge.”

“It’s barbaric,” Jaya said.  “Not to know, at least.”

Ebbe eyed her curiously and she knew he was wondering if she knew that intelligence officers like himself willingly had such measures installed.  Even in death they would give away nothing.

“I agree,” he said.

Jaya looked around the hangar; it had been emptied of all other personnel, as had several other docks, along with other small shuttles docking at them.  All of them had good reasons for the security, that would hopefully not draw the attention of spies.

Rare to see it so empty, she thought.

“Here are all the data drives.”

“Have you copied them?” Ebbe asked.

“Yes.”

“Delete all the duplicate copies,” he told her.  “I will send my authorization code at a later time, after we have left the vessel.”

Jaya frowned.  “You do not wish us to sift the data?”

“We don’t know if any of it is dangerous,” the man said.  “And we can be certain that having the data is dangerous.  It’s best if you delete it.”

Jaya was disquieted by that – not by the danger, but that they wouldn’t even get a chance to take a crack at it themselves.

“Does this order originate from above?” she asked.

The man did not answer, just fixing his eyes on hers for a moment before looking back.  “Prepare the wipe, but don’t perform it until I signal.  Just in case we are destroyed.”

A tingle went down the back of Jaya’s neck.  “Just how important do you believe this data to be?”

The man looked at her.  “I am not at liberty to say.”

Jaya narrowed her eyes.  “I am your superior officer, Lt. Commander.”

The man kept his eyes on hers, but she did not blink.

“You’re right, ma’am,” he said.  “No offense was intended.”

She did not believe he was accepting their relative ranking so much as calculating that it wasn’t a fight worth taking.

“Until I receive orders from above my rank, I will not be deleting any data,” she told him.

The man kept his face calm, but said nothing to her.

“Get it all on the ship,” he told his crew.

They moved to it, rolling the trolleys onto the ship that contained the data and body.

As they moved out of earshot, she turned on privacy mode.  It was a simple acoustic trick, directed interference audio that would prevent eavesdropping.

“Now that we are alone,” she said, “Tell me what you know.”

Ebbe regarded her with confusion.

“Override code #375BGH1JK,” she told him.

The man’s eyes widened, and he studied her, realizing that he had underestimated her.

“I did not realize,” he said.  “I’ll answer what I can.”

“What is on this data that makes it so important?” she asked him.

“Hoc Rem had sent out tentative feelers to us some weeks ago.  We believe he was just hedging his bets, but he did tell us that even though he did not know who his true masters were when he was first hired, he had done some digging of his own.”

“And?”

“He would not transmit any data on it, but we believed him.  If he found a trail back to who we suspect they were it would be extremely important.”

She looked up into the ship where the body was.  “Pity most of his mind was destroyed.  If he was this secretive, he might have kept the data on his person instead of the external drives.”

“Do not worry,” Ebbe told her.  “We have our methods.  We will learn exactly what Hoc Rem discovered.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 11 | Ep 8 Part 13 >

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

---

“Yes, madam- Joph- Ambassador, it’s me!” Tred said.

“Oh how wonderful!  I hadn’t made a call like this before.  I’m told that you’re not even anywhere near me on the ship, is that true?”

His heart was still racing as she spoke.

Jophiel was simply the name he’d suggested for the being, a plasma entity who they had taken on board the ship to live in one of the fusion reactors.

Her voice was synthetic, created by an AI that translated the electromagnetic impulses her kind used to communicate into sound, using masterfully crafted algorithms to try and intone the correct feeling of a being utterly alien to him.  He honestly couldn’t know how good a job it did.

And Jophiel was not actually a she.  That was a projection of his kind, humanizing an alien being who had no concept of sexes as humans knew it.

Yet she still sounded beautiful.

“You know you can just call me Jophiel,” she replied, amusement in her voice.  “But you are so sweet calling me all that.  You know I’m not really that special – I was only chosen by random . . .” the rest of her words blanked out into a garble of unclear sounds.

Some kind of idiom, perhaps?  If her people had idioms.  Who knew if they did?  They had nothing solid about them – just ionized gases bound in electromagnetic fields.  Then again, maybe he was being solidcentric in thinking idioms were bound in some way to that sort of quality . . .

“You are special to me!” he blurted out.

His cheeks burned in humiliation.

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” Jophiel said.  Tred could barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.  “I was not sure why you hadn’t been around for almost a week.  We had been talking a lot and then you seemed to get distracted.”

