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

---

Captain’s Log:

It seems that Trevod kept his word.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urle pinged at the door and Brooks let him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brooks connected to the Command Center, Jaya answering promptly.

“All is well, Captain,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 41 | Ep 8 Part 43 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” Brooks asked.

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

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

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

Brooks did not really believe that.

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

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

Would they do that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt he could tell just from her words.

“I believe you,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“No.  But I’m not sad.”

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

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

“What happened to the rest?” he asked.

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

“How did she get stabbed?”

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

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

She was quiet.  “It is.”

“Why did you not want to tell me?”

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

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

“Then we have amnesty?” Mae asked.

“Yes.  You do.”

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 39 | Ep 8 Part 41 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urle beeped for entry.

“Come in,” Brooks called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think there’s more to this?”

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t important at the moment, though.

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

Brooks trailed off, a new thought entering his head.

“Holdur knows something,” he realized.

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

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

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

So what did Holdur know?

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

“Captain,” Urle said.

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 38 | Ep 8 Part 40 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good, he thought.  He would tell him.

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

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

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

Yet now he knew he had been right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man swallowed.

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

Y said nothing.  He could not reply to that.

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 37 | Ep 8 Part 39 >

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

---

Gohhi station was quite the failure, Y thought.

This body he had chosen to take out was not his best, but it was inconspicuous.  With a cloak on, and with the sensor readings it gave off, most would take him for simply being a fully cyborg human, rather than an artificial organism.

Which was good; while Gohhi banned very few groups and no species, none here trusted AIs.

Perhaps because, he thought, they could make so many recommendations that would have made the place far more pleasant for those living here.

He certainly had already compiled a multi megabyte-long text file of just idle thoughts for improvements.  From grates designed with company logos that had poor air flow to the shapes of certain corners to their entire economic system.

The problem with creating a complicated system was that they achieved what they were designed for, he thought.  It meant you had to create a system that actually had the goal of common health, prosperity, and happiness in mind.

This business of enriching individuals at the expense of society, of placing them all in constant competition with each other, was simply a waste.  There were more than enough difficulties in the universe that it was silly to create more.

Of course, biological beings often had priorities that were not purely logical.

But looking at the people he passed, who suffered still from ailments that could be cured but to which they could not afford the cure, to the malnourished who could not afford healthy foods but instead cheap, high-calorie food, to the homeless who sat without safety or privacy or dignity while there were available homes, he truly could not fathom their logic.  Only exploiting loopholes in the evolved mind that bypassed their conscious thought, training them from an early age that this is what the perfect society looked like, allowed they be convinced that improvements were against their own good.

Ah, well.  He could not change it at this moment, so for now he simply had to observe and record.  One day, and it would not be long in coming, he calculated, using biological history as a basis, it would change for the better.  The only question, really, was how much blood would be shed when the poor working people seized power.  Their histories were rife with examples of bloody reigns of terror as the horrors of the capitalists came to light, but also cases of extreme generosity where the selfish class were re-folded into society and turned into actually productive members.  It largely seemed to depend on just how bad the wealthy let things degenerate before they were overthrown.

Judging from Gohhi, though, he rather expected it to be bloody.

Normally, he would not have even ventured out onto a place like this.  His general helplessness in the face of the horrors seemed an unnecessary suffering on his part.

But perhaps today he could do good.

The secret invitation had not been a surprise to him, but he had been elated to get it all the same.

Romon Xatier, it seemed, wished to speak with him one more time.

Perhaps the man was worried that Y had spilled his secrets.  The Sapient Union was patient, but if the chance presented itself to arrest a member of the hated bourgeoisie, they would jump at it.

Though, more likely this was a petty power move, Y thought.  Romon had come onto the Craton twice, now he wanted Y on territory he controlled.

The structure seemed to have been a high-end business complex that was now empty.  Y saw in the register that it was owned by a trading firm.  Twelve steps up the line he saw that Romon was the actual owner.  It took him twelve seconds to work through the levels of obfuscation, which meant that no one else probably realized its true owner unless they really wanted to look deeply.

Scanners above the doors pinged him, checking his ID and violating that supposedly all-important Gohhian principle of privacy, since it was a moneyed firm.  The doors opened and he went in, passively scanning the environment.

Despite having been empty in excess of four years, the foyer had been cleaned regularly.  There was no dust nor signs that it had ever accumulated.

