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

---

“DAD!”

“DAAAD!”

The two girls crashed into Urle, and he laughed, stumbling back slightly to cushion their impacts.  He didn’t need to, but it was better for them not to ram into unmoving metal and carbon plates.

“Girls, I missed you so much!” he said, sweeping his arms to encompass both of them.

“Daad, you’re squishing me!” Persis squeaked.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, letting his grip relax a little.  It was actually rather hard to make himself do it.

He didn’t want to let go.

The girls began to regale him excitedly about all the things they had done while separated from him; studies and drawings and anecdotes, interesting and mundane, and he listened intently, taking in every aspect of his children.

They had grown, he could tell.  It had only been a few weeks, but they were both a millimeter or two taller.

He hated that he’d missed any of that time.

But they were back now, at least.

“. . . so that’s why I drew a big slug instead of a puffer slug, but Professor Browning said that maybe I should do my report on something with a spine so I asked him if it could be something with a nodochord, and he said yes so that’s why I chose a salp.  I think he wanted me to pick something more like a mammal and not something squishy but- Elliot!”

Hannah dashed over to her friend, who was hanging back near the large doorway to the docking hangar.

Urle was glad to see her excited to see her friend, and Persis wiggled free from his grip, too, to go join them.

He decided to hang back, though, watching his girls chatter to the boy who seemed to be just as pleased to see them, though trying to hide it to some degree.

As he saw the children talking, he felt much of the tension that had been torturing him for the last few days start to evaporate.  The nightmares might not come tonight, he hoped.  He’d born them as well as one could bear the memory of dying, but a respite was certainly welcome.

They were all home, he told himself.  They were all safe.

---

Pirra rubbed her forehead and then signalled for Kessissiin to enter.

The Dessei walked in like he was on the parade ground, turning sharply once in front of her desk and snapping smartly to attention.

“At ease, officer,” she told him.

Kessissiin relaxed marginally.  “What may I do for you, Commander?” he asked.

He was so damn eager, she thought, irritated by it even though it wasn’t really a bad thing.

“I have taken time to thoroughly look into your past accomplishments,” she told him, holding her tablet in front of her, as if looking at his file.

She had at least attempted what she had said.  Her contacts back in the Dessei Republic had looked into Kessissiin . . . but it was difficult.  She was known there for being the daughter of the great Solon Maara, but she did not want to make her investigations too obvious to her mother.

They would trickle back to her mother no matter what, but Pirra didn’t want it to be easy.  But such caution meant that she had learned little.

Except that Kessissiin was just as he seemed; a very fine soldier.

His record was, honestly, almost too good.  A greater soldier could hardly be conjured in the imagination of a propagandist, and he had the perfect features to make him worthy of a recruitment ad.

It all seemed too good, but she couldn’t separate out her suspicion from her real instinct here, and there was no reason not to accept him.

“I hope my previous accomplishments meet your standards, Commander,” Kessissiin said.  She could tell his pride in them by his stance, his crest.

“They speak volumes,” she said neutrally.  “But I have a question.”

Surprise made his crest bob, but he regained his composure quickly.  “What is that, Commander?”

“You are a temporary transfer officer, Kessissiin.  In five months you will be rotated back to the Dessei Republic Fleet.”

He was silent a moment.

“Yes, that is right, Commander, my transfer is temporary,” he said.

“So how do you view your assignment here?  A path in your career?  An interesting experience?”

“Neither of those, Commander,” Kessissiin said sharply.  “May I speak frankly, Commander?”

She dipped her crest, giving him permission.

“If I may be so presumptuous, Commander, I believe I understand your reluctance in appointing me to your team.”

“You do?” she asked coolly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said immediately.

There was an earnestness in his voice and his crest that gave her pause.  “Go on,” she said.

“I admit that I was . . . unaware of the actions behind the scene that prompted my appointment.  When I was first introduced to Councilor Tallei, I only viewed it as a great honor.  Yet upon seeing you meet him, it was clear that you have a distrust of your brother’s motives – and therefore mine.”

He snapped to attention.  “But I promise you, Commander, I have no goal in mind but to do my duty.  To my ship, to its crew . . . and to my team.  I am a Response Officer, and we do not play politics.  We save lives.”

