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

---

“Is someone else joining us?” Alexander asked, concern on his face.  He glanced at her, and she knew he was concerned not about another guest but that some kind of emergency would call her away.

But she had no warnings popping up.

“Yes,” Iago said as Cassandra went to the door.  “I meant to message you about it but I forgot, sorry.  We weren’t even sure if he’d be available, but we invited Father Sair to join us.”

Pirra wasn’t even sure who that was.  She took a moment, puzzling if the translation of ‘father’ was accurate.  If it was, who was he father of . . . ?

“Alexander, Pirra, I’d like to introduce you to Father Sair,” Cassandra said.  She seemed to be bursting with excitement and nervousness as she gestured to the man.

He was a tall young human male, light skin and hair, his eyes green.  He appeared younger than any present, which made the ‘Father’ appellation even more confusing to her.

His outfit was odd, too; almost everyone on a ship wore something that provided at least some protection against being vented, but this man just had crude brown robes on.

“Hello,” she said politely.

“Oh, hi,” Alexander said, sounding odd.  He stood and offered the man a hand.  He shook it, his face serene.

“I hope my presence is not an issue,” he said, a gentle smile on his face.

“No, I’m fine with it,” Alexander said, almost too quickly.

“I don’t mind,” Pirra said.  She really didn’t, but she did know she was missing something and hoped it would be set straight soon.

“Please, Father, sit here,” Cass said, gesturing him to a seat.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, taking the chair.  A lopsided smile crossed his face.  “This looks far better than what I typically eat,” he admitted.  “I never ate out much, as you might guess.”

Iago seemed amused, but Pirra did not get the joke.

“Father Sair is the one who Saved me,” Cassandra said, sitting down and just beaming at the man.

“Saved?” Pirra asked.  “Are you in something like Response?”

Iago cleared his throat.  “Oh, Pirra, Father Cathal Sair is a clergyman for the Esoteric Order, our faith.”

“Oh!” Pirra said.  “So Father is a title . . . ?”

“Yes,” Cass said.  “I’m so sorry, it didn’t occur to me to tell you . . .”

“It’s fine,” Pirra said, unbothered.  She looked at the Father.  “Is this a faith from ancient Earth?” she asked.  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about . . .” she trailed off as she realized she only had heard that the church was called the ‘Esoteric Order’, but not the name of the religion itself.

“Infinitism,” Sair offered.  “And it’s understandable – we are widespread but diffuse, especially in Sapient Union space.  Though most of our congregations are more than two,” he said genially, looking to Iago and Cassandra.

“Three,” Cassandra said softly.

“Two,” Elliot said.

It went quiet again.  Cassandra looked to her son, but she did not look angry, only slightly hurt.  Iago, however, looked angry.

“To finish answering you, however – yes and no,” Father Sair said.  “Our faith existed on ancient Earth though it was not known well.  But likewise we existed on other worlds . . . even Enope,” he said, smiling a little.

“It couldn’t be on Enope prior to contact,” Pirra said confused.

“Perhaps some would say that yours – and others – were only similar,” Sair continued.  “But in our eyes we see a continuation between species.  It’s very powerful to believe, isn’t it?  Perhaps as close as we could ever come to true evidence.  Though I am pleased to still accept the Infinite on Faith regardless.”

“Oh, all right,” Pirra said, unsure what to say.  Iago was looking at her, and she couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or just looking serious.  Hopefully she hadn’t been rude accidentally.

“I’ve been told that you’re somewhat spiritual yourself,” Sair continued to her.  “An ancient Dessei belief in wind spirits.”

“Er . . .”  Pirra’s crest flipped in sudden embarrassment.  “I wouldn’t really say that.  It’s an old faith, yes, but . . . to me it’s just a part of my ancient culture.  I can’t say I believe in anything supernatural or . . . on just faith.  I prefer to place my faith in my team and others around me.”

She wondered if her words were too standoffish, but Sair seemed to take them quite seriously.  “I can understand that.  Not everyone in the Dark is lost, after all.”

Pirra jabbed a fork into a larger piece of the fish casserole and then swallowed it.  She didn’t fully tilt her head back, but she heard Cass’s startled intake of breath as she did it.

Which, frankly, Pirra knew would happen, she’d done it for that purpose.  It was a power move in a way, and she felt a little annoyed at herself for doing it, but she was feeling somewhat put on the spot.

