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

---

The gunfire had died down, and Urle had lost track of the combatants.

“Someone else joined in, shooting back at the larger group,” he said.  “Reinforcements for the chop shop, maybe?”

“Allies,” Kell replied.  But he still seemed distracted.

They had found the main part of the operation itself.  It was more professional than he had expected – at least as much as it could be, given the grisly nature of the work.  Limbs were kept in plastic bags, and bodies cut apart inside sealed chambers to keep the blood contained.  Only once the parts had been fully cleaned were they brought out.

But that foresight in the operation did not mean the rooms were clean now.  Gunfights had happened here, and the corpses of the guards, techs and butchers of the operation still floated, their blood turned to crimson spheres that floated in the air, turning everything the same disturbing pink as they had seen earlier.  And just like the men from earlier, these ones had been shot repeatedly.

He had to keep wiping his visor to see clearly.

Urle had identified at least half a dozen bodies of victims so far, all in pieces.

He doubted that all of these people had cut deals for digital immortality, and he dared connect to a few pieces that seemed like they might be intact.

Most had no data – but in two he found snippets of old information.

“Debts,” he said to Kell.  “These guys borrowed money from the wrong people.  Fisc, I’ve heard of repossession but . . .”

Off to the side, he saw something that appeared to be an office.  The small room looked out upon most of the workshop, and he saw that the security on the door was high.

It didn’t appear that anyone was in there, and neither had the lock been forced.

Or attempted, he thought, studying the security.  It seemed there were explosives in the room, and after that it would vent into the vacuum . . .

“Stay back,” he told Kell.  “This might be important.”

Carefully, Urle connected to the system.  Its security was good – but he was better.

Two minutes later in real time, the door opened, welcoming him.

“It thinks I’m the owner,” he told Kell.

Kell was still remaining silent, and Urle glanced back to make sure he was all right.  Perhaps the sight of the chopped bodies bothered him . . . ?

But Kell only seemed to be gazing off into the distance, and Urle dismissed the possibility.

Going into the office, Urle found a treasure trove.

The data went back months.  It was explicit, with names and dates and transactions.  Many of the specifics were locked behind tighter layers of encryption, but he even saw that there were more scheduled deliveries for the next few days . . .

If he clued in the right people, this entire network could be rolled up.

He downloaded everything, backing it up and stuffing hard data and hard drives into bags.

The system in the room started to get suspicious and he put it into a loop, telling itself to trigger the security protocols without actually doing it.

“Kell, you won’t believe all of this-” he began, leaving the room.

Kell turned, but behind him, a door opened, and a live person entered.

They wore an opaque white mask, buffed to a mirror shine, and a hood-like spacesuit that covered his head.

He had splatters of blood on him, and he held a carbine.  The man noticed him, and was startled, before trying to heft his weapon.

Urle was faster.

He shot three times, each shot taking the man in the chest.

He didn’t make a sound, simply crashing back into the door frame, his carbine slipping free to float away.

Others pushed his body, shoving in, pointing their own weapons.

Urle’s heart raced as his sensors told him there were over a dozen more out in the hall.  He did not even have enough bullets for them all, nevermind the odds-

Kell put his hand over Urle’s weapon, pushing it down.

“No,” he said calmly.

Urle watched him, his jaw dropping.

More of the strange figures forced themselves into the room, pointing their weapons, but not yet firing.

Finally, a taller man, his mask clear, came in.  His face was weathered by space, a dark orange from radiation exposure.  His eyes were cold and pitiless as he beheld Urle, but they did not linger long.

They then moved to Kell.

“I see,” he said, his voice strong, “that we find in our midst a Lesser Lord.”

Kell turned sharply.  “Do not ever call me that.”

The man smiled, but inclined his head.  “I mean no offense, Great One.  Only honor.  Even given your cursed nature . . . we offer you homage.”

As one, the men lowered their weapons, placing their boots to the floor and connecting magnetically – then bowed.

Urle’s voice had caught in his throat.  Kell – Lesser Lord?

“I will kill all of you,” Kell said, his body almost shaking with rage.  He began to move forward.

Urle grabbed his arm, watching the men, but they still had not moved from their bows.

“Kell stop!” Urle snapped.  “You can’t just kill them!”

The being moved like a rolling boulder; Urle could not even slow him.  Yet after a moment, he did stop, looking down to Urle.

“You truly wish me to spare these men?” he spat.

“Who are they?” Urle asked.

“We are the Silent Hand,” the leader of the group said.  “We are the knife of the Infinite, excising that which It Wills.”

The others spoke, their voices low.  “Praise the Infinite, the most Perfect.”

Urle’s eyes swept over the group, and he saw that many were wounded.  Bullet holes, rimed in blood, covered their suits.  Droplets of blood still floated from many, showing that they had not even sealed their wounds.  Yet none seemed concerned.

“If you wish to kill us, we accept your decision, Lesser Lord,” the man said.  His face was calm.  “We will call it the Will of the Infinite.”

Kell tensed again, and Urle grabbed onto his arm tighter.

“You truly wish to spare these men?” Kell asked Urle again, tearing his gaze away from the group.

“You owe me,” Urle told him.  “Yes.  They’re not attacking us.  I can’t justify-“

“They are your enemies.  They are my enemies.  Why would you not strike them?” Kell asked, so emphatically that he seemed to writhe.

Urle could sense on some level he could not quantify that something else was moving.  Something invisible, beyond his comprehension, was writhing, pulsing with anger and impotent bloodlust.