“Oh, uh . . .”  Tred realized that she had not taken his words in the worst possible way.  If anything, she didn’t seem to take them as that significant at all . . .  “Well, we had a battle, you see.  It was kind of a big deal.”

There was a long silence on her end.  He almost spoke, hesitated, then she finally replied.

“A battle?  I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“We were attacked by these aliens called Hev.  They were one faction called uh . . . P’G’Maig.”

“But what is a battle?”

Tred did not know how to reply to that.

“Uh . . . a fight?  Combat?  The P’G’Maig were trying to . . . destroy us.”

She fell silent again.

Oh Dark, had she even known?

“I had been told about this,” she said carefully and slowly.  “My people have never had these ‘battles’.  I was told there was a danger to me as well if one could happen.  I did not think it actually would.”

“We won!  So you don’t have to worry anymore.”

“I’m not worried,” she replied, almost sounding distracted.  “I had wondered about those little things coming at us.  Was that part of the battle?”

“You mean the missiles?”

“Things flew out of the ship, small and large.  And lots of little things flew at us but many did not make it.  I thought maybe it was some form of communication, but I couldn’t understand it . . .”

“You could see all that was happening?” Tred asked despite himself.

“Yes, of course.  The shielding on this little house reactor blocks some of what I can see, but not every wavelength.  So I can see the whole ship and outside it for quite some distance.”

“Can you . . . see me?” he asked.  “Like specifically, where I am now.”

“Well . . . no.  I mean, I can see the beings on the ship – there’s so many! – but they are just electromagnetic points.  I’m sorry, I can’t yet tell you all apart very well.”

“Oh, I’m not offended,” he said.  He actually felt glad – he did not like being tracked all the time.  It was a part of everyday life for AIs to do it, but for a being to monitor him gave him the willies.  “I was just curious, really,” he continued.  “But you know, if you can see out, I guess that helps not to feel claustrophobic in there.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what that means.”

“No, I’m sorry!  It means feeling . . . trapped or cooped up.”

“I see.  No, I never have that problem!  It feels pleasantly cozy, but you’re right that seeing out makes it not a bother.  I rather like it – I’ve never felt this sort of sensation.”

That was not what he would have felt in her shoes- or plasma, rather.  But she interacted with the world far differently than he did.

“Have you heard about the play that’s going to be shown?” Jophiel asked out of the blue.

He fumbled to get his brain onto a whole new topic.  “Oh, the . . . one about Ussa and Usser?”

“That’s it.  Can anyone go see it?”

“Well, sure.  They’re doing a few showings, so I think a lot of people will be going.  And there will be live feeds.”

“Oh, interesting.  I wish I could see it, too.  I can sense new people on the ship all over, and many in groups – I thought that was them.”

“Can you . . . see in the visible light spectrum?  Er, the ones we can see.  The wavelengths of 380 to 750 nanometers.”

“Yes, I can see every wavelength I know of!” she replied.

It was somewhat of an unhelpful answer, given he did not know for sure if she was aware of wavelengths she couldn’t see.

But she was not dumb, he chided himself.  Even if her people did not have technology, they were not fools.

“Well,” he said, the thought occurring to him.  “What if I took you to see it?  I mean, I know you can’t go personally.”

He found himself imagining what she might look like in that scenario; some being of light, like the angel she was named for?  Or maybe just a glowing sphere?

Either way, it would probably prove fatal for both or either of them.

“How could I go and see?”

“I could modify a drone for you!” he said.  “I know you already have some basic ones you’ve used, but I could make it better than those, and we could feed the data into the fusion reaction chamber easily!”

Yes, the emitters they’d put in that provided gentle EM emissions to translate their words into signals she could understand could just as easily convert images and sounds!  It’d be child’s-play, really.  He’d literally done it for fun as a child!  Every kid did an experiment of turning starlight into sound as a learning project, and he had quite enjoyed it.

The only issue was the drone . . .  The stock models were hardy but lacked much visual range, they wouldn’t do at all . . .

“That sounds wonderful!” Jophiel said, her voice rising to almost a squeal.  Normally a voice that high-pitched bothered him, but from her he found he did not mind.  “Can you really do that?”

“I can try,” he said, trying to be honest.  Yet he already knew he would do anything he could to not let her down.  “I mean – I’ll get it done!”

“This is so exciting!  Please, let me know how it’s going, all right?  And if you need any help, well . . . my diplomatic codes should help you open some . . . doors.”  She seemed to hesitate on the last word, as if not really sure.