Sair, however, did not seem bothered.  Alexander was watching her, though, and she decided to try and calm herself before she got truly annoyed.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the conversation, and I know we’ve begun eating already,” Cassandra said, “but could you please say Grace for us?  Alexander, Pirra, I hope you don’t mind?”

“No,” Alexander said.

“Of course not,” Pirra replied, though she had no idea what Grace was.

“Aww, mom . . .” Elliot said, but then nodded and put his elbows on the table, holding his hands straight upward.

It seemed some sort of religious pose, and Iago, Cassandra and Sair all did the same.

“Let us give thanks to the Infinite,” Sair began.  “For it is the Infinite that has brought us together today so that we may live before we die.

Its subtle reach guiding our paths so that we may find each other in a dark and hostile universe.

Though the darkness ever encroaches, when we understand our place in Infinity, we possess an inner light that is undying even beyond its extinguishment.

Amen.”

He lowered his head, eyes closed, looking down at the table – which Iago and Cassandra mirrored, though Elliot looked at her while tilting his head down.  He looked annoyed and slightly bored.

Pirra found herself feeling uncomfortable – not with their actions, but the words themselves.

How horribly fatalistic it all sounded . . .

“Amen,” Iago and Cassandra said at once.  Then they lifted their heads, smiling.

“Thank you so much, Father,” Cassandra said emphatically.

“You do not need to thank me,” he replied pleasantly.  “I am pleased to do it – though you know that all of our words are equally lost within Infinity.”

“That sounds a little . . . grim,” Pirra said without thinking.  “The thoughts being lost, I mean . . . sorry, not trying to be rude.  I’m just not sure if I’m missing out on some understanding again.”

“You have it quite right,” Father Sair said.  “But surely you’d agree that the vastness of space dwarfs us all, yes?”

“Of course,” Pirra replied.

“Anything we do is insignificant in the scheme of the universe,” Father Said continued, his words serious.  “I am no more important – nor less important – than anyone else who exists.”

“So it’s sort of about equality?” Pirra asked.

“To some extent, though I would say the most important part is accepting our own insignificance.”

Pirra didn’t feel she had an over-inflated sense of her importance in the universe, but she also felt odd about intentionally viewing herself as insifignant.

“We are all tiny motes of light,” Cassandra now said.  “And one day we shall dim.  But we shall always exist.”

“I see,” Pirra said.  “I just feel like it could kind of . . . cause people to put their genuine needs aside in a way that is exploitative.”

“Pirra . . . perhaps let’s not talk about this now?” Alexander said carefully.

Father Sair put up a hand to calm Alexander.  “We can change the topic if you wish, but she’s not causing any insult.  I quite understand her questions.”  He looked back to her.  “You’re quite right, Mrs. Pirra.  But we believe that even motes of insignificance deserve lives of meaning and plenty.  Equally – we have no grand leader of our faith who sits on a golden throne . . .”

“Wearing a giant hat?” Pirra asked, hoping the joke would hit properly.

Sair seemed to get it, his eyes sparkling and a slight smile returning to his face.  “I don’t think we have any hats associated with our faith, now that I think about it.  Perhaps I could ask about getting one, though.  A beanie could be quite striking.”

“Father!” Cassandra said in faux shock.  “You’re being ridiculous again!”

He smiled more openly.  “Oh dear, I forgot for a moment how serious I should be.”

They both laughed, and Pirra decided that while she could not say she found his faith very . . . compelling . . . the man himself seemed all right.

“Let’s drink to friends,” Iago said, holding up his glass.

Alexander grinned and raised his.  “Sounds like a great idea to me!”

Pirra did as well, feeling a little more at ease, along with Cass and Father Sair.

“Saúde!”

---

< Ep 8 Part 31 | Ep 8 Part 33 >

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

---

The Glorians were obvious above all others – literally.  He grimaced as he saw the towering cybernetic warriors who called themselves Dreadnoughts, violent psychopaths by design.  Whoever had decided to include them in the Glorian diplomatic party were seeking trouble.

Next to them he did see unaugmented people, not insignificant in rank themselves.  He hoped they’d be able to rein in the murderous urges of their larger brethren.

He did not see any Gohhians he recognized; if Waites-Kosson or Xatier were present at the party, they were not around this area.

Walking in and taking a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, he sipped it lightly.  It tasted terrible to him, bubbly and sour but not at all with a kick.  The data tag on it informed him it was the height of fashion right now.  Merely an accessory – more for its pleasant golden color than for actual drinking.