He felt his stomach churn, suddenly wanting to vomit.  All strength left his arms, and all he had left was his voice.

“This is how we are,” he told Kell.  “We are not killers.”

Kell closed his eyes, and for a moment Urle had no idea what he would say.

But as they opened, his face was once more calm.

“I owe you,” he said.

Urle looked back towards the group.  The leader went to the body of the man he had shot.

“He should not have raised arms against you,” the man said.  “It was the heat of the moment, and none blame you, Zachariah Urle, for what you did.”

“How do you know my name?” Urle demanded.

The man did not reply, instead arresting the slow tumble of the dead man, bringing him back upright.  He pressed his head to the man’s chest.

“Rise, my son.  If you wish.”

Then the dead man coughed.

He moved, his arms coming down, his legs moving to the floor.

“No,” Urle breathed, as the dead lived.

The leader looked back to them.  “We thank you for your mercy, Lesser Lord,” he said, offering another bow to Kell.

Kell jerked his head, telling them to leave.

The group unlocked from the floor and moved together, out the door and away.

Urle looked at Kell.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“A miracle,” Kell spat.  Urle had never heard him sound more disgusted.

---

< Ep 7 Part 46 | Ep 7 Part 48 >

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

---

“Do you hear those shots?” Brooks asked.

To his flank, the human mercenary nodded.  The Latarren said nothing.

The man had introduced himself as Brecht, and his companion as Tol.

Brooks knew that in the Laterren language that meant ‘zero’, so he took it that the alien did not wish to give away much.  And he had not said a single word.

“Follow,” Brecht said, turning and heading swiftly down another route.  He pushed off the wall and through a hatch, and was gone.

Tol watched Brooks, clearly not trusting him.

Which meant little, most mercenaries trusted no one.

Brooks followed Brecht.

They’d landed twenty minutes ago, and Brecht had informed him upon arrival that the faction that wanted Rem dead were already here.

“How do you know?” he asked.  His face mask fogged up slightly as he spoke, and he longed to take it off – there was air in here.  But it was thin and a leak could take it out, leaving one stunned – and soon dead.

“They leave behind signs,” Brecht had replied, but added nothing else.

“We don’t have much time, then.  We need Rem alive.”

Brecht had not replied to that, and Brooks still wondered if the man was truly here to help him find Rem – or to make sure he didn’t take him in alive.

It seemed impossible to think that Dawn could be involved in an operation murdering and chopping Augs, but it was always possible that the man knew too much about other things.

He knew, deep down, that she was not a member of the Sapient Union.  She had her own agenda.

He’d asked Brecht what he knew about Rem, his operation, his enemies, and this station, but he’d gotten little useful information.

“The ones who want him dead are a new player in Gohhi,” Brecht had said.  “The breakup of Rem’s operation was always something we had wished, but he was untouchable – until this faction arose.”

“Who are they?” Brooks had asked.

Brecht had ignored the question.  “We suspect that their issue is simply over power – Rem’s organization was connected to a great power outside of the system, and has worked his way into the confidence of many of the wealthy in the station.  That makes him a threat.”

“What power?”

Brecht had ignored that, too.

Perhaps he actually didn’t know.

“The enemy are striking at Rem now,” Brecht said, moving quickly.  Brooks was falling behind, and he had to rush to try and catch up.

“How do you know?  Do you know how many there are?”

Brecht paused, as if thinking.  “Thirty-two,” he said.  “They are coming from the outer layers . . . moving inward to trap the man.  He has fallen back.  He is bleeding.”

He looked to Brooks.  “We must move swiftly.”

The time for stealth was over, it seemed; the man activated thrusters, jetting along quickly, and Brooks had to turn on his own emergency thrusters to keep up.  He had precious little fuel, and if he got blasted out into the vacuum without any, he’d have very little chance of survival.

Tol passed him and Brooks was almost glad, as now he could follow the Latarren – Brecht was out of sight already.

Though soon he’d lose the alien, too.

He couldn’t call out; someone might hear, and he could only redouble his efforts of keeping up, pushing off every surface he could, grabbing and pulling at every chance to supplement his meager thrusters.

The sound of gunfire was growing closer, the thin air making it seem more distant.

Taking a left, his system lit up red warnings as it detected rounds piercing the walls.

Tol had already crossed but was slowing down – which was fortuitous, given that Brooks’s thrusters were already out of fuel.

Brecht had stopped outside of a door, clearly listening.  Another round ripped through the hall, between him and the two mercenaries.

Tol attached some kind of sensor to the wall, connecting it to his system.

Random bullets were still going through the wall, but Brooks felt he had no choice but to risk the crossing.  Bracing, he crouched against the bulkhead wall to push off, aiming low.

Brecht waved him to stop.

Brooks paused, and the other man made a rapid display of hand signals – spacer’s code.

He wanted Brooks to shoot through the wall.  From their different positions, they’d have good angles on one of the parties.

Brooks couldn’t be sure who he was going to be shooting at.  He could just hope that it was not going to be Hoc Rem.

He nodded to Brecht, and the Mercs pulled their assault carbines, while he took out his pistol.

Tol gave him the sensor feed and now Brooks’s system could hazily pick out figures and movement through the thin wall, though with little detail.  He aimed for center mass and pulled the trigger.

Tol and Brecht fired, shooting bursts of rounds through the walls at the targets.