Pirra felt her heart race at his words, stirred by the strength behind him.

Skies above, she believed he meant them.

She took a deep breath, rising to her feet.

“I am pleased to hear that, Lieutenant,” she told him, extending a hand.  “Welcome to Response Team One.”

---

Apollonia collapsed onto her bed, letting out a breath.

She was so tensed up that relaxing was painful; muscles in her shoulders, back, and legs flared sharply as she let herself sink into the mattress.

It was pleasantly cool; it always seemed to be the right temperature, even when she was under the blankets.  Probably some kind of smart cloth or some shit like that.

She wanted to just fall asleep, the last few hours having drained her of all strength.

She was too tired to even reflect upon all that had just happened.  It kept playing, but she wanted to ignore it.

She’d seen a criminal nearly kill two Response Officers, killed a man herself with her goddamn mind.

She had read people’s minds.

She’d always wondered why the Union called her kind ‘Cerebral Readers’, but there were so few of them that it was a poorly-understood phenomenon, and she hadn’t really wanted to read the reports that did exist.  The idea seemed rather creepy.

Before all of that had even happened she had exercised her damn guts out, to boot.

Oh, and she’d read minds.

The sheer idea of it was staggering, and she had never had an experience like it before.  She’d been trying to think if there had been a time she had felt something similar, but was coming up with a blank.

Maybe she was just too tired.

She didn’t feel sick or anything anymore, not unnaturally drained of life.  Just tired.

Tomorrow she would just stay in and do nothing.  Surely Kiseleva would understand that . . .

Her eyes closed and she began to drift towards sleep – but jolted awake.

Oh, yeah, she still had other things to do.

Responsible things like changing out of her sweaty clothes, putting her laundry in the cleaner . . . eating . . .  taking a shower.

All of that seemed like too much.

“Computer, do I have any messages?” she asked.

Zeela Cann had told her she should check them, and it seemed the easiest sort of thing she could reasonably do.

Slowly pulling herself upright, she started to undress, kicking off her pants and debating if she wanted to just take the nearest outfit or go get the most comfortable.

“You have twenty-seven unread messages,” the computer said.

“Wait, how many?”

She hadn’t had any when she’d left this morning, and at most she was expecting one or two, from the ship’s newsletter or something.

“Who are my messages from?” she asked, dragging on the nearest suit.

“One from the ship newsletter.  Two are maintenance updates.  One is your daily caloric count – Dr. Y recommends you increase your healthy calorie intake, rather than your chocolate intake-“

“What about the rest?” she asked, interrupting.

“The remaining letters are from individual senders, via care of the Abmon Diplomatic Bureau.”

Her heart beat faster.

They were replies?  To her letter?

She got up, sealing her suit and double-checking it as all good spacers should, and went to the computer terminal.

Yes, twenty-three responses there, from Golgutt.  All Abmon . . .

The first was from He That Crushes The Pebbles, the next from The One Who Walks Swiftly, another from She Who Eats The Clouds.

She glanced at one, then the next.

They were all family or friends to He That Squats on Yellow Sand.  Ones who knew him and ones who didn’t, all of them with the same theme.

Thanking her for her letter, for one last chance to know one last memory of Squats on Sand.

Apollonia put her hand over her mouth, for the first time today feeling the tears begin to come.

---

FINIS

---

< Ep 8 Part 51 | Ep 9 Part 1 >

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

---

A groan came from Romon Xatier, his legs giving way beneath him.  He fell to the floor heavily.

Y kept his grip on Jan Holdur, but snapped his head to the man, summoning another wave of medical drones as he scanned him for the issue.

The man had just had a massive stroke.

More Response officers were aiming their sidearms at Jan Holdur now, and he let the man fall.

Holdur had not touched Romon.  He was certain of that.  He scanned deeper, unsure what the cause of the man’s stroke was.

He moved to his side, scanning deeper, seeking life signs.  The drones arrived, one swooping in to give the man a shot of a gel that would stabilize the damage in his brain, capturing the errant blood.

But Y could tell it was already too late.

Romon Xatier was dead.