Polished marble floors – actual stone rather than just replicas – and desktop surfaces were likely attractive, though to him they were simply needless excess mass.

There were many doors, but a red light above them all showed that they were locked – all except one with a green light.

He went through it, then down more halls and elevators, following the green lights.  Everywhere, the building was lit, furnished, cleaned, as if people would come in at any time and start working again.

Perhaps it was intended to be unsettling.

On the third floor, Y came to the largest office, complete with a waiting room before it.  It was of the sort he knew the manager of a capitalist operation would often be found, and so of course it was where Romon would be.

Y entered.

Romon was sitting behind a desk, reading from a tablet.

“Ah, Doctor.  I am pleased you could make it.”

“Indeed, a change in venue was entirely what we needed to keep our conversations interesting,” Y said cheerily.

Romon raised an eyebrow.

Yes, Y knew it was a low-brow commentary.  But meeting Romon’s gaze with his own unblinking optical sensors, he dared him to comment on it.

Romon declined to do so.  “Please sit, Doctor.”

Y took the seat.  It was formed for a human, and he was notably taller, but it functioned.  He did not need to sit, of course, but he did not care enough to refuse.

“I would offer you a drink, but I know you do not.  Is there anything I can offer you?  A recharging socket, perhaps?”

“I am quite fine,” Y said.  “But we can dispense with such affectations and reach our true topic.  I am a doctor and on-call, after all.  It would be most unfortunate to be summoned away in the midst of a quip.”

Romon smiled, looking genuinely amused.  “You know, I find I quite like you,” he said.

“A bald-faced lie,” Y commented.  “You are fascinated by me, but you are also horrified by me.  Your sense of superiority is highly threatened when you speak to me, but your ego insists you can ‘best’ me.  Only because you do not yet accept that I am playing with you as you might with a child.”

“You do have a way of cutting to the quick, doctor,” Romon said.

“I told you that I may get called away.  I simply do not have time to bandy on the usual games.  Perhaps you should come visit me on the Craton again.”

“Why?  Are you afraid to be alone with me?  Even with the sensor suite I know you to possess, you do not know if I have weapons or assassins hidden.”

“Immaterial.  I am a digital organism and even if this body was destroyed or incapacitated my backup would soon activate.  I would lose a few hours of time at most.”

“Quite true.  And yet – you still believe you are an individual being, don’t you?  And not merely a machine that can be copied.  Why, couldn’t you theoretically be copied endlessly and the universe would be blessed with billions of Doctor Ys?  I wonder, do you think they would all think themselves the original?”

“Oh, interesting.  You have realized the door exists and peer through the keyhole,” Y noted.  “Yet you still miss the point.  The same might be said of you, Romon Xatier.  I could clone your data and make a billion copies of you.  Would they all be individuals?”

---

< Ep 8 Part 36 | Ep 8 Part 38 >

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

---

A cold, cutting wind sweeps across a land of snow and ice.  People stand together, looking the same in thick cloaks and furred caps, rallying around a large man.

The People:

Usser!

We are hungry.

We are cold.

We have no homes and war with our neighbors still rages!

Usser:

My brothers and sisters,

All looks grim.

But now is our finest hour.

We are hungry but we will have bread.

We will make it with our cold and pained hands.

We are cold but we will build fires.

Even though we are tired.

We have no homes but we will build them from wood and stone.

We did not ask for war, but we will have peace.

The People:

Usser!

How can you ask us to do these things?

We are too hungry now,

We are too cold now,

We have no homes now,

And the enemy is at the gates.

Usser:

We must do these things.

We have no food and no one will feed us.

We are cold and no one will warm us.

We have no homes and no one will build them.

Except us.

But we do not toil alone.

We toil together.

And with every step I shall be walking with you.

From now until my dying breath.

The people cheer.  The work is hard, and many die of hunger, of cold, of war that they did not want.

But they conquered the hunger with the grain they grew.

They conquered the cold through building homes for all.

They conquered war through peace and solidarity.

Where none would give it to them, they took peace, land, and bread for themselves.

*******

Brooks yawned deeply as he entered his quarters.

He had just returned from the formal event, which had dragged on for another three hours as many there had gotten increasingly drunk.

He’d felt obliged to stay at least as long as Klezul Hoshe.  Qlerning manners made that quite clear.  Once the playwright had left, the guests had continued to celebrate, and probably would go on long into the night.

It had been his chance to escape, though, and during his trip back had written a report on all he’d seen and heard.