There were muffled screams, shouts of confusion, targets moving.  A smattering of shots returned, but mostly the figures seemed to be moving away.

Brooks looked down at the mercenaries, and saw Brecht had opened the door, going in low, weapon still ready.

Brooks pushed off the wall carefully, watching Tol.  The Latarren watched him back.

Reaching him, Brooks finally tore his gaze from the mercenary and looked through the door.

It led to a small foyer of what had been a laboratory.  Brecht had stopped inside, watching the far wall for the enemies they’d driven away.

Brooks moved forward carefully, and a shot went over his head.

“Who are you?” he heard a voice call out.

He recognized the cold voice of Hoc Rem.

There was pain in it, and Brooks ducked out of the door, moving to the right of the man.  It would put him in a bad position if the attackers returned, but right now he had to keep Rem from gunning him down.

Reaching a sturdy metal counter, he peered around cautiously.  Blood droplets splattered his face mask, and he saw Hoc Rem.

He had shoved himself into a corner of the room, bent over, droplets of blood floating from his body.  He was not moving, but Brooks’s system suggested he was still alive.  For how much longer, it couldn’t say.

“We are here to help,” Brecht said, moving closer, his weapon holstered.

Brooks scanned for signs of the mysterious enemy, but saw none at the moment.  They might feel they had already trapped him . . . perhaps even knew he was wounded.

Brooks came closer as well, to get a better look.

The man’s face had been surgically altered, but his height was unchanged, and Brooks’s system estimated a 98.9% certainty that it was indeed Hoc Rem.

“He’s crashing,” Brecht said.  He had had nearly reached him-

Then Rem raised his gun.  His eyes shot open, and he grabbed Brecht by the collar.

“Who are you?” Brooks heard him hiss.  “No games, give me names.  You’re not with these bastards, are you?”

Brecht’s hands went up, his face through his mask calm.  “We are not.  We are your only chance of survival.”

“Yeah?  Well who are you with-“

The man’s words cut off as he looked over and saw Brooks.

Even with his own disguise, he could tell the man’s system figured out who he was.  He froze, shock on his face, and Brecht’s hand darted in to grab his weapon.

They wrestled for a moment, but Brecht punched Rem in the side, causing him to groan, and lose control of it.

“As I said,” Brecht now continued calmly.  “We are your only chance of survival.”

Rem looked back to Brooks.  “If I flip I’m dead.”

“If you don’t come with us you’re dead now,” Brooks replied flatly.

The man cursed, throwing a hateful glare at Brecht.

“I want full amnesty,” he told Brooks, not looking at him.

“You’re in no position to deal,” Brooks replied.

“You want me alive.  I know it.  So I get amnesty.”

Brooks considered.  He did not want the man to walk, but he also did need him.

“I’ll promise you that the death penalty is off the table,” he said.  “And your sentence can be commuted based on how much you assist us, with protection and a new identity.”

Rem cursed, hawked, and spat out blood.

He looked back up at Brooks, his face contorted in anger and pain.  “Seems I have no choice.”

“Let’s move,” Brooks said.  “Before our enemy-“

“Behind,” he heard a hissing, strange voice call.  It was Tol, who was now in the foyer, but looking outside.

Shots came down the hall – the enemy had found their way behind them.

“Cover!” Brooks called.  He moved to cover Rem, and fired pre-emptively at the far wall.  Shouts and return fire came back, but Brecht got to cover and fired out more bursts from his carbine.

But the fire was concentrating on the corner where Brooks and Rem were.

It had been a mistake to keep shooting from here, it had made them think Rem was in the same spot, and now the bracketing of fire was forcing Brooks to keep his head down.

Rem had no such option; wedged in as he was, he could not go any lower, and Brooks rose marginally, braving the fire, to shoot as fast as he could back out, giving Rem a path under him to crawl away.

“Go!” he shouted, barely able to be heard over the fire.

A round hit Rem, passing through his arm.  The man grimaced against the pain and moved, forcing himself under Brooks, trying to hug the floor.

Rounds still flew around Brooks, some so close he flinched

The next piece of cover was only a meter away from Rem, and despite his wounds he was floating quickly.  Then a stray bullet went through his head.

Brooks’s jaw dropped, and the fire coming at them slackened almost instantly.

He looked to Brecht, who had grabbed Rem and pulled him closer.

Brecht shook his head.  Rem was dead.

Looking back out, Brooks did not know why the attack had ceased; they clearly did not have a good view into here, or else they would have been putting out far more accurate fire.

Yet they knew he had died.

Tol leaned in, his voice low, hissing.  “Rear attackers gone,” he said.

Brooks moved to better cover.

“Bring his body,” he told Brecht.  “Maybe we can still learn something.”

The man said nothing, gazing at Rem.  His face was twisted into impotent rage.

“For months I have wanted him dead,” he said softly.  “But Dawn told us that even if we could it was better to know who our enemy was.  Now he is dead, and it isn’t by my hand.”

He turned and spat.

“If you want his corpse, bring it yourself.  I will not touch him.”

Brooks holstered his sidearm and grabbed a strap on the body.

The data in his mind would be gone, he knew.  The bullet would have done a lot of work, and a man as important as he would have mind-wipes set up in case his life signs ceased.

But maybe they’d get lucky.

---

< Ep 7 Part 45 | Ep 7 Part 47 >

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

---

The station was fully abandoned, as far as the public data said.  The companies with stakes in it had formally withdrawn them, the large fusion reactors had been gutted, and rumors and stories Urle found on the net said that much of it had been picked apart for scrap by scavengers.