---

“Jan Holdur is no longer a danger, Captain.  He is alive, but I have paralyzed him from the neck down.”

Y’s words were delivered in his normal, cheerful voice through the video comm, but Brooks felt his head spin.

Less than a minute ago he had been awoken with news of what had just occurred.  He’d only been asleep half an hour.

Jan Holdur broken free, now paralyzed.  Two Response officers injured – and Romon Xatier dead.

“How are the Response Officers?  How is Apollonia?” Brooks asked.

“Regori Gill is undergoing a minor operation right now that will repair the damage to his arm – he will need one month of convalescence before he can return to duty.  Lalan Fah will require only one week – while he had multiple micro-fractures, they will heal quickly.”

Y tilted his head.  “As for Apollonia Nor, she is calm.  She suffered no injuries.”

“Just trauma,” Brooks said, eyes closing.

“I believe she is handling it well,” Y replied.

Brooks took a deep breath, collecting himself as much as he could.  This situation could balloon out of control – it might be even as they spoke.

“And Xatier could not be saved?” he finally asked.

“I am afraid not, sir.  The damage to his brain was too severe.”

“And you said it was a stroke?” Brooks asked, struggling to sort this out.

“I know that is extremely rare, Captain, but it can be explained by a previously undetected blocked blood vessel bursting in his brain.  I’m afraid that once the injury is that severe, there is no way to save the person’s life without instant reaction on a surgical table.”

It made no sense.  The man’s wealth surely meant he would have had the best in preventive medicine, Brooks thought.  And a blocked vessel like this would be easily seen by simple scans.

“There is a very important detail I must add, Captain,” Y said.  “Jan Holdur’s restraint suit did not fail – it was interfered with.  In Romon Xatier’s pocket I found a device that sent a signal to disrupt the suit and disable it.  It is not ours – this technology bears the hallmarks of Gohhi, and used a brute-force method that our technology would not have needed to use.”

“. . . you’re saying that Romon unleashed Jan Holdur?” Brooks asked.  “Why the hell would he do that?”

“I do not know sir.  I was hoping you might have an idea,” Y admitted.

Brooks’ mind started to see the twisted logic behind it.  The Lord Executives must have decided Jan was too much of a liability.  It would be convenient if he died in Union hands – a propaganda victory of incredible value.

“Can we prove that this was his doing?”  Brooks asked.

“The evidence is all there, but there can always be the claim that we faked it.  We can provide endless evidence of this, and it will not matter.”

“Send me your preliminary report,” Brooks said.  “I have to contact the Gohhians.”

“Captain,” Y said.  “I believe I can help.”

---

Ten minutes later, Brooks sent off the message.

Y had, indeed, proven invaluable, his report to Brooks essentially half of the response in itself.

To [insert the name of your contact here, Captain],

At 23:39 hours aboard the SUS Craton, Romon Xatier released the dangerous prisoner Jan Holdur.  Two of our officers have been injured.  Holdur has been disabled but remains alive.

Possibly as a result of the brutality of the attack, Xatier suffered a fatal stroke.  Due to the severe nature of this incident, a full medical exam of his brain will be required to confirm cause of death.  As the damage largely left his memory intact, we will also perform a deep scan to find the cause of his actions.

You will want to examine his brain as well, to confirm our findings, which you will find to be accurate.

Brooks attached all of the data they had of the incident, showing the events, and the scans of the device Holdur had used.

Then he added his own embellishments, turning Y’s simple description of what he had to do into a sword waiting to plunge.

The words above are what my Chief Medical Officer has written.

This is what you will do; the guilt will be found to be on Xatier, as is the truth.  Neither you nor any news source you control will claim this was an attack by our side.  Accept this or we will perform the deep brain scan of Xatier and learn everything he knew – and if you thought Holdur talking was bad, then let us see how much worse it will be to learn every secret Xatier held.

Brooks considered if this was what he should say.  It was a terrible risk.  He ran the numbers on known Gohhian behavior and predicted outcomes.

He was giving them a bargain, letting this go to waste.  They could check Xatier’s memories, learn every dirty secret he knew.  In death, being the clear cause of this violence, they had every legal right.

Would it outweigh the political fallout of the Gohhians claiming it was an assassination?

