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.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“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.”

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

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.