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

---

As the vehicle began to roll away, Trevod watched it with disdain.

For all he’d given that little man, Brooks had talked to him like he was an inferior.

He could not say he’d ever experienced that from someone so much lower than him, and he felt the urge to tell his men to put the Captain out the airlock without a suit.

Ah, but as much as he would like that, it would not be worth the trouble.

He told himself that, at least, while his insides squirmed.  Because he knew, ultimately, that if he did that, he would be signing his own death warrant.

Money did not stop bullets, did it?  And that was all he truly feared.  Someone actually coming for him who could not be bought off.

Here, he was a god.  In the Sapient Union he was just a person, and it terrified him to think how close he could skirt to his own destruction just with a whim.

A stablehand approached.

“Would you like to ride back, sir, or shall I have a car brought for you?”

“I’ll ride,” he snapped, seizing the reins the man offered.  “I may ride all day,” he said.

The man bowed deeply, but said nothing.  Trevod wanted to lash out at him, but took some deep breaths.

“And what of Rebel, sir?” he asked.

Trevod looked at the horse.  He was beautiful, perfectly trained for guests, but he did not think he’d even want guests over again for some time.

“Get rid of it.  Sell it for food, I don’t care.  It’s been sullied and I want it out of my sight.”

*******

On a cold winter day, fires roar in Ussa’s hall to keep the chill of winter at bay.

The doors to the crowded hall burst open and a mighty man enters, flanked by an entourage of strong and sturdy men and women, dressed as equals.

Herald:

Who is it who enters the hall of Ussa the Proud and Free?

Who trods in as if an equal to the one who has no equal?

In the name of Queen Ussa,

Strong of limb, fair of face, who can be held by no chains,

I demand an answer.

Usser:

From a far-off land I have come to bring greetings and solidarity

to Ussa and her people proud.

Even in our distant land we have heard of her and her deeds

Of her bravery in overthrowing the tyrant Breon.

My people, too, have thrown off the shackles of slavery and taken their fate

into their own hands.

Ussa:

Who are you, cousin?

We have not yet heard your name, though you stand in the warmth of my fire.

Usser:

I am Usser, leader chosen by my people, who have seized all that produces and proclaimed it for the common good.

We come in friendliness to your people and bear gifts of hope that the red fires of change will bring us all good futures.

Ussa:

You are welcome then, cousin, to my hall.

May the people throw up great cheers in your name, for you are clearly a brave people.

As for King Breon, he yet lives.

In my mercy I did not slay him, but he serves me now.

Ussa gestures to an old, confused man, dressed in rags and chains, serving as court jester.  He sits on a mockery of a throne, attended by children whom he thinks are his subjects.

Ussa:

You see how he pretends to still be a king when he is my pet?

It amuses us to keep him, and is rightful justice for all that he has done that he should now sink so low.

Usser and his people seem bothered by this, but do not say anything.

Usser:

Perhaps such a fate is fitting for a failed king.

Our own and his line met as quick an end as could be found,

For we see no need to keep them alive as trophies.

But come, cousin, let our people meet and mingle and spread joy amongst each other!

Usser’s people move to mix with Ussa’s.  Soon, there is drinking and singing and merrymaking.  Usser seems quite pleased, but Ussa soon grows more and more angry.  She beckons her advisor and speaks to him quietly.

Ussa:

Usser and his people are beloved by my people.

Could it be that they would come to love him more than they do me?

Would my people forsake me and send me to a fate like I have sent Breon to?

A mere pet, a puppet of flesh that serves my interests.

Advisor:

They are nothing compared to your grandeur, my Queen.

You see how their clothes are plain?

Their hair unadorned?

Their hands stiff with callouses from work?

Ussa:

You speak to compare them to me, and it is true – they are not as grand as I!

Yet my people’s clothes are plain.

Their hair is unadorned.

Their hands are stiff with callouses from their labor.