Once he’d come back aboard, Jaya had volunteered to continue the watch, for which he’d been grateful.  Her report had indicated that nothing much had occurred, save for a few attempted Glorian drone fly-bys.

“They were quite sedate for the time you were in transit.  I believe they did not want to risk their fly-bys being seen as an attempted attack on your shuttle,” she had told him, to both of their amusement.  No matter how much the Glorians thought themselves better at war, in practice they knew they had to respect the fighting prowess of Union ships.

Changing out of his dress suit, he picked a comfortable outfit for sleeping that was an acceptable suit in case of decompression.  It didn’t matter that his cabin was deep in the ship and the Craton was in safe harbor.  Some habits were immortal.

Perusing his messages, he saw an update from Urle, but it was marked as non-urgent.  He gave it a glance but resolved to answer tomorrow, but as he was about to close out for the night he got a notification of an incoming call, marked as high-level and important.

It was Trevod Waites-Kosson.

Biting back a curse, he turned on just audio.

“Ah, Brooks, excellent,” Trevod said.  “Just the man I need, I did not want to speak to a flunky.”

“What do you want?” Brooks asked, letting just a hint of his testiness slip in.  He was not at the man’s beck and call.

“I hear you were at the party tonight?  I didn’t want to take too much attention off Hoshe, so I did not go myself.  Of course, I can’t say his works interest me much.  Though you caused some stir, I hear, with that old archeologist, hm?”

“If this is a social call then I will have to be going,” Brooks replied flatly.

His cheek did ache slightly where Nadian had punched him, but he’d treated it on the way back so there’d be no bruise.

“No, not really.  But I admit I was entertained by what I heard.”

“All right, well good night, Waites-Kosson.”

“Ah, ah!  I do have something worth talking about.  You’ll be getting the official orders in a few hours, but you’re going to need to be turning over those three criminals you’re sheltering tomorrow.”

Brooks mind raced.  Criminals . . . ?

“You mean the women asking for asylum?  Do you understand what that request means?  You can’t have them.”

“Oh, Captain,” Trevod said, his voice mocking.  “I knew you would say this, but who are they seeking asylum from?  Their employer they claimed was out to get them is dead now – at the hands of one of your officers.  And in their escape – which violated their contracts, I might add – they killed two people.”

“Who are they accused of killing?” Brooks asked carefully.

“Baro Jett and Earl Thompson, two others working for their deceased employer.  They were found with their throats slit in the establishment where they had worked.”

The whorehouse, Brooks knew.  Where they’d been tricked and forced to stay with Baro Jett and Earl Thompson being the muscle that kept them in line.

“Regardless of the present state of the threats to their person – which we feel are still valid – they are also requesting economic asylum.”

“Gohhi does not recognize that claim, Captain,” Trevod snapped back.  “Just because your people think-“

“They are on my ship, and they are not leaving,” Brooks said.

“We do not have a death penalty – so they can have their fair trial here, and protection from whatever imagined threats they can come up with.  This won’t hold up, Brooks.  They committed their crimes on Gohhi – and that is truly the crux of the matter.”

Brooks’s heart was pounding now.  The man was turning these women into unwilling bartering chips, it was obvious.

“I’ve already spoken to some of the other major families, Captain.  We’re prepared to push on this – it’s a case that matters.  There’s a lot of concern that this might catch on and we’d have a flood of unhappy employees trying to murder their way out and then claim refuge on visiting Sapient Union ships.  This Daze fellow was an independent entrepreneur, but we all have investments in the sex entertainment field.  We stand to lose a lot of product.”

“You piece of shit,” Brooks snapped, his temper finally breaking.  He’d spent too much time around these selfish, vile people and this was finally the last straw.  “These are people, not products!”

“You don’t need to get so annoyed, Captain.  I’m doing you a favor here, letting you know about this ahead of time.  I am but the messenger, the official documentation will be brought by the lawyers later.”

Brooks had fought down his anger, but he counted it as a blessing that the man was not actually present.  The temptation to take rash action might be too strong . . .

“Well, anyway, Captain, I hope to hear back from you soon, I’m sure that between the two of us we can come to some sort of deal that-“

Brooks terminated the call.

It seemed that sleep was going to have to wait.

---

< Ep 8 Part 34 | Ep 8 Part 36 >

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

---

Brooks was surprised to hear the name of the famous archaeologist, turning again to see the man as he approached.

Farland’s face was weathered, his bright blue eyes set in a rough, handsome face.