He did not know.  But that would be an economic war that would almost certainly bloom into the real thing.

It would ultimately result in the liberation of the people of Gohhi, he thought.

It would ultimately result in millions if not billions dying or being displaced, and economic damage that reached across known civilization, probably alienating many neutral powers.

They would surely believe the Union had caused this.  The caustic lies of the Gohhian media apparatus was masterful at spin.

He sent the message.

Then he waited.

He checked if he could reach Trevod Waites-Kosson, but all possible methods of contact were shut to him.

Forty minutes later, he had a response.  It was signed by Trevod and by the current Lord Executive of Holdur Conglomerate.

All conditions agreed.

Brooks felt his head swim in elation.

Will return Holdur and Xatier’s body shortly, Brooks replied.

He sent it, then staggered back to his bed and lay down, looking at the ceiling.

---

< Ep 8 Part 49 | Ep 8 Part 51 >

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

---

Apollonia did not feel like she was in a bad shape anymore.  Yet she felt dizzy all the same, and was nearly leaning on Kiseleva as they went.

She noticed a handful of Response officers, but Kiseleva said something that let them move past.

Then, they saw the group travelling down the hall.

She recognized the rich prick at the rear walking with Y.  She thought she’d seen something about the man in the restraint suit being guarded, but she couldn’t recall what.

Y’s attention snapped to her.

“Please stand aside,” he said.

“Doctor,” Kiseleva said.  “Apollonia is having some kind of episode.”

Y hesitated.  “I can summon Dr. Zyzus to assist you,” he said.  “I am very sorry, Nor, but I am distracted with another important task.”

The rich man smiled.  “I do not mind you tending to a special patient, doctor, if you wish to pause.  I give you permission.”

“I didn’t know it was a bad time,” Apollonia said, glancing at the rich prick, wondering what his game was right now.  “Go on, I’ll talk to the Zyzus guy.”

Y hesitated – she’d never seen that in him – then stepped over.  “He is summoned, but I will take a moment to be sure you are healthy enough to wait.”

He bent over, matching her height perfectly, peering into her eyes.

“She entered a fugue state and then became very weak,” Kiseleva said quickly.  “She was exercising hard, but the medical readouts were highly abnormal.  I’ve never seen brain patterns like what they read.  I quadruple-checked them with my Response scanners and local scanners to rule out mechanical malfunction – but all seems to be correct.”

“. . . I am seeing very unusual activity,” Y admitted.  “Apollonia, how do you feel?”

“Just a little dizzy,” she said.  “And noodly.  You know, weak.”

“A perfectly appropriate analogy,” Y replied.  “Did anything else occur?”

Apollonia hesitated in saying.

How did you tell someone that you think you read another person’s mind?

Even as she thought about it, she felt her consciousness slipping.  A vague memory of falling asleep with her parents awake, watching the television and talking softly came to her.  The memory startled her more than her own drifting consciousness.

She heard the rich man talk, this time to Kiseleva.

“You’re the one who executed the pimp, aren’t you?” she heard him say.

Kiseleva said nothing, ignoring him.

“Your shot was impeccable.  Your bullet pierced both his heart and spine.  Death was inevitable after that.  But I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Be quiet,” she heard Kiseleva say.

“Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?”

“Be quiet,” she repeated.  “It is not a request, it is an order.”

“Nor?  Nor, are you all right?” she heard Y ask.

She could not muster the energy to reply.

Then all hell broke out.

A yell of alarm, then a sound like a mallet striking a side of beef.

Apollonia felt snapped out of her trance-like state at the noise, opening her eyes in time to see one of the Response officers being sent flying into a wall like he weighed nothing.

Jan Holdur had broken free.

The other officer raised his sidearm, but was unable to even get a shot off as Holdur grabbed his arm, snapping the bones like they were nothing.

The officer screamed, but brought his other hand up in a blow that staggered Holdur.  Holdur shoved him back, tumbling into the wall, where he fell onto his broken arm.  Agony, like electricity, shot through him, and Apollonia felt it.

Everything seemed to slow down then, as she felt Y push her away.

It was for her own protection, she realized.  Because Jan Holdur was turning already to look at her, and she felt his desire to kill her.