Perhaps in time they will come to see Usser as their kin more than I.

For they have more in common with each other than they do with me!

The Advisor had no wisdom to give.

Ussa:

Your silence speaks volumes!

You disgust me with your ineptitude.

But I know what I shall do.

We must not let Usser’s voice be heard.

Advisor:

How will we do that, my queen?

He speaks the language of the toiling man.

As you say, he too works and so they have this in common.

Ussa:

We will spread poison.

Spread lies of his misdeeds.

Tell of his follies.

Tell my people of their grandeur, convince them that Usser is not like them.

But a bumbling caricature that they should be shamed to be like.

And then, even when there are similarities they will not see them.

They will look upon their brother and hate him.

Advisor:

My Queen, you wish to manipulate your people with lies and poison?

Is that not dangerous?

Will our people not become fools, unable to see their own noses in the confusion this will bring?

What will we do when we do not have one man among us who can see or think straight?

Ussa’s face, cold and beautiful, beheld the advisor like an enemy.

Ussa:

They will have no god but me.

They will love none but me.

I am Ussa and they are mine.

Now and forever.

---

< Ep 8 Part 21 | Ep 8 Part 23 >

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

---

“They look authentic,” Brooks commented, glancing back at them.

“Ah, yes, you’re from Earth, aren’t you, Captain?”

“That’s right,” Brooks replied.

The man clapped his hands together.  “Well, I’m glad I can get a chance to meet you.  I had not thought it would happen so easily, to be honest.  We’ve got quite a lot to talk about!”

“Such as?” Brooks asked, putting his hands behind his back.

“Well, our friend Jan Holdur for starters,” Trevod said.  “But tell me – have you ever been horseback riding?”

It was an unexpected question, but Brooks took it in stride.  “A long time ago,” he admitted.

“Do you remember how?”

“I expect I can manage,” Brooks replied dryly.

“Good!  You see, I had it on my itinerary that I was going riding, and I just don’t see why we can’t do something pleasant while we talk.”

Brooks agreed only grudgingly – though, he had to admit he would like to see a real horse.  He hadn’t seen one, or ridden one, since he was a child, before the Ring Collapse.

“All right,” he agreed.

“Excellent.  My valet will take you to get fitted for your clothes.  I’ll meet you at the stables in twenty minutes.”

Another butler drone appeared, imperiously telling Brooks to follow.

It took him to another room where a third drone scanned him, then provided him with a riding outfit that he frankly found ridiculous.

“I’ll keep my uniform,” he told them.  It would be sufficient.

When he was taken out to the stable – which was a true historical creation.  Putting his hand on the wall, he could tell it was made of actual natural wood.

It had to cost a fortune, he thought.

But then, this man had his own space station.

“Ah, Captain!  Oh, you didn’t change?” Trevod asked, riding up, turning his horse at the last moment so it nearly hit him.

Brooks did not shy back.  He had only known horses from childhood, but he’d known other animals.

“I’ll ride fine in this.”

“You know, the horses don’t much like the smell of spacesuit oil, but . . . suit yourself.  Bring his horse!”

It was an actual human stablehand who brought out the horse.  He did not make eye contact with Brooks as he handed him the reins, and then offered cupped hands to help him up.

Ignoring that, Brooks moved towards the horse’s head, speaking softly and reaching out to stroke its neck to put it at ease.  It was extremely well-trained, though, and clearly had been made to get used to strangers, as it seemed to accept him fairly easily.  Then, waving the stablehand away, he put his foot into the stirrup and jumped up.

It wasn’t elegant, but he mounted by himself, leaning in to pat the horse’s neck again.

“What’s the horse’s name?” he asked.

Trevod seemed caught off-guard by the question.  “Rebel,” he said.  “But that’s not important.  He rides well.  You’re lucky, Captain – I don’t let most people ride him.”

Brooks did not want to agree with the man, and simply nodded, but he did feel lucky.  The horse was beautiful and powerful.