Yet that was not the case upon approach.

Urle used every passive scanner he could to probe the area, seeing several other small skiffs near the station.  When they noted him, they quickly moved out of line of sight, behind the station.

Which could be scavengers, but there were lights on the station, and heat signatures.  The main reactor was gone, but other smaller reactors remained.

“People are definitely here,” he told Kell.  “I was skeptical, but . . .”

“Your people lie easily,” Kell said, looking out the glass at the station.  “Such a secluded space seems obvious for criminals to use.”

“Yeah, that’s true.  I guess we only see it rarely in the Sapient Union, no one is stupid enough to go live in abandoned wrecks.  Space is hostile enough.”

He pointed.  “I see a docking port there.  It’s a small one, probably in use by smugglers.  We can attach there and force the airlock.  I think there’s a spacesuit in the back-“

“I do not need one,” Kell said.

“There’s a lot of radiation and no air,” Urle warned.  “None at all.”  He could only hope Kell truly understand what this meant-

“I lived before the oxygenated atmosphere existed,” Kell told him.  “Before the atmosphere.”

Well, that was that, Urle thought.

They docked, the clamps on the station showing no signs of functionality, but Urle was able to use the skiff’s electromagnets to create a firm seal.  Still, the tunnel was not pressurised.

And as Kell had said, he seemed untroubled.

Urle only need turn on his own air storage for the crossing, putting rad-reflecting sleeves over his exposed real skin.

After they were in, he brought up the map of the station – no true map existed, but he’d cobbled one together from all the bits of information he’d found on the nets.  It seemed coherent enough.

“I’ve marked the heat sources that could be people,” he said, pointing.  “Let’s head to this one first.”

Kell was looking around, his head upraised, eyes partially closed.

“I feel something . . .”

“What?” Urle asked.

“I do not yet know,” Kell replied.

Urle did not like the sound of that.  He wished that he’d thought to bring some small drones to scout for them.

“This way,” he said, having to take lead himself.  “I think this is the most likely location . . . though I did detect a lot of air leaks in that area.”

After ten minutes of travel they had found the site.  Urle had guessed right, but the cause of the air leaks was not something he had expected.

The flickering lights and holes in the walls made pretty clear that a gunfight had happened in the room.  Some of the bullets had pierced the outer hull, letting the station’s limited air leak out.

No one had come to patch the leaks, he saw.

Urle approached the door carefully, but he detected only low heat signatures inside.  Nothing in the range of the living.

He gestured for Kell to stay back, but the Shoggoth ignored him.

“They are all dead inside,” he said, approaching the door.

“They could still be trapped- Kell, stop!”

The Shoggoth had reached up, slipping his fingers into the space between door and frame.  The power was out, but he forced the door easily.

“There are no traps,” Kell said.

Urle cursed.  “Well, there could have been damn it.  Maybe you’re not worried about them, but I am.”

“Don’t worry,” Kell told him.  “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Urle could feel the mocking in it, but ignored it to peer into the room.

He had detected the blood that had seeped through the holes in the wall, but now that the door was open he could see just how bloody a fight it had been.

The whole room had a pink hue from the floating droplets, much of which had settled onto surfaces.

“Oil amongst the blood,” Kell said.  “These men were like you.”

“Yeah . . . were,” Urle said, seeing the dead.

The bodies still floated, their limbs moving freely as they tumbled slowly in the microgravity.

They had not simply been shot, he could see, but nearly shot to pieces.  So many rounds had been put through their bodies and heads that no details remained, only a splattered mess of blood, bone, and augments.  On several, their limbs had been severed completely, floating around on their own.

A quick scan showed no active major components, and looking closer at a body it appeared that someone had even gone through the effort of putting a round through such parts.

“Someone was sending a message,” he murmured.

“The bodies have not cooled much,” Kell noted.  “This occurred only a little over an hour ago.”

“I agree,” Urle replied.

He did not want to enter a room and get covered in a blood mist, but he really had no choice.

Floating in, he carefully avoided the surfaces.  “Kell, it’ll be best not to leave traces of our presence.  Try not to touch-“

He turned as he spoke – and saw Kell wiping his hand along the wall.

“. . . nevermind,” he said.

“I will leave no trace,” Kell said.  But he seemed troubled.

Urle couldn’t blame him, seeing the fate of these bodies.  Approaching one, he analyzed the man’s hand, and saw signs that he’d been firing a weapon.

Which was gone now – stolen, most likely, by the ones who had shot him.

Tracking the holes and estimating calibers, he got an idea that the attackers had started firing from the outside, opposite the door that he and Kell had entered through.  The firing pattern appeared planned, but blind – not just random spraying, but they had lacked the ability to pinpoint the targets through the wall, which suggested they were not Augs themselves.

The Augs inside had fought back, but so much lead had been poured in that they’d been massacred.

Approaching the back door where the attackers had been, he saw that it was mostly shredded.  Poking a scanner through, he saw very little blood outside, and no bodies.

So the attackers had taken their own wounded or dead with them . . . it made sense, but something was still wrong here.

Looking back around the room, seeing how devastated it was, it was hard to figure out what purpose it might have served, but there were still some clues.

A box of electronic components was floating by, its contents spilled.  Grabbing one of the wafers, Urle saw that it was a specific type he knew – a type used in augments.