Which probably meant she was actually using a human expression!  That pleased him for some reason.

She began to send codes, and he gasped.  “Jophiel, you can’t just give me these codes!  I’m not authorized-“

“I am an ambassador,” she said over him, matter-of-factly.  “And I have chosen to take you into my confidence.  Just don’t tell anyone else!”

“A-all right,” he replied nervously.  What he had was actually serious intel . . .  at least in theory.  He did not know if anyone would actually care, or if it was just him.

“I need to go . . . I’ll have to figure out how to get started,” he said, feeling very nervous now.

“Okay!  Goodbye for now, Tred!”

---

< Ep 8 Part 8 | Ep 8 Part 10 >

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

---

Oh Dark, he hated these tiny tunnels.

Tred carefully navigated the drone through the maintenance shaft.  It was a sort too small for any grown human to fit through; even the Beetle-Slugs found them tight if they had to go in there, but the sheer quantity of equipment that potentially needed accessing meant that they had no choice but to use very narrow tunnels.

His eye implants were feeding him the view from the drone he was remotely piloting, even while he sat outside in the maintenance room.

His view was fully that of the drones, and it moved as fluidly and easily as any person – it felt nearly like he himself was shrunk down and inside the maintenance tube.

Which made him feel so claustrophobic.

Sweat was running down his face, forcing him to blink often.

The scanners on the drones were checking each and every circuit in the systems.

No one ever thought about how inconvenient a battle was for maintenance personnel.  These ships were not just aluminum skinned tubes strapped to rockets like in ancient times!  Every single component was a computer or part of a computer, and the horrible blasting of a fight meant anything and everything could be disturbed.

The scan on this section completed, and his own visual checks – as poor as they were compared to the drone’s scanners – found everything to be in order.

He moved the drone towards the next section when he got an alert; something was moving towards him!

Well, towards the drone, at least.

He still felt a rush of adrenaline, but he didn’t actually have to do anything.

It was a Beetle-Slug, which activated the drone’s movement circuit.  His view dimmed momentarily to avoid giving him vertigo as it moved into an alcove.

He overrode the controls anyway, morbidly curious.  He looked down as the Bicet passed.

It moved swiftly, its many small legs a blur of motion.  Its leathery carapace with small plates of chitin indicating it was of a different caste than Cutter.

It stopped, and he jerked back as it rotated to look directly at the camera of the drone.  Tred had not physically moved the drone to peer at the creature, but – did it somehow know he was looking at it?

More sweat ran down his brow.

“Your drone requires maintenance,” the Bicet said.  “Micro-tearing of wire coating on arm C.  Send in for repairs after shift.”

Then it crawled away, and Tred felt stupid that he’d panicked so much.

“Ah, thanks,” he called out through its speaker, though he doubted the Bicet was even anywhere near his drone at that point.

Making a note to get the wire checked, he crawled on, finding a few molecules out of place in a crystal board matrix.  The whole section would have to be removed later for the adjustment, but right now it was . . . acceptable.  Its efficiency would be lowered by a very small margin, not enough to worry most, even if it bothered him.  And it did bother him; the molecules should be in their proper places, not . . . just flung out there wildly.

He made a note to go back for it.  Then, as he started to move on, he stopped.

No, no, he would take care of it now.

Detaching the crystal matrix case, he had the drone carry it out to a repair depot.  Other drones had dropped off other matrices, which were all in quite worse shape than his.

He’d probably get another annoyed message from the repair crew later telling him this matrix was fine and it didn’t need to be dragged out for repair . . .

Ignoring that, he crawled back into the tunnel.

Did he really want to keep doing this?

Not just the tunnel, but . . . the Craton.

He had been born here and he’d always thought that he’d die here.

But they’d been in a battle recently.  A battle!  And it wasn’t the first time lately that the ship had been in such a dangerous situation.

During all of that he’d just been so nervous that he’d felt faint.  He hadn’t even had to do anything, just hid in a bunker like the civilians.

But he’d felt the impacts, the hard ship movements.  He’d known what various subtle signs meant, even when no one else around him did.

He was, by sheer skills, qualified to be a bridge officer.  Yet the concept terrified him; that much pressure upon him.  He’d mess up and people would be killed.  Or even the whole ship.

His home ship.

Maybe he should leave.  With his skill set there would be thousands of job openings even in a nice and cushy system like Ran or Tau Ceti or Luyten.  Or even someplace exotic like Van Maanen or Cygni!