On another world he’d ridden varnia – a useful, if highly willful animal that few even knew the origin of.  They’d been spread among the stars before humanity had even left their atmosphere, and adapted to worlds quite different from their original planet.

Wherever tech was at a premium or wasn’t suited, varnia could be found used for transport or carrying cargo or any one of a hundred tasks.  Even eating, if you could stomach them.  Their flesh was mildly toxic to humans when raw – though Dessei preferred it that way – but cooking it would denature the poisons enough to tolerate.

The main difference between them and a horse, he now realized, was how much easier a horse was to control.  He found himself over-compensating as he tried to follow Trevod out through a gate onto a perfect grassy field.

Trying to lighten up his touch, he stroked Rebel’s neck again and watched Trevod.  The man had his horse, a beautiful white stallion, in an easy canter, and would glance back occasionally.

“I did not imagine that a star captain would be so comfortable in the saddle,” he commented.

Trevod did not seem as comfortable as Brooks would have expected.  The horses, he surmised, were something he had gotten but did not ride that often.

The fields curved up into the distance, following the interior surface of the cylinder.  Brooks did not know how much of the interior area of the station was made into this faux natural setting, but it extended off for kilometers in each direction it seemed.  He rode through a field of heather, hearing a curlew cry.  Bees flew among the flowers, and he wondered how deep the facsimile went.

Trevod rode nearby for a time, and Brooks wondered why the man had gifted him this; there was no love lost between his companies and the Sapient Union, and this was certainly not just showing off.  The man had to have some sense.

Trevod rode closer, and Brooks readied himself for whatever the man’s plan would turn out to be, but Trevod just seemed amused.

“Let’s race,” he said.

“Agreed,” Brooks replied.

---

< Ep 8 Part 19 | Ep 8 Part 21 >

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

---

The trip over to Trevod Waites-Kosson’s private station had taken two hours.  During that time Brooks had browsed through everything available on the man, doggedly ignoring his system’s suggestions of courses on Gohhi etiquette.

He knew how to behave in a way that would set Lord Executive at ease.

And how to scare him in just the right way, if it came to it.

Approaching the station, he saw that it was far larger than he had expected.  To have your own personal space station was the height of extravagance, and the cost of even a small one was astronomical.

But this . . . this was an entire O’Neill Cylinder.  Ten kilometers long and three wide at each cap.  An insane amount of space for one man.

The station continued to grow in his view until it blotted out the stars.  It docked automatically, and he waited for the green light of the connection – then manually checked the air.

He had no fear that Waites-Kosson would kill him, but he didn’t want an accident, either.  The stakes were too high to be incautious of bad luck.

Opening the airlock into the entrance tunnel, Brooks stepped out.

A scent traveled to his nose.  The air smelled like Earth.

There was apparently not an air recycler going – at least not a technological one.  A data pop-up in his HUD informed him pleasantly about how the station was environmentally conscious, using a living ecosystem to purify and reclaim the oxygen.

He couldn’t call it natural, as the station itself was not natural.  The plants on here would not be true Earth plants, but ones long-ago modified to deal with higher levels of radiation, lower gravity, and a myriad other factors that made space inimicable to life.

The airlock was plated in gold, he noticed.  Just for the look.  It was buffed to a mirror-like shine, and he could see a mark where his hand had touched it, the perfection marred.

Looking through the tunnel, which was plated in eccentric gilded swirls, he could see what appeared to be an ornate foyer.

As he went through, a tall, humanoid drone with treads for feet approached him.  It was wearing a tailored suit made of Accian silk.

“Follow,” it said.  Its voice was human-like, but imperious.  Brooks imagined he did not rate the genteel setting.

He followed in silence, studying the area.  This was not a spaceport, but a private residence.

It made sense, now that he thought about it.  As disgusting as it was for one person to own an entire station that could have housed millions, anyone who did visit would be his guest – why make them travel from a dedicated docking station when they could just come straight into a home meant for entertaining?

