Brooks knew that going out onto Gohhi Station undetected would be tricky.

Nearly every ship that came in or out likely had eyes on them – friends, enemies, information brokers, even just people who made it their hobby to watch ships. And with the Craton being such a unique and well-known vessel, she would be watched more than most.

A quick visit to the medical wing had gained him a face cover – composed of cellulite and embedded with nano-machines that would mimic genuine skin, down to hairs and shedding skin cells, allowing one to hide their face in the most believable fashion possible. It wouldn’t hold up against dedicated scans, but such equipment would be too bulky for anyone but Gohhi officials to have on-hand.

Which meant he still had to get past those.

Because despite how much Gohhi claimed to value the privacy of individuals, in practice it was just another commodity for sale to the information brokers. But that also meant that money could grease the wheels to preserve your privacy.

The most obvious and worst method was to bribe the customs official as you went out. While they would likely take the bribe, it’d tip their hand that you must be someone important, and they’d make ten times as much selling you out a little later.

The best way, as he had learned years ago, was to contact the port administrator through back-channels and bribe him. There was an automated system for it, and after Brooks made the transfer – from his own pocket – he knew that the port official who checked him would receive completely false data that would draw no attention.

The largest problem left, then, was on the Craton itself.

On the ship, people knew each other, and the information systems that enabled them to interface with the ship shared such data with everyone around them as needed. Thus, he needed to even appear like an outsider who had simply come on the ship for business or to view the public areas.

Dressing in clothes more reminiscent of a Gohhi native, and taking back doors to bring himself into the Equator without being seen was slightly tricky, but once there he had no trouble walking out. Any who spared him a glance would get a believable false narrative on who he was, and just what he was doing on the ship.

As he passed into customs, no one gave him even a second glance, and Brooks smiled.

He blended in with a group of engineers having a spirited debate about micro-crack sensors, considering for a moment on joining their conversation as even more cover . . . but decided he didn’t know nearly enough about such things to pass, and to spare himself the embarrassment he kept his silence.

Walking onto the station proper, he noted the watchers trying to seem casual but who were actually noting who entered and left the Craton.

He recognized a few from various Gohhi guilds, businessmen, and public figures, as well as some he believed belonged to unaligned systems or even the Sapient Union itself, spying on the spies.

Most conspicuous of all, by clear intent, were the Glorians. They wore the stripped-down green uniforms, sans insignia, but did nothing to hide who they were. They felt no need, and on Gohhi they had every right to loiter wherever they wished, so long as they did not bother anyone and paid any appropriate fees.

But none gave him more than a cursory glance, and he knew his disguise had worked.

Which was only step one complete.

Mingling into the crowd, he passed swiftly through unobtrusive doors and sloped halls down into deeper parts of the station.

It was a dangerous place – open carry was allowed, as nothing was allowed to interfere with commerce. Especially not something as lucrative as weaponry.

He’d brought a small sidearm from the armory, and something that he hoped would keep him alive; a small and unobtrusive sensor pack on his shoulder. It functioned the same way as a Guardian drone’s sensors, watching all around him at all times, looking for a weapon – especially one pointed his way. It had no capacity to defend him, that wouldn’t be legal or wise, even on Gohhi. But seeing an attack coming could be the difference between life and death.

Gohhi in general was darker than the Craton. A perpetual gloom soaked many of her stations, as no one bothered to pay for lighting the open areas. It didn’t make profit, so why bother? Deep in, it was more true than ever, and everything seemed to be rising from darkness, islands of light and neon growing from the shadows.

It was more humid than he remembered, with drips coming down walls and lichens growing in spots. Others were clearly cleaned regularly, owned by someone who cared about appearances.

Making his way deeper, he found he still knew the routes well enough. Like any old spacer, he’d spent a lot of time in this hub . . . nearly a capital for all of those who called space home, Gohhi had a special place in his heart, despite its many, many faults.

The stink of so many bodies in so small an area grew, the scrubbers just not quite enough to make the air pure. The glitter of styles from a thousand or more worlds filled each area, people showing off their individuality until there was no similarity at all between them besides their ancestors having come, at some point, from Earth.

The entertainment district was as vile as he remembered. It was similar to the Equator ring on the Craton, but nearly ten stories tall, the gravity at the outer most layer noticeably lower than Earth norm, making him bounce upwards with each step.

Neon lights glowed in the humid darkness, and people plied trade in food, drugs, alcohol, and bodies equally here. The press of people grew tighter, and he kept his eye out for the data thieves who he knew would try to connect to his system to steal anything he had of value. He saw a few eyeing him, but after they saw he was vigilant they averted their eyes to try and find easier marks.

Scantily-clad beings, mostly women, danced in window bubbles in the brothels, trying to entice people in. This part of Gohhi was almost entirely human, and so most of the prostitutes on show were likewise, though he did see a few aliens for those who had such fetishes.