“This was part of the chop shop,” Urle said softly.  “These were parts from people . . .”

Kell was looking at his hand that he’d wiped on the wall.

“Someone did not take kindly to their work,” he commented, frowning.  “And I may know who.”

“You do?” Urle asked, dumbfounded.

Kell moved, not pushing off anything, simply moving forward, towards a hole blasted in the window and went out through it.

Urle moved hurriedly to follow him, tucking in tightly to fit through a shattered window, and saw Kell stopped at a wall.

It appeared blank, but Urle could tell something was odd about it.  Static began to tinge the edges of his vision.  Errors were creeping in, and he felt his hackles rising.

“Kell . . . what is it?” he asked.

“Without intent, a mark was left,” he said.

Holding his palm up, Kell brutally slashed his own hand with his nails, gouging the skin easily.  Dark red blood, too dark to be human, welled up in it.  As Urle watched it seemed to grow darker still, until it was nearly black, no tinge of red left.

Kell took his bleeding hand and pressed it against the wall, wiping it across the surface.

His blood spread across it like a living thing – and a shape emerged.

It was a symbol that Urle could not place.  Almost like an eye.

“The Esoteric Order,” Kell said.  His voice was void of emotion, his face set in sharp lines.

He turned to Urle, as if to say something, but then they both heard it.

Gunfire from deeper within.

“They are still here,” Kell said.

He turned and went deeper.

Drawing his sidearm, Urle followed, his eyes drawn to the symbol on the wall.  The blood appeared to be fading already, or perhaps the mark itself was, but as he looked at it, he could not help but to shiver.

---

< Ep 7 Part 44 | Ep 7 Part 46 >

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

---

Brooks had been to five bars so far, and he still didn’t have a lead.

After taking a shuttle from Gohhi Main Hub to the station called Vesper Glass, he’d then caught another to Transitory Heights, both stations of ill-repute with large black markets and a variety of shady dealings.  Always a good place to find an informant.

Yet none of it had panned out.

All he’d managed to learn so far was that the figure Silva had mentioned, Vermillion Dawn, was the biggest, the most influential, the most knowledgeable.  He’d overheard two men talking in hushed tones insisting that she knew about every transaction that happened in the entirety of Gohhi.

However exaggerated that was, it surely meant they knew about him.  But not a word – from Vermillion Dawn or any of the other brokers.

He’d never heard of it being this hard to get in contact with one, which meant that this information was incredibly dear – and Hoc Rem’s backers were truly someone formidable.

It might also mean that someone knew who he was and was keeping him running around uselessly while they prepared.

Which might even be a trap.  There was a bounty on his head in some places on the fringe, and Gohhi probably harbored a lot of bounty hunters.  Though trying to take in an SU officer would cause a massive problem for Gohhi, so they heavily discouraged such attempts.

Could also be an attempt on his life, but he honestly didn’t see himself as that valuable in the scheme of things.

It could be either or both of those scenarios.  There might even be more than one interested party with different or converging agendas, he mused, frustrated that he honestly didn’t have any clues and was over-analyzing.

He’d actually gotten a drink this time, though he’d scanned it for any dangerous compounds and was sipping carefully.

A drone came over and he tensed, not expecting it.  It lowered over the table and dropped a white slip.

Setting down his drink and eyeing the cramped, sparse bar, he then unfolded the note.

They were coordinates on the station.  They didn’t lead to a bar or other business, or even a residence.  Just a corner junction in a station that didn’t even have gravity.

Leaving his drink, he left the bar, pulling himself on handholds until he was out.  Microgravity allowed the area to be packed with businesses, with storefronts on all surfaces.

Passing a pet store selling endangered rare fish from a dozen different worlds, he turned down one passage through a large tunnel that led between different streets.

Dodging a floating mass of cargo wrapped in netting and grabbing onto a railing, he hauled himself through.

Five minutes of travel brought him near the coordinates, though he did not yet approach.

Standing in a darkened cross-tunnel, he scanned the area.

This part of the station seemed at least partially-abandoned, a fate many stations in Gohhi underwent.

There was a terrible ecosystem here; a station was built, and over time it might take enough wear and tear that its quality degraded.  Investors only interested in quick money would abandon it in droves and it would decay.

Then squatters and the desperately poor would move in.

If they formed a community with any kind of legitimate culture of its own, the place could become a sort of Bohemian retreat from the cutthroat business in other stations.

Then, if the place was still worth it, someone might buy it and invest and develop it into something expensive, luring new dwellers on the perceived culture, only to drive out those very same people in the process.  The final product of detournement under a capitalist way of life, in a sense.

So far, the station did not seem to have even gotten to that second phase, if it ever would.

He saw no one, but there were structures all around.  All shuttered and dark.

In the middle, centered by pylons from all six walls, was a sculpture of children, floating together – feet touching, arms stretched out, hand in hand.  Around them was a sphere of hexagons, perhaps representing the station itself.

It was an interesting piece, he thought, and he found himself wondering who had lived here before its abandonment.

Checking the coordinates again, he saw they were very precise, showing him . . . a trash can.

It was on the ceiling relative to him, and he pushed off the nearest wall to approach the sculpture.

Inspecting the can as he approached, he saw that its vacuum, used to suck up trash without letting old pieces out, had long since been turned off.  It appeared to have been stripped of parts as well, leaving the device a mere shell.  But there were marks in the dust on it, showing that someone had opened the lid recently.