Kiseleva was reaching for her own sidearm, turning to face the man, but she was moving too slowly.  Holdur already had the initiative.

Then she saw Y moving, faster than any being she’d ever seen, faster even than Holdur.  He was a blur in her vision, darting forward.

Holdur’s eyes began to move towards the new threat, but they were not fast enough.  Y’s mechanical hand thrust inwards unerringly, taking the man by the shoulder.

He was sent into a spin, twirling towards the wall.  Even in the strange slow motion she was feeling, she saw how the man’s whole body was pulled along, ripples through his skin, as Y brutally slammed him into the bulkhead wall.

Then Y’s other hand slammed into his back, on his spine.

The man’s eyes bulged momentarily, his vision going glassy.

But despite the shock and drama of it all, her eyes were pulled away from him, like light pulled into the event horizon of a black hole.

They fell on Romon Xatier.

She barely knew the man.  He was obviously some rich asshole, but she didn’t know who the big players were on Gohhi.

But her earlier reading of him had not been nearly deep enough.

He was not a thing of the Dark.  But he was as close as a man could get.

She felt she was falling, but in slow motion, her body still barely moved back, but she couldn’t even feel the sense of terror one felt when they felt themselves going down.

She could only stare into the man, a swirl of feelings and fleeting images.

Into his mind.

It was not like she would have guessed.  She had scarcely believed that she had just read a mind earlier, and it was not an open book that she could peruse for specifics.  Instead it was a jumble of id and ego and superego – or however one wanted to describe the mind – all at once, playing on different layers, blurring into one another.

Images, half-formed and grotesque popped up; Y, somehow flesh and blood, bleeding.  A broken old man gasping for air as blood bubbled from a gaping hole in his chest.  A woman – no, several women, different yet all blurring into one image – dying or dead.  Among them she saw her own face.  Kiseleva’s.

He felt such joy in each image of suffering, but they were not quite enough – never quite enough, not the Platonic perfection he was so desperate for.

All of it unclear, like an unfinished clay sculpture, the details not set, even still slightly fluid.

Dreams, hopes, memories.  She could not tell one from the other, but she knew this:

Romon Xatier was a killer.

He had done this.  She felt the satisfaction, the feeling like he had just struck some just blow against Y and the Sapient Union.  Felt, through his own hand, the device he had just activated.  It had cost so much, been given to him by . . . someone, but she didn’t know who the man was, and like all the other images he was blurry and unclear.

He had deactivated the suit that kept Jan Holdur under control, done it in the hopes of . . . what?

She felt her body hitting the floor, felt pain shock through her, but her mind’s eye fixation on Xatier did not falter in the slightest.

She sifted, felt – saw herself.  Or at least, saw herself as Romon saw her.  A pointless puppet, only acting at being human.  A random woman, but a soft spot for Y.  Dull, ordinary, just a target.  A tool for striking at an opponent that he secretly feared.

Yes, the fear was there.  Eating away at a part of him like a cancer.  It was new, unfamiliar, and he hated it.  He’d never felt afraid before.

. . . kill her, you fool . . .

. . . smug machine, your turn to be humbled . . .

. . . show me red, please I want to see the blood so much . . .

His thoughts.  She heard them like whispered words, talking over each other.

This man is a monster, she thought.

And she felt the shock course through him as she thought it.

Until now she’d been only feeling, with little internal monologue.  But she realized now that whatever was happening, she was not just viewing.  She was projecting as well.

Her own feelings began to surface, no longer fully lost in Xatier.  She felt dirty, disgusted to have even touched someone like him. 

His emotions began to turn more fearful, shocked, her emotions bleeding into him, an unknown force he could not control or explain.

It’s me, she thought.  Apollonia Nor.

The person you thought was just some meaningless hollow puppet.

She felt him react to that, shocked, his head turning towards her, still in this strange slow movement of time that she existed in.

Y’s blow against Holdur had sent a splatter of his blood flying and a drop grazed Romon’s cheek as he made eye contact with her.

She felt a surge inside.  Rage, hate.  A desire to lash out at this man who had actually thought he could kill her just to hurt her friend.

You’re a monster, she thought again.