A Qlerning nearby raised a hand in greeting.

“Captain-Mayor, we are very pleased you could have made it,” the being said, coming closer.

Brooks recognized him as Gleh Parvennakka of the Qhenber Theatre Troupe, and one of the principal actors of the upcoming play.

Offering his hand, Gleh shook it vigorously.  “We are so honored to have been invited to perform upon your vessel,” he said.

Brooks let the being continue to pump his hand, smiling easily.  “For our part we are very pleased to host you.  Your play has achieved great fame and I look forward to seeing it.”

The Qlerning paused for a long time.  “I hope it will meet your expectations,” he finally said.  “Excuse me.”

He seemed insulted, Brooks thought, but he wasn’t sure why or if he had inadvertently given one.

He’d had plenty of interactions with the species, but that didn’t necessarily mean a lot.  There were great subtleties and nuances to Qlerning cultures, and they were not a monolithic species; different Qlerning cultural groups had their own customs.

Putting that puzzle aside, he moved through the party.  He had no goal in mind, only to ‘show the flag’ in his own way.  The many guests – artists and capitalists masquerading as public officials, even high-ranking members of Gohhi’s security forces – all noticed him.  Some did a double-take.  The looks they gave him were, at best, ambivalent, and from many he sensed open hostility.  Even from some of the artists, he was sad to note.

But if one fed from the hand of a class of wealthy patrons long enough, eventually you accepted the interests of that class.

Finding himself near a drink table with actual human staff, he set his decorative drink down.

“Give me something actually for drinking,” he told the bartender.

The man nodded sharply and made something he did not recognize.

“Sunrise on Venus,” the man said with a smile.  “You’re gonna need it.”

“Many thanks,” Brooks told him, tipping his head and taking a drink.  Its strength burned, but he found he liked it.

A crash behind him made him turn.

A human server had, it seemed, been bumped into by a Dreadnought, who was glaring down at her.

Murmurs, laughter, and a few mocking claps came from the crowd as the waitress hurried to pick up the dropped glasses.  Drones were already zooming in to help.

Brooks walked over, kneeling to assist as well.  The young waitress was visibly flustered, and some of the glasses were rolling back off her platter as she tried to hurriedly put them on.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she murmured.

“You’re fine,” he said to her calmly.

“You don’t have to help sir!” she said as she realized he was there.

“It’s what anyone would do,” he said, glancing up.

Other guests near him were looking at him with disdain, but he glared back, daring them to comment on basic decency, holding eyes until they looked away.

When all the glasses were back on the tray, the young woman stood, her face bright red.

“A little stressful tonight,” she said with a lopsided smile.

“I can imagine,” he said.  “Good luck.”

She smiled and moved off, and Brooks stepped out of the way of a drone that was scurrying off, the floor now clean and dry both.

A shadow loomed over him, and he looked up into the face of the Dreadnought who had, he presumed, caused the incident.

“I took you for a servant.  But I see now you are a slave,” the cybernetic being said.

There was little humanity left in his voice; it rang with a metallic reverb, deeper than almost any natural voice.  He stood almost eight feet tall, broader than two men.  His entire upper body appeared to be armor or cybernetics, with only a portion of his face and head still human.

Brooks ignored his taunts.  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.  You are . . . ?”

The being let out a disgusted sound and looked away.

“There’s so few of your kind here.  I’m used to seeing you flitting about like so many peacocks,” he said.  “In your bright colors.”

“Yes, I know gunmetal gray is the default color of Glorian worlds,” Brooks replied.

Another man approached.  “Oh, if it isn’t our lonely Union man, Captain Brooks.”

He, too, was Glorian, dressed in a uniform far more flamboyant, though no less gray than the Dreadnought’s armor.

“Apparently you both know me, but I don’t even know who you are,” Brooks replied.  He met the eyes of the cybernetic hulk, letting him take the words as mocking.

If he was someone of note, Brooks would have heard of him.  Or at least he knew the Dreadnought would think so.

He growled again, leaning closer, menacingly.

“Your friend seems to have forgotten his words,” Brooks said to the other man, keeping his eyes locked on the Dreadnought.

“General Adarno is much more comfortable with action, Captain Brooks,” the man said, his smile turning mocking as he looked at the Dreadnought.  “I, on the other hand, am a man of words and action.  Praefectus Dogan.”  He offered his hand, which Brooks shook reluctantly.