He got no signals that might suggest an explosive was inside, and reaching the statue, he pulled himself towards it by crawling over the sphere of hexagons.

Reaching the can, he carefully opened the lid.

There was nothing inside, and then an alarm was screaming in his ear.

He jerked his head and body back just as a rifle cracked, a bullet passed through the space where he’d just been.

His sensors had detected the muzzle pointed at him, and without even knowing where it was coming from he’d moved – only through sheer dumb luck had he moved in the right direction.

His system had triangulated the position of the shooter, but he’d lost his grip on the sphere.

Hooking his foot, he tried to pull himself away, but there was no cover here, and he was moving in a predictable arc, the next shot would be easy-

A swarm of drones buzzed around him.  Another shot rang out, and a drone burst apart as it took the bullet for him, showering him with debris.

Throwing his arm up to protect his face, he pulled his sidearm and prepared to aim, but he stood no chance against a swarm of drones, even if there hadn’t been a shooter.

But as he uncovered his eyes he saw that the drones were not here for him.

Rather than swarming him, they were moving between him and the shooter.

More shots popped off, but from the drones rather than his attacker.

They were suppressing a window with broken slats, and one crashed in through it, with flashes of light following.

It seemed that he had friends.

Grabbing back onto the hexagon sphere, he looked at the handful of drones that had stayed with him.  They had cameras focused on him.  His benefactor was clearly curious.

“Thank you,” he said.  “Who are you?”

They scattered, flying in all directions, save for a single drone – one with a line of gold on it.  The buffed metal strip was flawless, and it hesitated a moment longer before slowly moving away.

Looking to the window, he saw that the drones were flying back out, scattering and going off with haste through other windows, doors, tunnels, even vents.

But the gold-striped drone was still moving slowly, its camera trained on him.

Well, then.

He pushed off the sphere towards it.

“Lead the way,” he said.

---

< Ep 7 Part 41 | Ep 7 Part 43 >

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

---

“Wait!” Urle said.  But Short Circuit walked away quickly.

“Fisc,” Urle snapped.  “I didn’t think someone like him would know enough to be frightened by the alias alone . . .”

Kell was watching the man hurry away to a door that led outside.  He glanced back at them.

Urle rubbed his forehead.  “We need to move fast to find another broker before this guy tells on us.  We could get trouble then, Kell, of all sorts.  Or hell, maybe I’m just nuts.  Maybe this is a good sign that we should just let it go.”

He looked up.  “What do you think?”

But Kell was gone.

Urle jumped up.  Kell had been sitting on the inside, and without even disturbing the seat enough to be noticed, he had disappeared.

Whirling, Urle looking towards the door that Short Circuit had gone out, and then sprinted towards it.

Slamming the door open, he found himself in an alleyway between this bar and the next, on an elevated floor that was mostly empty.  Deeper down the alley, though, he saw movement, and he followed it.

Then he saw Kell.

“Don’t kill him!” Urle cried.

The Ambassador looked over to him, still holding Short Circuit’s body.

Urle’s scans suggested the man was still alive; electric activity in his body was still going, only at levels that suggested he was unconscious.

The man’s brain had gone out from oxygen deprivation, though why his electronics had likewise gone into standby was not as easy to explain.

“I have not killed him yet,” Kell said simply.

He let go of the man, letting him slump to the ground.

“Killing people for information is not how we do things, Kell!  This man has rights, he was a human being who-“

“Who was garbage, by your own words,” Kell said sharply.  “Who had a long list of crimes against others of his kind.  Even murder.  Is that not true?”

“You are not judge, jury, and executioner,” Urle said, standing his ground.  “That’s not how we work.”

“I thought you wished for justice and to save others.  Is this man’s life truly more important than those goals?” Kell asked.  “His mind is still mostly organic.  If I kill him then I can access it, as you could with the other man.  It is the easiest way to learn.”

“We’re not even sure that he’s involved in-“

“He is,” Kell said.  He pointed to the back of the man’s skull, where a metal implant stood out – just barely – as a slightly different shade of blue steel against the rest.  “This part matches the one you found at the store.  They are from the murdered man you wished to avenge.  He is involved.”

Urle moved closer, crouching, and touched the part.  His scans could not truly confirm that it had belonged to JaxIn, but it had been built to the same specifications, down to the batch of pigments used on the surface metal.  This was part of the same set – and it had recently had its edges cut to fit Short Circuit’s skull.

“This doesn’t prove that he knew it was stolen from a dead man,” Urle said softly.

“It bears marks that cannot be washed away.  Threads connect things, even after death, Zachariah Urle.  I can see it – whether you can or not does not change that.”

Kell pointed back out of the alley.

“Now leave.  I will make sure there is no body to find.”

Urle didn’t move.  “Like how you got rid of the Hev bodies?”

Kell was silent a moment, watching him.  Unblinking.  Urle felt his eyes water as the aura of Kell’s displeasure made itself known.

“Yes,” Kell finally said.

“What did you do with them?” Urle asked.  On some level he did not want to know, he was terrified to know, sickened to ask because he felt he knew, but the words were not easily said.

“I consumed them,” Kell told him.  “I had never consumed an alien species before.”

“Cannibalism-“

“Is normal among my kind,” Kell replied sharply.  “And these were our enemies.  You wish I should have left their corpses, containing poisons meant specifically to cause your kind a painful death?  I broke down their bodies, their poisons, and I learned from them.  On some level you can say I now understand their people.  And I can do that again here.  We will know exactly what we need to know, and we can prevent innocent beings from dying in the future.  If you believe this is still immoral, then I can only say that the moralities of our two people do not intersect.”