But you’re far from the biggest one here.

Her emotions burst to a climax, and her own vision seemed to fly into him, a sound that was part roar and part primal scream ripping through his mind.  She felt the physical meat that was him ripping, shredding apart on the smallest scale.  Blood vessels bursting, neurons firing and then melting.

His fear had reached a level like that of an animal in the jaws of a predator, and she knew now, for the first time with certainty, that she was that predator.

On some level she’d always known she could lash out and hurt people.  She had done it, without even meaning to.  Or meaning to, but not admitting it, like on New Vitriol.

During the battle against the Hev, after Squats on Sand had died.

This thing had come out of her, and it had killed.

Now, she finally used it consciously as a weapon.

Romon knew it was her.  Knew that this was the result of his own plans and desires.

She made sure he knew that.

And made sure he knew that he was about to die.

---

< Ep 8 Part 48 | Ep 8 Part 50 >

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

---

“The restraint suit is operating normally,” Y said.

The two Response officers from Team Two nodded, their sidearms drawn all the same.  When the door opened, if Jan Holdur had been freed, he could probably kill them both before they could get them out of their holsters.

Y still marvelled at the level of augments the man had taken on.  They were hand-crafted, assembled with atomic perfection.  None of it was revolutionary tech, not beyond the Sapient Union’s ability – in some ways less elegant and functional, such as having the platinum woven in.  But the singular cost focused into one individual was equivalent to the productive wealth of entire worlds.

It was not about practicality.  It was about sending a message.  For one man to have so much effort put into him made him a monument to self-gratification.

Holdur was watching carefully, his eyes moving between them, gauging his ability to strike if given the chance.  There was no sense that he viewed them as anything more than targets, which Y found an incredible feat of mental conditioning.

Y kept his attention focused on the suit.  The man had been systematically testing it during his stay here.  Y knew he could keep him under control, but there were weaknesses in any restraint suit, and it was possible that he could exploit those and break free if Y did not pay attention.

Behind him, Romon Xatier stood quietly, the man chosen by his class to observe Holdur’s transfer.  The irony was not lost on either of them, and Romon was smiling smugly, not watching the officers and prisoner, but Y.

Y had scarcely acknowledged him.

“Opening door,” Y said.

There was no loud hiss or drama as the door opened.  The two Response officers moved to flank it.

“Get up,” one said to Holdur.

The man smiled darkly.  He rose.  His motions were stiff, half-controlled by the suit.

As he came out of the cell, two drones came in, attaching to his arms, helping to move them behind his back and link them together.

The officers stepped in, checking the man, preparing him for moving.

“I insist that we remove the restraints,” Romon said.  “He is not a common criminal, but a man of great wealth.”

“His wealth has no bearing here,” Y said.

Romon stepped closer, his voice a soft hiss.  “Could it be you are afraid of what will happen, machine?”

Y knew he did not mean what would happen with Holdur.

He did not reply, focusing on his work.

“It still boggles the mind to think that your captain viewed those three women as equal in value to Jan Holdur.”

“Three to one seems a favorable exchange, if one were to erroneously believe it was a trade,” Y replied absently.

“There is no need to hide the truth.  I cannot speak of this to others, or else it would break the privacy of our conversations – and you could speak freely.  It serves us both no good to lie.”

Y was silent again, and Romon continued.

“There are billions of women like those three.  But the Holdur Conglomerate has only two heirs.  Such a silly waste, really.  He’s a fool, but one day he’ll grow up and learn.  I will help him on that path, you need not worry.”

Y turned.  “Excuse me, Mr. Xatier, but you will have to step back.  We are preparing to move the prisoner.”

“And what a dangerous one he is, if you are to be believed.  If only I could have brought my guards in,” he said.  “Ah, but I suppose they would be of no defense against one so terrifying as Jan Holdur.”

He said the last words almost affectionately, and loudly enough to be heard by the room.  Y saw how Holdur perked up, almost puffing with pride.

The man had not been an intended puppet, Y knew.  But he practically worshipped Romon Xatier, and now, with even a little praise and a smile, he was gleefully a pawn again.

But more than that, Y knew that everything Romon was saying was a pre-admission of guilt.