“We may be enemies, Captain, but I have a certain respect for my worthy adversaries,” Dogan continued.

“Enemies are meat to be ground up,” Adarno growled, pitting Dogan with a glare of hate as intense as any he would give Brooks.

“We’re all meat if we get hit by a piece of tungsten moving at a fraction of c,” Brooks said.  Adarno snapped his gaze to him, and Brooks nodded.  “Apologies – meat or scrap.”

Dogan laughed, and Adarno turned away, pushing a startled Qlerning – and clearly holding back enough so as to not cause a scene.  His stomping steps turned more quiet, though audible through the silence that had fallen over the nearby crowd.

“They frankly should not let those brutes out of the house,” Dogan said.  “But they have their use.”  The man smiled to Brooks.  “I’m still surprised your people have yet to adopt their style of soldier in some capacity.  They killed so many of your people during the war.”

Brooks calculated his answer carefully.  It was true that Dreadnoughts, in a ship-boarding action or ground-action, could be spectacularly deadly, especially if they got close.  It took a lot to kill two tons of rampaging machine burning with an all-consuming desire to die gloriously.

“I suppose the numbers do look nicer if you don’t count your own losses of normal personnel,” Brooks replied.  “Or those killed in their ships.”

“All for Gloria,” Dogan replied, smiling again, and offering his drink up as a toast.

He did not wait for Brooks, but then quaffed it.  “Ah, the bartender makes a very nice Sunrise on Venus.  Much better than these frilly gold drinks, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t suppose Adarno is capable of enjoying those anymore,” Brooks replied.

“Oh, no.  For him only nutrient paste and ammunition,” Dogan replied with a laugh.  “He’d not have it any other way.  Luxuries only make you soft, in his eyes.  I am pleased to have a more refined palate.”

“Of which world are you Praefectus?” Brooks asked.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you what is public information, hm?  I am Praefectus of one of the worlds we liberated from the Ouo Ledori.”  He chuckled.  “We call it Hell, I forget their name for it – it doesn’t matter now.  It’s not the most pleasant place, but the work at terraforming continues.  It’s just a matter of freeing enough oxygen from the crust to form a breathable atmosphere right now.  A few more decades it will be a paradise.”

But not for the original colonists, Brooks knew.  The Ouo Ledori had been a loosely-associated collection of 287 systems, of which the Glorians had taken over fifty in a sublight war that had ended over sixty years ago.

“Let’s hope it will get to be enjoyed by all,” Brooks commented.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh.  We know exactly who we want to enjoy it and who is a dead weight,” Dogan replied.  “But by all means, wish for peace, land, and bread for the worthless scum if you want.  Maybe we’ll ship you some of them, and see how you like them, hm?”

“You wouldn’t have anyone left to carry you then,” Brooks replied.

Dogan’s smile was mocking and he drank again.

“Well, this has been pleasant, Captain.  Shall we do it again sometime?  No, don’t answer that.”  The man turned and walked away.

Brooks sighed and drank more of his Sunrise on Venus.  The bartender had been right; he did need it.

---

< Ep 8 Part 29 | Ep 8 Part 31 >

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

---

A Star Captain wore many hats and among them was diplomat.

Brooks had always known that, he was good at the game.  But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Star-eyed people imagined that being a Captain meant travelling to exotic places and making snap decisions under pressure.  The cynical thought it was all bureaucratic work, while others thought it involved brokering treaties of peace between worlds.

All those things could happen.  But most of the time diplomacy was simply being a face to represent your people at a place you would never want to go.

It was good to remind the intergalactic community that your government existed.  To remind them that you were watching them when they were conniving in the dark, or to reassure your allies that you were still taking an interest in intergalactic affairs.

It meant you had to rub shoulders with your most implacable enemies and see what you could learn about them.  To be the eyes through which effective policy could be created.

Which meant he had to go to a party.

After all, The Legend of Ussa and Usser: A Tragedy of Ancient Earth was an intergalactic sensation among those who were interested in humanity.  Therefore, that an event to honor the writer who created it and the actors who brought it to life would be held was a given, and an important place to be seen.

The peak of Gohhi society would be there – including most of the Lord Executives.

Diplomatic revenues from the Qlerning, independent arts guilds, and even the Glorians would also be present.