It was Urle’s turn to be silent, and Kell simply waited, showing no sign of impatience, still unblinking, still seeming a monster in human clothes.

“I won’t let you kill him.  And if he doesn’t store his data digitally then I can’t access it.”

Kell said nothing and walked out of the alley.

They were at a dead end.

Urle looked down at Short Circuit, wondering if the man’s life was really worth it.

He would go and report this to someone . . . but Kell had at least bought them a couple hours before that happened.

After a few moments of lingering, he went to the mouth of the alley, seeing Kell standing a dozen meters away, staring upward at the neon billboards.

Probably wondering why he even put up with humans, Urle thought.

A message popped up in his inbox.

It was, as far as he could tell, blank.  There was no sender, no original IP, only routing IPs – a lot of them, so many they became jumbled, useless data.

His heart beat faster.

The quality of this obfuscation was beyond him.  It was beyond anyone he had ever known.

It had to be the same person who had hacked into the server and made the openings in the defenses that they had used earlier.

Trying to be cautious about it, but knowing that any virus or attack someone this skilled might make would probably slice through him like he was made of tissue, he opened it.

STATION 247  |  DECK 19  |  COMPLEX 7

That was it.  Just text again.

But it might be the break they needed.

“Kell!” he called out.  “I know where to go.”

---

< Ep 7 Part 40 | Ep 7 Part 42 >

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

---

Urle made his way to a bar known as the Spacerport.

It was outside of aug territory, but close enough that a lot of the clientele were enhanced, and Urle felt a dozen active scans ping him as he came in.  A few focused on Kell, but finding nothing interesting, they gave up.

“Follow me,” Urle whispered.

Kell was on him closely as Urle moved to a set of steps and went to the next floor.

This floor was special, he knew.  Only important, wealthy patrons typically came up here – not a rule, but a custom.  Them, and people who wanted a favor from someone important.

He felt more scans, looking for weapons and traps on his person.  Kell was mostly overlooked, his lack of augments and weapons probably making him read as harmless, which Urle found grimly amusing.

A large man surrounded by cronies and beautiful women, along with a dozen enforcers and bouncers, were watching them as they went to a booth, Kell sitting on the inside and Urle next to him.  The guards did not even bother to hide their weapons.

It was not them that Urle wanted the attention of, though, and as they waited, their interest slowly waned.  He wanted another type of contact, and lone figures in shadowy recesses seemed to be picking up on that.

“Someone’s going to come sit down,” he told Kell.  “When they do, they will be a broker.  Let me do all the talking unless I ask you something, all right?”

Kell nodded.  And soon enough, a man joined them.

He was a short, ratty man with a thin face whose hair had been taken by radiation.  An aug, wires wrapped around his ears to ports on the back of his head, but aside from that his mods were hidden from sight.

He said nothing at first, merely sliding a card across the table to Urle.  It introduced him as Short Circuit.

Urle ran a search on the man, finding that he had been arrested before for information trafficking, extortion, assault, even a murder and a dozen other lesser charges.  Most had never stuck, despite a lot of evidence, and he’d only faced a few short stints in prison.

So he was connected, Urle mused.

“I need to find someone,” Urle told him.

Cautiously, he messaged Kell, hoping the being would actually pay attention.

‘Be careful.  This man is a real piece of garbage – list of crimes a mile long, including murder.  But he might have the info we need.’

If Kell saw it, he gave no indication.

Short Circuit was watching Kell, though.

“I know who you are,” Short Circuit told Urle.  “First officer on the Craton.  Not bad, you know?  But who’s your friend?”

“No one important,” Urle said.

Short Circuit clearly did not buy that.  But he did not seem to want to stress the point, and Urle felt something creep up the back of his neck.

A feeling of dread was spreading through the room, he realized.  The conversations were slowly growing quieter, until the entire floor seemed silent.

Was Kell doing this intentionally?

Urle glanced around, wondering if the people up here would know the source.

But no one was watching them.  Their nervous glances were at each other, at dark corners.  The heavy-set man with his many companions apparently had had enough, and rose to leave, his entourage hurrying along after him.

“I only have the alias of the man I’m looking for,” Urle said, hoping that Short Circuit wouldn’t run out next.

The man considered, then nodded.  “Price depends on who it is.  Minimum 100,000 credits.”

Urle nodded.  It was high, almost all of his external trade credits . . .  But he could do it.

“The alias is Ji,” Urle told him.  “He’s connected-“

The blood drained from Short Circuit’s face.

He stood, without a word.

“You’re a moron,” he said.  “Get back to your ship before you get hurt.”

---

< Ep 7 Part 39 | Ep 7 Part 41 >

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

---

The door closed behind Iago, creaking loudly and booming shut hard enough to shake the floor.

“Is anyone there?” he called.  Perhaps he’d just walked in to his death willingly, perhaps this was an airlock and he’d-

A dim blueish-white glow appeared from above.  He looked up, but his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, as it was too bright to keep his gaze on.

Someone stepped forward into the dim circle of light.

It was hard to see, but he appeared to be wearing a cowled robe.  It was made of something beautiful, likely true silk, but it was ancient – faded, fraying ends lending it a solemn sadness.

“I am so sorry for your losses, Iago Caraval,” the cowled man said.