The drone led him into what he took to be another foyer before turning.

“Please wait,” it said.  Then it trundled away.

He could not say he minded.  The area in front of him was spacious and beautiful; moss-covered rocks were piled up out of a pool, with water plants growing so naturally that he could almost have taken the sight as an actual scene from Earth.

A brook fed into the body, splashing down over the rounded boulders, and he moved closer, entranced.  It was rare to see something so realistic in space . . .

“It’s all natural,” he heard from behind him.

Turning, Brooks saw that there was a walkway above the area that he had not noticed.  On it, leaning against the railing, was a man, as tall and handsome as the carving knife could create.

Brooks’s system took several moments to actually match the man to the image of Trevod Waites-Kosson in his system.  The man had, as of several years ago, looked different.  It had still been a chiseled perfection then, but darker.  Now he seemed to have taken to a more angelic look.

“I had the stones and plants imported from Earth,” he said.  “With all proper paperwork, of course,” he then added as assurance.  Moving to the side, he came down a pair of curved steps that blended with the wall so well that Brooks had not even seen them from where he stood.

---

< Ep 8 Part 18 | Ep 8 Part 20 >

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

---

Urle entered into Brooks’s office, out of breath.

Two minutes ago, Kiseleva had fired a shot down on the boarding ramp.

Brooks had been informed of the commotion as soon as Kiseleva had reported an escalation, and he had seen the shooting.

But he didn’t have all the information yet.  There would be dozens of views through which to view the event.

Which made Urle by far the best to parse that data.

“Kiseleva is outside,” he said.  “I brought her up immediately.”

“How is the situation at the ramp?” Brooks asked.

“Cleaning up.  Zeela’s down there, talking to port officials.  She’s giving me a live-feed . . .  I guess it’s under control.  They seem more annoyed than anything.”

“And what happened?  As best as you can tell,” Brooks asked.

“He crossed the demarcation line and she shot him down,” Urle said.

Brooks frowned.

“She had to have a stronger reason than that,” he replied.

“Well, yes,” Urle said.  “She says that he threatened her, that he was armed – but he wasn’t looking at her at the time she shot him.  He was looking past her.”

Thinking for a moment, he gestured.  “Bring her in.  You stay.”

Urle nodded, summoning Kiseleva in.

She came to attention, looking calm.  Her heart rate was nearly normal, Brooks noted.

“What just happened?” he asked her.

“I defended myself and the ship,” she replied simply.

“You were in danger?”

“He threatened to get the ‘bitches’.  Earlier he had also called me a bitch, therefore I took his words as a threat against my person.  Given that he was armed, I gave it credence.”  She paused.  “Along with threatening the women who had asked for asylum as well as violating Sapient Union territory.”

Brooks did not change his expression for a long moment, watching her.  She met his gaze back.

He looked down.  “You are relieved from combat duties until a full investigation can be made.  Turn in your sidearm.  Dismissed.”

She saluted, turning to leave.

“Unofficially,” Brooks said.  “You did well.”

Kiseleva looked back over her shoulder at him, and smiled slightly.

After she was gone, Urle rounded on him.

“Ian . . . you’re congratulating her?  She just killed a man!”

Brooks did not seem surprised or upset by his outburst.  “He was a pimp and a drug dealer.”

“That doesn’t mean she can just shoot him!”

Brooks raised his head now, looking at him.  “Nothing of value was lost.”

“I’m not defending the piece of shit,” Urle said.  But we can’t just kill anyone we hate!”

“He made a mistake,” Brooks replied.  “And threatened the wrong people.  Now, others like him might hesitate a little bit more before they hurt people.  I doubt anyone will shed a tear.”

“Some will, in the Union.  And so will the independent news sources.  They’re going to spin this like crazy – they already are.”