The fact that such exploitation was still allowed anywhere disgusted him, but in a place stuck in an ancient mode of development as Gohhi was, it was inevitable.

Passing by a medical clinic that specialized in sexually-transmitted diseases, he finally reached the bar he’d been aiming for – The Black Hole.

While many bars on Gohhi were giant, this one was small and secluded, with lighting set so low that if one wasn’t careful they might walk into something. But that was just how the clientele wanted it, and he surreptitiously took a seat in an empty booth.

A kiosk activated for him to request a drink, and he put in a custom order.

‘I need a face,’ he keyed in.

Then he waited.

In time, a drone came hovering over, carrying a cup of a pale, weak beer. Inside it, when he looked, was a folded slip of paper, and on that a name. It was already dissolving in the drink, and in moments would be completely gone, leaving no trace.

The name was of another bar, one he didn’t know, called the Crooked Door.

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His system informed him of the fastest route there, and he saw that it was deeper in towards the core of the station, where the gravity lowered, the light grew yet dimmer, and the poorest and most destitute lived.

Leaving a tip to pay for the information, he got up and headed for the door.

His search had only begun.

----------------------------------------

The bar was darker, smokier, and far bigger than Apollonia expected. Hundreds of people thronged in and out, up stairs and lifts and into smaller partitioned areas, separated from the main area with elegant curved walls.

Mostly it was humans, but she also saw a number of Dessei on the right side, their feathered cloaks closed about them, staring almost aggressively at everyone who came near, along with gaggles of Sepht off to the left, packed in tightly around their tables and laughing loudly. A handful of heavily-armed Greggans lounged in a corner, their toothy maws and large bulbous eyes watching in different directions at once while they grunted loudly, and at many tables she saw numerous Hev, hissing and barking to each other in high-pitched voices.

She counted seven floors, going up into increasing darkness – and privacy. With Gohhi being the hub of neutral commerce, she had a feeling that the discussions happening up on the top floors were probably pretty damn private.

“Are you sure this is where we should get a drink?” she said loudly to Jaya. The throngs of voices would make it impossible for them to otherwise hear each other.

“Yes,” Jaya said, smiling. “I’ve been here before.”

That really surprised Apollonia, who looked at Jaya with new eyes. This place was not at all up to military code, and she had always taken Jaya as the type to want everything neat and by the rules.

“Over this way,” Jaya said.

The woman took her arm and led her into one of the smaller side areas – which was still not small, as it was about the size of the bars Apollonia had seen on New Vitriol.

As they stepped through the door, the sounds from outside seemed to diminish significantly, enough that she could hear Jaya speaking easily.

“This area is for starmen,” the woman said.

“Spacers,” Apollonia corrected automatically.

“That’s what engineers use for separating things,” Jaya said, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, I’m a spacer and it’s what I prefer to be called!” Apollonia replied, though Jaya seemed to ignore her. Really, Apollonia didn’t feel like it was a hill worth dying on.

Most of the clientele in the sub-bar had the uniforms of shipping companies – little more than space suits with names and logos stuck on.

Years of just below too much radiation had left most balding, their skin like scraps of old leather, and their eyes glinting with augments to fix their cataracts.

Others had more official uniforms on, though recognizing them in the gloom was difficult. She stared a moment, and realized with a start that some were from the Craton.

The smells of all kinds of smoke from burning sticks made her lungs tickle, but she suppressed a cough. Smoking had never been popular in New Vitriol – some kind of religious cultural hangover. But she’d heard how certain plants on various alien worlds had become as popular if not more so than tobacco or marijuana, and she found herself staring at the strange methods people were using to take in their drug of choice.

Jaya led her to the bar, and Apollonia sat down on a stool, feeling like an awkward, out-of-place kid.

The bar itself was composed of some sort of clear metal that could be pressure-hosed down. Despite that, the surface had scratches and marks gouged in it that made her wonder just what kind of trouble took place here.

Above the bar were screens, showing various games like freeball or chase, or news shows from various places in Gohhi or beyond.

There was a human bartender, a man who looked grizzled himself, his face set in a lazy sort of sneer, and he gave her a look before pointedly holding up a scanner.

“Approve the age check,” he grumbled.

Fumbling with her tablet, she tapped to approve his request, seeing about a dozen other pings from people she didn’t know. She hadn’t gone to a bar in a long time, she was too widely known and disliked on New Vitriol, but she remebered that. All of the requests were men who had set up their systems to automatically query any woman who entered. She ignored them all, plus the ad from the service offering to automatically screen her pings for a monthly fee.

Jaya’s scan went smoother, and she ordered tharra for both of them.

Apollonia hadn’t had that before, but was surprised at not just how sweet it was – but how strong.

“Gah, this stuff could clean a sewer pipe,” she said.

Jaya smiled. “I don’t drink often, but when I do it is something strong.”

“If you don’t drink much, how can you handle it?”