He had been dreading this more than anything else he’d faced recently – even his trial.  The stakes were not directly as high, but . . .

Well, no getting around it, he thought, as a drone brought his dress uniform.

The standard Sapient Union uniform was a functional suit, which doubled as a light spacesuit in the event of decompression.  A hood, hidden in a pouch behind the neck, could unfurl automatically to cover the head, while each joint was reinforced with accordioned, air-tight fabric to protect prime leakage spots.  Dark blue, a color-coded stripe indicated the department – command was a silvery gray.  And like every outfit, it had distributed electronics that interfaced with one’s personal system, monitoring their condition while also providing a wide suite of extra functionality.

The ceremonial dress uniform, in contrast, was not a functional spacesuit and was far more limited in its computing ability, robbing it of most of its intrinsic value.

On top of that, he found it ostentatious.

Few agreed with him on that point; it was in its own way an impressive creation, made to a level of perfection that even most spacesuits didn’t get.  Stripeless, the pattern was more of an hourglass in the chest and stomach that mimicked the outline of a jacket and shirt.  The area was filled in with a dazzling silver that appeared like liquid mercury, the surface often taken for actual metal rather than impressively-tailored smartcloth.

Numerous loops of golden braiding came down from the short epaulettes on the shoulders, and a row for commendations crossed the chest.

After dressing and letting the drones pin his various awards, he looked at himself in the mirror. Donning his cap, he checked that everything was straight, and saw that the dressing drone scanned him as being within code.

He set forth, towards the Captain’s shuttle bay that was near to both his cabin and his study.  The shuttle docked there was slightly larger than most, a show piece in itself, displaying the emblem of the Sapient Union.

“Captain departing the vessel,” he messaged Jaya.

“Copy that, Captain.  Hope you survive,” Jaya replied.

He smiled, knowing she dreaded the idea of having to do such events if she ever chose to pursue a captaincy.

The trip took most of an hour in the shuttle.  Its delta-v was low, but fortunately the event was being held on Gohhi Main.  It was still a trip around the station, but the lanes were clear and well-guarded.

He knew he was particularly vulnerable, if anyone actually cared hard enough to try to get him.

But those who wanted to would lack the means to breach the security, he thought.  And those with the means would not see him as valuable enough to risk the potential fallout.

The external cameras warned him of other pods and shuttles dropping off famous guests.  Queued up automatically, he patiently waited until his own pod was able to dock.

As he exited into the airlock, a drone butler greeted him.

“Welcome, Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” it intoned in a warm voice.  “We are very pleased you could have made it.  Are you alone this evening?”

His invitation had said he could have brought another if he wished.  He had not wished to do so.

“That’s right.”

“Please, enter in and be introduced,” the drone said, leading him in.

As he passed through the main gate airlock, he saw that the room was like an ancient ballroom; every wall and surface was made in the most intricate style.  Real wood from Earth had been brought in, though worked in new styles and techniques that made them stand out.

Along each wall were paintings and sculptures, human and alien.  A section of sweeping Dessei sculptures stood next to replicas of some of the great human paintings, and beyond them the more surrealist Qlerning art, which sometimes he did not recognize immediately as even being art.

Pulling his eyes away from that and to the guests, he took stock of just who he would have to spend the evening with.

---

< Ep 8 Part 28 | Ep 8 Part 30 >

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

---

Tred almost knocked on the door to Ham Sulp’s office.

He hated knocking; the act of physically striking a door seemed alarmingly violent to him, but occasionally people still did it, especially when a request for entry was going unanswered.

Which, Ham Sulp had kept him waiting over two minutes now.

Making up his mind to actually reach his hand up and rap his knuckles on the door, he froze in mid-motion as it opened.

He hesitated, and then Sulp’s bellow came out to spur him into action.  “Come in!”

Scurrying in, Tred looked around the cramped office.  It should have been spacious, but there were containers stacked everywhere.

Maneuvering around them carefully, he approached the squat man at his desk, who did not even look up.

“I’m here on behalf of-oh!”  He cried out as something touched his leg.  Looking down, he saw that it was the small ship terrier that they’d taken on a while back.

It had its front paws on his shin, looking up at him expectantly.

“She wants you to pet her,” Sulp grumbled.

“Pet her?  Does she bite, though?”

Ham Sulp put down his stylus to turn and give Tred a long glare, before pointedly turning back to his work.  “No dog I train ever bites.  Not unless I train them to bite.”

