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.

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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.

“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.