“Synthetic liver lobe,” Jaya said. “And kidneys. As you lack that, I suppose this means you should be careful.”

Which Apollonia had already decided she’d do. She’d never been much of a drinker, only having hard seltzers when she managed to get anything.

Jaya was on her left, and she looked up and down the bar, seeing two spacers to her right a stool down, who were deep in a loud conversation.

“. . . fucked the place right to hell . . .” she heard one man said, then tuned him out.

“So what do people do when they go drinking besides drink?” Apollonia asked Jaya. “I’ve never done this with anybody.”

“I typically drink alone as well. But we can simply talk.”

Apollonia blinked and stared. She could think of nothing to say – which was extra annoying as she often had thoughts on things that seemed trivial that she would love to ask someone. It was the perfect moment, and yet . . .

Jaya seemed to feel none of her awkwardness, instead draining her glass and signalling for another. The surly bartender filled it, then wandered away.

He was slower than any drone, Apollonia thought, and markedly less pleasant.

“I’m surprised there’s actually a human bartender,” she muttered.

“Starmen utilize drones in fewer interpersonal tasks than we do, generally,” Jaya said.

“Because of the sparkling personalities?”

Surprise, then amusement went over Jaya’s face, and she flashed a bright smile. “I can only presume so.”

A silence fell, and only one thought came to Apollonia.

“So . . . you know Brooks pretty well, right?”

“As well as anyone aside from Urle,” Jaya said. “Which is to say barely at all. He is a very private individual.”

“So you and he . . . you’ve never . . . ?”

“. . . Ours is purely a professional relationship,” Jaya replied dryly.

“Oh. Well, okay. What about you and Urle?”

Jaya rolled her eyes. “Do you truly think that the command staff are living some kind of . . . soap opera story?”

“Well, hey,” Apollonia said defensively, “Most of my view of the universe comes from watching really bad entertainment. And you’re all highly effective people under high stress. I thought maybe you’d be going at it like – I mean . . . Um . . .”

“Sex drive is the first thing to decrease under stress,” Jaya noted.

“I mean, yeah, I know that,” Apollonia said. “Is it really that stressful for the officers all the time, though?”

“It probably isn’t comparable to your life,” Jaya said. “But I am not really interested in discussing my love life,” she added, arching an eyebrow, though not seeming truly annoyed or offended, merely exasperated.

“So you do have a love life. In some form.”

Jaya made an annoyed sound. “I think I am done with this portion of the conversation, Apollonia.”

Apollonia laughed and realized she’d finished half of her drink. Perhaps she should slow down.

“But what hobbies do you have?” Jaya asked, steering the conversation in a new direction.

“Well, the crappy entertainment was a big one,” Apollonia said. “I liked stories about disasters and monsters . . . but the big military ones were probably the most popular overall. I saw a lot of those just because they were everywhere all the time. Like Military Inspection Service – that was hella popular. That main boss guy was pretty bad ass, not gonna lie.”

“MIS? Oh, that show is drivel,” Jaya said, shaking her head. “And every episode is the same! Some alien terrorist plot to disrupt the peaceful operation of the Glorian Republic.”

“Sometimes they were human terrorists,” Apollonia said.

“It was just crude propaganda. Every show they make is about security forces or military forces or ex-military forces who are now in the security forces. And at the end of every episode you are shown just why they need to maintain a brutal police state.”

Jaya’s eyes flickered over Apollonia’s shoulder, and the sound of someone shifting was barely audible, along with a break in the conversation she’d been tuning out.

“Did he hear you?” Apollonia asked quietly.

“Yes,” Jaya said.

“Was he annoyed?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care,” Jaya replied, knocking back the rest of her current glass and signalling to the bartender for another refill.

Apollonia continued. “There was also . . . uh . . . Fighting Force Seven, about some space fleet always battling pirates or whatever. Some endless fictional war – that one was probably the most popular. Probably saw the whole series about three times, and I didn’t even like it that much.”

“Actually, I’ve seen some of those,” Jaya said. “Absolutely atrocious – not even just from a story point of view, but how they depict space combat. Their secret weapon in season three, the giant laser? That wouldn’t even scratch the paint on the Craton at missile distances!”

“Preaching to the converted, even I didn’t like it. But Gerard was a pretty cool character.”

“Wait, wasn’t he the one who had a relationship with like every other character on the command crew?”

“. . . yeah.”

Jaya sighed. “Naturally. Now, have you seen The Guard Fleet or The Geese Have Not Returned?” Jaya asked her.

“Uhh . . .” Apollonia wracked her memory, the latter being somewhat familiar. She had maybe seen it once, but it had been really boring.

“I think I know the Geese one.”

“Those are films that show what military action is like. It’s not a fun time, and people don’t come home.”

“I know,” Apollonia agreed.

Jaya nodded soberly, taking her new glass from the bartender and staring down into it. “But let’s not dwell on that,” she said, and took another drink.