The man was famous throughout known space; the Dr. Farland who had found the ruins of lost civilization on Tenoch VII, rescued lost relics from rapacious hoarders in border space – and a thousand other tales too tall to believe.

Yet, here in the flesh, Brooks found himself believing that the man could have pulled them off.

“Captain-Mayor Brooks,” Farland said, regarding him in such a commonplace way that Brooks found it refreshing.

Brooks offered a hand, getting a firm grip in return.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Captain,” Farland said.

“And I about you,” Brooks replied.  “Though stories, in any case, often have only a grain of truth to them – good or not.”

The man nodded, and glanced to Xatier.  “Romon,” he said.  He sounded sour.

“We meet again, old friend,” Romon said with a sneer.  “Only this time there is no bad blood between us, I hope?”

At Brooks’s quizzical look, Farland elaborated.  “Romon Xatier was the intended recipient of a great deal of antiques that had gone missing from a dig site on Xiphos.  I helped make sure they ended up in a museum instead of his private collection.”

“I was as surprised as anyone to learn they were stolen, of course,” Romon replied, his mocking smile making clear the lie.  “And I am most grateful to Dr. Farland for setting the matter straight.”

Brooks nodded, but then Romon continued.

“Captain, you’ve been to Xiphos before, haven’t you?”

Brooks froze for a moment as he realized the trap.

He turned again fully to Romon.  “That’s right,” he said.

“And what was the work you were in at that time?  I believe you were a . . . freelance purveyor of goods, yes?”

Brooks could feel the glare and shock from Dr. Farland on the back of his head.

“You don’t need to sugarcoat it,” Brooks said calmly.  “I was a smuggler there, long before I joined the Union Voidfleet.  I made two runs to the planet as first officer of an expedition to find lost artifacts to sell on the black market.”

He turned to look at Farland.  “We have an unfortunate connection then.  Though I’m glad I never encountered you or anyone else – I wouldn’t have wanted to fight for thieving from a dead civilization.”

Brooks felt a strange calmness within as the trap closed.  Perhaps Romon had thought to upset him, and he had certainly managed to make Farland angry; the accusing glare from the man said more than words.

“I didn’t figure the Union would hire grave robbers,” Farland said.  “I guess I rated them too highly.”

“They didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.  But I am not going to beg for forgiveness, anyway.  The civilization there are all dead – there was no one to suffer the indignity of having their culture stolen from their hands.”

“Do you think robbing those tombs is justified by the fact that they’re gone?” Farland demanded.

“I think that I, and the others with me, needed the money, and that was one of the few options we had that didn’t involve hurting anyone living,” Brooks replied.

“Fattening your pockets, huh?  Well, hell of a thing to be proud of.”

Brooks finally felt his anger rise.  “You say that as if people only ever need money for the wrong reasons.  That was not our situation at all – it’s not the situation of most people out here.  We needed money to simply live, and thanks to the greed of people like Mr. Xatier here, honest work did not provide that.  So when it comes to a choice between my people starving or robbing the dead – I would make that choice again without hesitation.”

He saw the fist coming, but did nothing to avoid it.  Farland’s punch hit his jaw like a freight train, and Brooks saw stars, stumbling.  Gasps and a single cry came from the crowd as people saw the attack, but Brooks did not fall.  Standing back upright, he met the man’s eyes.

“I’ll give you that one, Doctor,” Brooks said calmly.  “But if you try another then you’ll have to earn it.”

A woman came hurrying up.  She was beautiful, notably younger than any of the three, and she put a hand on Farland.  “Nade, what’s going on?” she asked.

Farland was still glaring at Brooks, and Brooks kept his gaze locked with the man, feeling that his anger had evaporated.

He was not proud of everything in his past, but he could not change it, either.  And he’d had good reasons for what he did.

“It’s nothing,” Farland said, turning away.  He let the young woman lead him off, her fussing while he said something that made her smile – though concern remained in her eyes.

“This evening has gotten more interesting than I anticipated,” Romon said, smirking still.

Brooks looked at him like the vermin he was.  Movement past him caught his eye, however, and he looked past Romon to see the Qlerning playwright, Klezul Hoshe, approaching.

Qlerning expressions were often very hard for a human to read, but the concern of the alien seemed quite obvious.

“Are you all right, Captain-Mayor Brooks?” the being asked.  “I saw Dr. Farland assault you . . .”