He would kill again.  He would kill with his own hands.

“Women like those three die every day in Gohhi,” Romon said, his voice quieter again.  “Sad, but true, wouldn’t you agree?  They have chosen lives that are difficult, but it has to be someone’s lot, society argues.”

Y knew he was being goaded, and he decided he would rise to this bait.  “To say they chose is erroneous, when the other choice is death.  And only some societies normalize such things.”

Romon spoke again, the cold rage behind his eyes coming out for the first time.  “There’s nothing more you can do, you know,” he whispered fiercely.  “Whatever will happen will happen.  Even if there is bloodshed.  But do not be sorry, you have simply reached the edge of your abilities, Doctor.”

The two Response officers began to move Holdur.  Y transferred his work to a tablet and prepared to follow them.

As the official liaison of the transfer, Romon followed.  They trailed the man by three meters, reasoned a safe distance.

“I predict at least one whore will be murdered tonight.  Perhaps many more – the anger against their kind has risen to a fever pitch after what those three did.  It’s so sad, yet it is the natural result of their actions.”

His voice dropped lower still.  “If only you, Doctor, were powerful enough to stop it.”

Powerful enough, Y knew he meant, to stop him.

---

< Ep 8 Part 47 | Ep 8 Part 49 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Kiseleva said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for her other qualities . . .

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

She looked back up at Kiseleva.

“What now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could she outsmart it again?  Trap it somehow?

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

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

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

Stars seemed to be swimming in her vision suddenly.

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

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

She had no idea just what she was seeing.

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

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

No voice, at least.

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

Then it was gone, and she felt wholly different.

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

Herself, she realized.  She was seeing herself.

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

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

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

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

. . . medical drones on their way . . .

She was seeing through Kiseleva.  Hearing her mind.

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

It felt strangely obvious.

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

She gasped.

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

“I’m fine,” Apollonia mumbled.

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

“What happened?” Kiseleva asked.

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 46 | Ep 8 Part 48 >

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

---

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

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

Ussa:

What is the noise outside of my window!

Advisor, I bid thee go and see.

Who would dare to disturb me at my rest?

Advisor 1:

It is the people, my Queen.

They gather in droves.

Advisor 2:

They come to mourn!

Advisor 3:

They come to storm the keep!

Ussa struggles to sit up.

Ussa:

You are all fools!

Why should my people mourn?

I suffer only a momentary weakness that shall soon pass.

Why should my people storm the keep?

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

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

Advisor 1:

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

Ussa:

Blast your eyes!

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

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

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

Put their heads on pikes along with the other fools.

The other fools . .  and Usser’s head.

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

Ussa:

Guard go to the window and tell me!

Do you still see the skull of Usser?

Tell me quickly, for I . . .

For I feel my strength fading.

Guard:

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

and whose head you placed yourself upon the rusted pike

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

I do not see such a skull, my Queen.

It is gone.

The people have taken it down.

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

with a newfound fondness.

They collect to celebrate, my queen.

Because they know your strength has left you.

And soon it will be your turn to moulder.

Ussa:

Begone!

Foul wretch, how didst thou ever join my guard?

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

The guard laughs.

Guard:

Ussa, you have no more power.

You ruled through fear.

Even I feared you and was loyal.

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

But now you die.

A new dawn has come.

And who will mourn for you?

Ussa lays back in her bed, unable to speak.

Outside, she hears people singing.

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

The world sighed – in relief, not from sorrow.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because a Qlerning is writing about human history?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Greetings, Ambassador.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

“It was amusing,” Kell said.

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

“I am aware,” Kell said shortly.

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

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

“Do Shoggoths work much differently?” Urle asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it came to Kell, nothing ever seemed normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He drank the brandy.  It was still cold.

---

< Ep 8 Part 44 | Ep 8 Part 46 >

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

---

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

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

Tred’s eyes widened.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hello Tred!” the drone said.

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

“Ambassador, try talking again,” he said.

“Oh, hello Tred!” she repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

“We’re going to be late!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So we’re fine.”

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

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

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

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

But when off-duty, that was another story.

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

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

But damn it!

---

< Ep 8 Part 42 | Ep 8 Part 44 >