Brooks shrugged.  “We will deal with the repercussions, whatever they are.”

A light on his desk flashed.  An external call – rated important.

Now Brooks grimaced.  “Sooner rather than later.  Get on the report, but send it to me before you file it,” he ordered.

Urle took a deep breath and saluted before leaving.

Brooks took a moment to compose himself before taking the call.

Music greeted him, not a person.

“Greetings,” a pleasant voice said.  He could not tell if it was a highly-trained person or an AI.  “Please hold – Mr. Waites-Kosson will be with you momentarily.”

After a moment of more music, it spoke again; “You are now given the honor of speaking to Mr. Waites-Kosson.”

“Hello, Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” a voice said.  It was definitely a human, but only a voice came through, no video.

“Greetings,” Brooks said.  “To what do I owe this call, Mr. Waites-Kosson?”

He thought he knew the name, but he’d had his system bring up everything relevant on the man.

Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the wealthiest humans ever to exist if the numbers were to be believed.  Like most of great wealth, he had been born into it, his ancestors the founders of a dozen of the largest companies in Gohhi – with tendrils reaching into many other areas of wild space.

Like a capitalist Hapbsburg, he was simply the culmination of many of those wealthy houses intermarrying, sharing and combining property.  And now, without ever having done a day’s honest work in his life, the man had more wealth than god.

“Call me Trevod,” the man said affably.  “I admit, I had expected a deeper voice from a man of your reputation, Captain-Mayor.”

“Legends dwarf all men,” Brooks replied.

“Well-said.  But I’m not calling for social reasons, as interesting as that would be.  I’d like you over for an in-person discussion.”

Brooks thought about telling the man to come to the Craton.

But in the scheme of things, Trevod Waites-Kosson was one of the most powerful individuals in the universe.  He was a part of the Gohhi ruling class, one of the most influential in it.

He made and lost more wealth every day than some planets.  He’d flouted the laws of every government he’d ever dealt with, the Sapient Union especially.

He would be far too cowardly to put himself in the hands of communists, no matter the promises of safety.

“Very well,” Brooks replied.

“Excellent, Captain-Mayor Brooks.  I have dispatched a shuttle, it will reach you in about an hour.  It will bring you here.”

The call ended.

---

< Ep 8 Part 17 | Ep 8 Part 19 >

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

---

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

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

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

And among the throng, loitering, were the eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which she wondered about as well.

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

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

Kiseleva had seen more miraculous cases of survival.

Sudden, fast movement caught her eye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened to her?” Kiseleva demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Medical drones appeared, swarming around the woman.

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

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

“Who?” Kiseleva asked sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiseleva shot him.

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

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

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

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

Let them stare, she thought.

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

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

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

“Yes, he is,” she said calmly.

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 16 | Ep 8 Part 18 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He left, and Brooks came over.

“Well, Doctor, how was it?”

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

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

“I am fine,” Y replied shortly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he say he would?”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded and smiled serenely.

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

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

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 14 | Ep 8 Part 16 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what do you believe?” Romon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he asked something else.

“Why do you write poetry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how lovely you are

with your teeth unveiled,

Like a pearly scar

in a world derailed.

A flock of sheep just shorn

on a garden torn

by iniquity.

Why has your wage been sworn

by the cosmic thorn

of ubiquity?

Freedom ought to be paid,

-oh, how lovely!-

and the land shall be flaid

for the thorns to meet slaves

in captivity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y considered.  “Slaves,” he suggested.

“That is not correct,” Romon replied.

“Lovely,” Y guessed next.

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

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

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

Yet it was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 13 | Ep 8 Part 15 >

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Despite the situation, he seemed perfectly calm.

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

“Whenever you are, Captain-Mayor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brooks prepared to protest, but Y spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holdur’s voice dropped to a whisper.

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

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

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

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

Excitement.

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

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

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

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

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

---

< Ep 8 Part 12 | Ep 8 Part 14 >