Even the thought of Cygni and its flares made him nervous, though.  And Van Maanen was a White Dwarf, sure, but – who wanted to live around a dead star?

Ran was beautiful, but he wasn’t the type to go sunbathing on the beaches of that pleasant world, and its dominant culture in space was almost . . . hedonistic by his standards.  Tau Ceti, he’d known a very rude man from there once, and Luyten . . .

One by one he ruled out the obvious choices.

He knew that there were literally thousands of other options, but that he would find something that made them inadequate for him.

He honestly did not even know where he wanted to live.

A call came in.

He blinked, fumbling for a moment before calling out, a little too loudly; “Cut drone feed!  Switch to call.”

He hadn’t even seen who it was, but it was probably too soon to be the repair crew – unless one had been operating a drone right there and checked the matrix!

No visual came up, just audio.

“Tred?” a cool female voice said.  It was nervous, hesitant, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, madam Ambassador!” he cried.

“Oh!  Tred, is that you?”

---

< Ep 8 Part 7 | Ep 8 Part 9 >

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

---

Brooks knew he had to study before he could call Romon Xatier.

All he had known was that the man was possessed of great wealth – which also meant influence – in Gohhi.  Not quite on the level of the Waites-Kossons or Gormans, but certainly they rubbed shoulders.

His great-grandfather, Alon, had taken their fortune, being one of the first humans to reach Gohhi at sublight speeds, four hundred years ago.  Building a financial empire on brutal exploitation and cunning, he’d made himself one of the first Lord Executives.

His son had died young, but not before siring an heir, Peppen.  Alon had actually lived on, but retired from running his business, which he passed on to Peppen, though both then passed away only a year apart, about twenty years ago.  Their causes of death were unknown, as the bodies were never found – but most sources agreed it was likely rival businessmen, taking advantage of Alon’s sloppiness in his age, and then Peppen’s carelessness in his grief and anger.

Romon had then taken the reins, relatively young to be inheriting, but possessing the necessary business acumen.  But while his ancestors had been known for their brutality in quashing their workers to extract the most surplus value, Romon seemed to have built a reputation as a cultured man and philanthropist – as well as a recluse.

Which, in Brooks’s eyes, only meant he was a more subtle kind of snake, but it was important to note.

The Sapient Union made a habit of following the dealings of the wealthiest Lord Executives – an ancient title that many businessmen had granted themselves, apparently thinking their stolen fortunes put them inherently above the rest of humanity.  Something that only using an archaic aristocratic title could properly display.

But given that such Lord Executives often had huge political power made it important.  Not to mention that knowing their crimes and weaknesses was often quite useful.

Sapient Union intel reports did not have a lot on Romon Xatier, however.  His business dealings were no more shady than most, his workers were treated about middling, in terms of protections and exploitation.  He was filthy rich, yes, but he did not flaunt it or put undue political pressure onto anyone.

Which left mostly his private life, where information was even more sparse.  Unmarried, he did not leave his private station often.  Aside from an interest in being a patron of the arts, he was renowned as a poet, with several books published of his poems.

Surely it was easy to get past editors when you owned the companies.

Still, this seemed the most relevant detail, as Jan Holdur frequented this gilded circle of poets.  Holdur did not seem to have been published except in books he’d paid for, and his works did not seem to garner nearly as much attention as Romon’s.

Which immediately made Brooks consider if jealousy could be a motivation – but he did not see how Jan Holdur openly murdering a woman would somehow harm Romon Xatier.  Certainly Ensign Vale had no connection to either man.

As much as he wanted to dawdle more, though, Brooks knew he just had to call the man up and see if anything new came to light.

It was not easy to even find the contact information for the man – most of the Lord Executives had some sort of publicist whom he could contact and then use his Sapient Union credentials to get sent up the ladder.

But he’d had the computer searching for such routes and come up with very little.  He’d found the public relations firms that he employed – quite a few, he noted – but none of those were the sort that could pass him upward.

He was rebuked by the man’s contracted law firms, who refused to offer any comment whatsoever.

Fine, then.  He called up one of the security firms the man owned.  He had an outsized controlling interest in many, he noted.

“Give me the highest ranking officer,” Brooks told the AI.

“Captain Gren speaking,” a brusque voice answered after he’d gotten transferred.

“Captain Gren, this is Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” the man replied.  He sounded distracted.

“Of the Sapient Union vessel Craton.”