“Just a minor disagreement,” Brooks said with a smile.  “Nothing to concern yourself about.  But I am pleased to get a chance to speak with you, Master Playwright.”

The Qlerning bowed humbly.  “As I am to speak with one of your reputation.”  The being leaned closer and spoke in a whisper.  “These Gohhians are insufferable . . . walk with me, we can do each other a favor.”

Brooks grinned, for the first time the night not feeling an outcast.  “I’d be glad to.”

---

< Ep 8 Part 33 | Ep 8 Part 35 >

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

---

Two hours into the night, and Brooks realized there were not enough Sunsets on Venus to make it tolerable.

He’d stopped after two; even with an enhanced liver and kidneys the alcohol could only get filtered so quickly, and the last thing he needed was to get drunk and tell the Glorians or Gohhians his full thoughts on them.  Wars had probably been started over less.

He’d seen Klezul Hoshe, the writer of Ussa and Usser several times, but the being was always surrounded by such a crowd of people waiting to speak that he’d drifted away.

The crowd did not seem to be growing thinner, however, and with growing irritation at the people who did not even know how to queue properly, he filtered into the group, moving towards the being.

But the wealthy seemed to have no grasp of letting others in, which he felt was probably a metaphor for reality.  Deciding he’d wait a little longer, he moved out of the group again.

Few people here wanted to speak with him, it seemed; upon seeing his uniform, face, or probably both, most people turned their backs on him.

Still, he was certainly making the point by being here, and keeping a calm smile on his face the whole time he knew would annoy those who were watching him.

“Captain Brooks,” he heard a deep voice say.

Turning slightly, he saw Romon Xatier standing near him.  He was wearing a well-tailored black suit, his undershirt the same shade and his tie a dark red that barely stood out against it.

“Mr. Xatier,” he said.  “I did not think you were present – I had not noticed you.”

“I arrived late,” Xatier replied.  “Only fools wish to be at these events a moment longer than necessary.”  His lips went into a slight smile.  “But who could pass up the opportunity to speak to as famous an artist as Klezul Hoshe?”

Brooks could agree with that.  “He’s had quite the crowd around him all evening.  But in his culture the later he speaks to someone the more honor they do him.  It implies they’ve been waiting.”

“Even if they simply show up late,” Xatier continued.  “You should see events on Ngoash.  They never even start until three hours after their designated time.”

“Ah, have you been there?” Brooks asked, finding that unexpected.

“Unlike many of my contemporaries, I have been all over the known galaxy,” Xatier told him.  “I saw enough of it to last me two lifetimes.”

“And yet you came back here – I am surprised.  Gohhi may be a hub of known space, but it’s hardly a garden spot.”

“Unless you have money,” Xatier said, smiling slightly again.  “And then it is true freedom – an eden in hell.”

“Wealth is just a prison of its own,” Brooks commented.  “You’re as trapped as anyone else in such a system – you just get more creature comforts.”

“Spoken like someone who knows nothing of wealth,” Xatier replied.  “But you are certainly consistent in your views, Captain.  I hear that you spoke quite frankly to Trevod Waites-Kosson, and I admit a certain admiration has grown in me as a result.”

Brooks wondered how word of that had spread – certainly Trevod would not have spoken too frankly about their conversation.

“My thanks,” Brooks said, feeling the polite words were necessary.  “I am afraid I know too little about you to offer a sincere compliment.”

“Oh?  Dr. Y has said nothing?” Romon asked.

“He is legally bound not to,” Brooks replied.  “And he is an honorable being.”

“Honor or programming?  I am as yet undecided which,” Romon replied.

“If you think Y is just a complex calculator, you’re just denying the evidence,” Brooks said.  “He’s more alive than most people I meet.”

“He certainly is a complex being.  But whether he truly experiences reality as we do is something I am difficult to convince of.  Does he feel?  Does he have faults?  Or is it simply all very quirky, intelligent stimulus response?”

Brooks shifted, facing the man fully.  “I’m not sure what you’d like as evidence, really.  A receipt saying he felt angry or sad, printed out from his torso?  The Sapient Union accepts his species as being truly alive in a meaningful sense.  Even if you are not in agreement with all of our principles, that has to carry some weight.”

“If only it did,” Romon replied.  His eyes travelled past Brooks then.  “But perhaps we can get another opinion.  Tell me, Captian, have you met Doctor Nadian Farland?”

---

< Ep 8 Part 32 | Ep 8 Part 34 >