That did not reassure Tred much, but he obediently knelt, reaching down a hand for the dog to inspect.

She gave him a cursory sniff, then began to pant, her short tail waggling expectantly.

“Just watch out if she starts to lick you, she’ll never stop,” Sulp added.  “Now, who sent you down here?”

“Er . . .”

Tred had carefully arranged his thoughts, just what he’d say.  But he was distracted now, and all of his words escaped him.

He looked down at the dog.  Her name was Angel, his system told him.

She was making a disturbing amount of eye contact with him.  Keeping her eyes locked on his, she turned her head just slightly, and her tongue came out.

The appendage seemed to move in slow motion as it took a long, slow lick on his hand.  She continued to stare at him.

“I haven’t got all day,” Sulp said.

“Jophiel!” Tred said.  “Ambassador Jophiel, I’m helping her with . . . well, she wants to go see the Ussa and Usser play and . . .”  The dog was now licking him more, making his hand moist.  He pulled it away and she jumped onto his leg again, crying sadly.

Hastily, he put his hand back down, and she continued to lick him.

“And what does she need?” Sulp prodded.

“Oh, well . . . I’m making her a special drone.  So I have a list of parts I need to make it work . . .”  He threw the information to Sulp with a swipe of his hand, his system interpreting the motion and sending it to the quartermaster’s system.

“Drone?  You’re not a drone tech,” Sulp noted.

“I got my certification last night,” Tred said quickly.  “All my credentials are in order, and-“

“That’s rather impressive,” Sulp grunted.  “That’s a six-day course.”

“I worked all day on it,” Tred said.  And it was true; he’d gotten up at dawn and taken his test just before the chime of day’s end.

“Well, things do look in order.”  Sulp seemed almost disappointed, Tred thought.  “I’ll have these brought to your work station in fifteen minutes.  That work?”

“Oh, yes,” Tred said, relief flooding him to the point that he almost felt giddy.  But his face went back to bothered in a moment as he still felt Angel licking his hand.  She’d gotten his entire palm at this point, and worked her way around to the back of his hand.

When he did not move, though, Sulp frowned.  “Do you need something else?”

“Just . . . how do I get the dog to stop licking me?” Tred asked.

---

< Ep 8 Part 27 | Ep 8 Part 29 >

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

---

It was the same talking head news show she’d seen in the bar.  They had a still image from the bar fight at the Nozzle – of her.  She was standing, finger pointing, anger carved into her face.

It had to be from when she had been telling them she was from New Vitriol.  She was far back, the Response Team – Kiseleva included – were rushing over to help Jaya.

She had a hard time looking away from herself, though.  She had been so angry; her face, normally an unhealthy pale, was red and blotchy with her anger.  Her mouth was squeezed into an ugly sneer, still yelling out whatever she had been saying.  She could not even recall exactly what she’d said at that moment.

Trying to push past it, she turned on the feed.

The talking heads were appearing, floating around the screen, talking to each other, ostensibly different views, but all the same at the end of the day.

“. . . this crazy woman, Apollonia Nor is her name, she actually started a fight with a damn Dreadnought!”

“I don’t know if she’s crazy or just stupid,” another head said.

“Or high!” a third head said, popping up and floating across the screen.  “She looks like one of the mindshot junkies I saw down on Red Light Row last week who was offering to do some really crazy stuff for just ten credits.”

The second head smirked.  “Are we sure it’s not that lady?  She might just think she’s from New Vitriol!”

They all shared a laugh, and Apollonia felt her face burning.  Anger and shame – old feelings that she’d often felt in the past, bubbling back to the surface.

The comments weren’t new to her, she’d heard worse, said right to her face.  But now they were being said on a show viewed by how many billions . . . ?

She didn’t want to hear more, but couldn’t make herself stop entirely.  Instead she just skipped to a later timestamp.

It was no longer her on screen, but a view she had not seen personally but recognized immediately; Kiseleva on the boarding ramp.  The pimp, Daze, was still alive, not yet stepping past the line.

“. . . another crazy woman from the Craton.  The Union just pumps ’em out, don’t they?”

“Well, you know what they say about the sapeholes, they really let the wrong people run amok over there,” the second said.  They laughed, as if it was some kind of in-joke.

“I tell ya though,” the third head said, popping up again.  “She’s hella hotter than Nor!  I’d let her violate my rights any day, if you know what I mean!”