There was a sound of shifting and whispering; the man had put his hand over his audio receiver, but Brooks could still hear him telling someone to come back later.  Or someones; he heard several giggling female voices that rapidly faded.

“Of the Craton?  How do I know this is actually the Captain of that ship?” the man asked when he finally spoke again, a tinge of panic in his voice.  He was clearly trying to figure out how to authenticate the call.

“Check under authorization codes on the top right of your screen,” Brooks told him dryly.  “There you will find a thirty-seven digit number, the first six numbers being zeros and the last a one.  That indicates it is from the Sapient Union . . . an Earth ship specifically.”

“Oh, yes.  Right, of course.  Well . . . uh, how may I help you, Captain . . . ?”

“Captain-Mayor,” Brooks corrected, feeling a slight amusement in making the man squirm.

“Yes, Captain-Mayor.”

“I need to speak with Romon Xatier about a potential risk to his person that we’ve uncovered.”

There was silence.  “Uh, I’m sorry Cap- I mean Captain-Mayor, but that’s above my pay-grade, and I don’t have the authority to-“

“Romon Xatier owns your company, Captain.  You certainly have the contact information for his under-secretary at the very least.  The man’s life may be in danger, which is why I’m calling you.  I obviously cannot do anything on Gohhi, but you can.”

“Yes!  I can, um . . .”

“Put me in contact with Romon.  Then I’m certain he will call you and wish to deploy your forces to keep himself and your company alive and healthy.”

He could hear the panic in the man’s voice.  “Yes, that makes sense,” he said quickly.  “Uh, let me . . . Okay, I have a digital connection code for you . . . do you have a pen?”

“Transfer me,” Brooks ordered.

“Yes, sir.  And thank you sir.  You have a nice day, and thank you for, uh, calling Caligari Security-“

Brooks muted him and checked the connection code.  It looked authentic, and when the line rung, he received an automated under-secretary.

It accepted his Union credentials and sent him up to the human secretary.

Who was out at lunch.

“If this is an emergency, please contact Caligari Security at . . .”

“This is a diplomatic emergency,” Brooks said.  “And Romon Xatier must be contacted.”

The answering machine was, as he suspected, smart.  It went silent for a moment, and then finally, a human voice appeared.

“Good afternoon, Captain-Mayor,” the voice said.  It was deep and calm, and Brooks knew he had reached Romon Xatier at last.

“Mr. Xatier, I am pleased I have been able to reach you,” he began.

“Yes, I know.  You have been trying for some time, Captain-Mayor.”

Brooks had wondered if he was going through some sort of test, and this seemed to confirm it.  He pushed his annoyance aside.

“I don’t suppose you’re already aware of why I’m calling?”

“Something about a danger to my life,” Romon replied, sounding both dismissive and amused.  “Which I highly doubt is true.”

“It may be a threat to your person.  You see, we have apprehended a man on one of our tour ships who attempted to murder one of its crew-“

“I do not see how that threatens me,” Romon replied coolly.

“. . . and who afterward has said he will only speak to you.”

“How unfortunate,” Romon replied.  “As I have no desire to come onto your vessel to speak with an attempted murderer.  Is that all, Captain?”

Brooks knew the game was not over yet.  “The man is Jan Holdur, of the family that owns Holdur Conglomerate.  I understand he frequents the same poetry groups that you do.  You two may have met numerous times, which makes his request for you rather curious at a time like this.”

“I am afraid I barely know the man,” Romon replied.  Yet something had changed in his voice.  Brooks was not sure if it was concern or interest.

“I did not imagine so.  However, we still remain with the issue that he will only talk to you.  And given that he committed his crime on one of our vessels, he is also under our jurisdiction.”

Xatier was quiet for a few moments.  “I will have my people send you the data for the issuing of my diplomatic expediency.  Upon receiving that I will come to your vessel, Captain-Mayor.”

Which was quite necessary; nearly every Lord Executive was wanted for crimes in the Sapient Union.  What they considered ‘normal business’ was considered barbaric in more civilized places, and all too frequently their unsavory practices slipped across the ephemeral borders of space.  It was Brooks’s prerogative to give expedient diplomatic status, and he could deny it entirely at his discretion.  “All right, Mr. Xatier.  Please send word when you are on your way and we will arrange a drone escort.”

“That will be unnecessary.  I will bring my own security.”

“They will have to wait outside of our ship,” Brooks replied firmly.

“Very well,” Romon replied.

The call ended.

---

< Ep 8 Part 6 | Ep 8 Part 8 >