“Who are you with?” Iago demanded, taking a step back.  The voice was familiar, he knew it – but he could not put a name to it.

The man reached up, pulling back his hood.  “Do you not recognize your shipmate, Iago?”

“Dr. Zyzus . . . ?”

Iago did know the man.  He was one of the chief doctors under Y, focusing largely on civilian medicine.  Iago had met him, but only a few times, and he knew nothing of the man.

“It was you,” Iago realized.  “You wrote me the letter.”

Zyzus nodded.  “Yes.  You have suffered greatly, my son, and I knew you needed comfort before you were lost.  But you need not suffer any longer.”

Others stepped into the edges of the light, their cowls still down.  They were varying heights, but he could make out nothing about them except that.  Their robes were the same faded, frayed silk that looked ancient enough to pre-date humanity’s ascent to the stars.

“Who are you people?” he demanded.

“We are the Esoteric Order,” Zyzus said.  “A faith dedicated to helping all who seek the wisdom and comfort of the Infinite.”

The name didn’t ring any bells, but Iago was hardly an expert on religions.

“I didn’t know you were a man of faith,” Iago said, trying to buy time.

Zyzus ignored that.  “All of us present have been touched by the Infinite, Iago.  It is something that brings great fear and confusion.  At times, it can be a gift.  At others – a curse.  But for good or ill, we have been changed by it.”

Iago found that his heart was pounding in his chest, so hard that he almost couldn’t talk.  All thought of suspicion was driven from his mind.

“The Infinite . . . you’re talking about Leviathans and tenkionic matter.”

“I am speaking of the Eldritch Truth, Iago.  We do not call it by the words of people who only theorize and calculate, but have yet to know it.  We have better words, better . . . understanding.”

He raised a hand.  “Iago, I know that you have been feeling that the knowledge you have learned will destroy you.  But I am here to tell you that it need not be so.”

“How?” Iago asked, his tone only a hair’s breadth from begging.  “How can I beat this?”

Zyzus’s face turned into a sad smile.  “You do not beat it, Iago.  You embrace it.  You must accept the truth of the cosmos, your place in it, and only then will you be able to bear its weight.”

Iago’s stomach fell.

No . . . No, he could not do that.  He could not . . .  He did not even understand what he had experienced, he only knew that it was true and that it was terrible beyond anything else . . .

“I understand your terror,” Zyzus continued.  “But the Infinite does not only take from us, or give us burdens.  So, too, can it give us gifts greater than we could ever hope.”

Zyzus’s words faded, and he stepped back, to the edge of the light.

Another stepped forward, and Iago’s eyes jumped between Zyzus and the new person before settling on the latter.

They reached up, their hands delicate, and before she even pulled back her hood, he knew who she was.

“Hello, Iago,” the woman said.

Her face was trepidatious, her words nervous, but Iago would always recognize the woman he had married.

“Cassandra?” he breathed.

She nodded, her chin moving just a fraction.  “I know it must be shocking seeing me here . . .”

“I thought you were dead,” Iago breathed.  He could not move, he was frozen, his mind nearly as paralyzed as his body, as hope and joy and horror and terror fought inside him.

But she was here.  She was real, he could tell.  This was not a trick, no illusion . . .

His eyes roamed what little of her was visible.  He saw the same creases under her eyes that he remembered, saw the small scar on the back of her hand from an accident with a knife, saw that her nails were still painted the particular shade of violet she had loved so much, whose edges always chipped off under her daily tasks.

“I did not die,” she said.  “I survived.  Thanks to the Infinite.”

“But where have you been?” he asked, feeling the tears now streaking from his eyes, his voice breaking.

“After the accident back home, I . . . I was not myself for a long time.  I became lost.  It was only when the Esoteric Order found me that I remembered who I was.  Who you were . . . and our son.”  Her voice took on an urgency.  “How is Elliot, Iago?”

“Elliot is okay,” he told her.  “He’s . . . he’s so smart, Cass . . .  Such a trouble-maker.”  He found himself letting out a laugh.  “Like me at his age.”

He saw the relief on her face and in her eyes, and he rushed forward to embrace her.

She was crying now as well, and for what seemed hours they could only hold each other in their arms and let the tears flow.

When she broke the hug, he saw that her face was serious again.

“Iago, it is only thanks to Dr. Zyzus that I was able to return to you.  You need to listen to him – to trust him.”

Iago was still reeling.  But if the man had truly helped bring Cassandra back to him, then he could not argue with her . . .

He looked to the man.

“Iago, come with me back to the Craton.  Do not worry,” he added quickly.  “Cassandra will come with us.  You can return, and your normal life will resume.”

“What will we tell them?” he asked.

“We will tell them the truth,” Cassandra said.  “There need be no lies.  We don’t have anything to hide, except . . .”

Zyzus smiled, but it was sad.  “We must not tell them of my involvement, Iago.  You know that the Sapient Union is suspicious of faith – should they know of mine, they will not allow me to continue my work as a doctor.”

That did not sound right to Iago, he’d known the religious, even clergy, to hold positions in the Sapient Union, they were only rare because such faith itself was rare anymore . . .

But he nodded.  He owed this man everything.

“I won’t tell them anything about you,” he swore.

Zyzus’s sadness turned to a quiet relief.  “Thank you, my son.  Now . . . there is more we must discuss.”

---

< Ep 7 Part 38 | Ep 7 Part 40 >