“I don’t know,” the second said.  “As much as I’d love to bed a gal that beautiful, I think I like my heart and spine intact.  She’s a literal heart-breaker, just ask poor Daze!”

“I’ve heard,” the first said, “that getting girls dressed up like her is getting to be a popular fantasy down in Red Light.  You know, after this, I might just head down there myself and see what-“

Apollonia stopped it, feeling sick.

She glanced at Kiseleva, who was still looking at the boarding Gohhians.

She didn’t look that upset, Apollonia thought.  How did she brush it off so easily?  As much as Apollonia felt used to a lot of vile things, this was too much even for her.

“Someone’s approaching,” Kiseleva said suddenly.

Apollonia felt her hackles rise again, and she snapped her head in Kiseleva’s direction of gaze.

The man was trying not to seem suspicious, but like the Response officer, Apollonia could immediately tell he was coming towards them.  He was trying too hard to seem casual.

As he came close, he suddenly put up his hand – Kiseleva jumped, towards him, while Apollonia away.

But it was not a weapon.  The man just had a simple camera.

“Officer Kiseleva,” he said loudly.  “Can we hear your side of the story?  For the people of Gohhi, howling for blood for the cold-blooded murder of Daze Allo – what do you have to say?”

Oh god, Apollonia realized.  He was paparazzi.

Kiseleva looked to her.  “Say nothing,” she said sharply.

The man whirled to Apollonia.  “And you, Ms. Nor, do you have any comment on the shooting of Daze Allo?  Are you two cooperating to attack the men of Gohhi?”

Apollonia felt her jaw drop, but she managed to keep from saying anything, closing her mouth with a loud click and looking away.

She was starting to feel light-headed again.

“Response Team to location,” she heard Kiseleva say.  “We have intruder aboard.”

“Are you going to have me shot the way you shot Daze Allo?” the man asked, seeming very unafraid for someone who thought that might happen.  “Can you show me the handgun you shot him with?  Is it standard Union issue or did you use a private weapon?”

He turned the camera on Apollonia again, she looked down and away, putting up a hand to shield herself awkwardly.

She heard boots approaching, the whir of drones, it had to be the Response Team coming-

A large shadow loomed, and she jumped slightly.  But looking up, it was not the Response Team or another paparazzi – but Cenz.

“Oh, hello!” he said, pushing himself between the man and the table.  The photographer tried to dart around him, but Cenz put one of his arms around the man’s shoulders, pulling him away.

“Let me go!” the man screamed, clearly ready for this.  “I am not violating any laws of the Sapient Union!”

“I’m afraid that you are disturbing the peace, sir,” Cenz said, sounding eternally pleasant, his electronic face smiling.  “But I will be happy to answer any questions you have!  Pertaining to the public areas of the Craton, that is.”

The man tried to squirm away, but Cenz’s grip was apparently like iron.  “Unhand me you fucking xeno!”

“I am afraid I do not have hands,” she heard Cenz say, his voice fading slightly as he dragged the man away.  “But let me tell you about what sorts of appendages my people do have . . .”

Kiseleva snorted out a laugh.  “I suppose I owe him another one,” she muttered.

Apollonia found it hard to laugh, or even really think.

Looking over, she saw that the Response Team had arrived, taking the man from Cenz’s grip.  He was still yelling about rights, drawing a crowd.  Some of the other Gohhians, looking as surprised as everyone else, snapped some images of the man as he was led away.

“Excuse me,” Apollonia said, rising from the table.

Kiseleva rose as well.  “Are you all right?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“I think I just need some quiet,” Apollonia told her.  Along with a nap.  And a shower.

---

< Ep 8 Part 26 | Ep 8 Part 28 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romon did not touch it, merely watching Y.

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

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

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

The door opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 24 | Ep 8 Part 26 >

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

---

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

Romon Xatier was an excellent liar, Y thought.

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

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

But it had become something he simply enjoyed.

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

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

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

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

Hardly enough to write a report on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 23 | Ep 8 Part 25 >

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

---

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

“Yes . . .”

She looked nervous and Urle could certainly understand that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daze is dead,” Urle told her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman nodded slightly, but still seemed stunned.

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

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

Kai leaned in.  “Too much trouble?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened after that?” Kai asked.

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

“To throw off the scent?” Urle asked.

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

“And did you just walk here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 22 | Ep 8 Part 24 >