Brooks knew he had to study before he could call Romon Xatier.

All he had known was that the man was possessed of great wealth – which also meant influence – in Gohhi. Not quite on the level of the Waites-Kossons or Gormans, but certainly they rubbed shoulders.

His great-grandfather, Alon, had taken their fortune, being one of the first humans to reach Gohhi at sublight speeds, four hundred years ago. Building a financial empire on brutal exploitation and cunning, he’d made himself one of the first Lord Executives.

His son had died young, but not before siring an heir, Peppen. Alon had actually lived on, but retired from running his business, which he passed on to Peppen, though both then passed away only a year apart, about twenty years ago. Their causes of death were unknown, as the bodies were never found – but most sources agreed it was likely rival businessmen, taking advantage of Alon’s sloppiness in his age, and then Peppen’s carelessness in his grief and anger.

Romon had then taken the reins, relatively young to be inheriting, but possessing the necessary business acumen. But while his ancestors had been known for their brutality in quashing their workers to extract the most surplus value, Romon seemed to have built a reputation as a cultured man and philanthropist – as well as a recluse.

Which, in Brooks’s eyes, only meant he was a more subtle kind of snake, but it was important to note.

The Sapient Union made a habit of following the dealings of the wealthiest Lord Executives – an ancient title that many businessmen had granted themselves, apparently thinking their stolen fortunes put them inherently above the rest of humanity. Something that only using an archaic aristocratic title could properly display.

But given that such Lord Executives often had huge political power made it important. Not to mention that knowing their crimes and weaknesses was often quite useful.

Sapient Union intel reports did not have a lot on Romon Xatier, however. His business dealings were no more shady than most, his workers were treated about middling, in terms of protections and exploitation. He was filthy rich, yes, but he did not flaunt it or put undue political pressure onto anyone.

Which left mostly his private life, where information was even more sparse. Unmarried, he did not leave his private station often. Aside from an interest in being a patron of the arts, he was renowned as a poet, with several books published of his poems.

Surely it was easy to get past editors when you owned the companies.

Still, this seemed the most relevant detail, as Jan Holdur frequented this gilded circle of poets. Holdur did not seem to have been published except in books he’d paid for, and his works did not seem to garner nearly as much attention as Romon’s.

Which immediately made Brooks consider if jealousy could be a motivation – but he did not see how Jan Holdur openly murdering a woman would somehow harm Romon Xatier. Certainly Ensign Vale had no connection to either man.

As much as he wanted to dawdle more, though, Brooks knew he just had to call the man up and see if anything new came to light.

It was not easy to even find the contact information for the man – most of the Lord Executives had some sort of publicist whom he could contact and then use his Sapient Union credentials to get sent up the ladder.

But he’d had the computer searching for such routes and come up with very little. He’d found the public relations firms that he employed – quite a few, he noted – but none of those were the sort that could pass him upward.

He was rebuked by the man’s contracted law firms, who refused to offer any comment whatsoever.

Fine, then. He called up one of the security firms the man owned. He had an outsized controlling interest in many, he noted.

“Give me the highest ranking officer,” Brooks told the AI.

“Captain Gren speaking,” a brusque voice answered after he’d gotten transferred.

“Captain Gren, this is Captain-Mayor Ian Brooks,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” the man replied. He sounded distracted.

“Of the Sapient Union vessel Craton.”

There was a sound of shifting and whispering; the man had put his hand over his audio receiver, but Brooks could still hear him telling someone to come back later. Or someones; he heard several giggling female voices that rapidly faded.

“Of the Craton? How do I know this is actually the Captain of that ship?” the man asked when he finally spoke again, a tinge of panic in his voice. He was clearly trying to figure out how to authenticate the call.

“Check under authorization codes on the top right of your screen,” Brooks told him dryly. “There you will find a thirty-seven digit number, the first six numbers being zeros and the last a one. That indicates it is from the Sapient Union . . . an Earth ship specifically.”

“Oh, yes. Right, of course. Well . . . uh, how may I help you, Captain . . . ?”

“Captain-Mayor,” Brooks corrected, feeling a slight amusement in making the man squirm.

“Yes, Captain-Mayor.”

“I need to speak with Romon Xatier about a potential risk to his person that we’ve uncovered.”

There was silence. “Uh, I’m sorry Cap- I mean Captain-Mayor, but that’s above my pay-grade, and I don’t have the authority to-“

“Romon Xatier owns your company, Captain. You certainly have the contact information for his under-secretary at the very least. The man’s life may be in danger, which is why I’m calling you. I obviously cannot do anything on Gohhi, but you can.”

“Yes! I can, um . . .”

“Put me in contact with Romon. Then I’m certain he will call you and wish to deploy your forces to keep himself and your company alive and healthy.”

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He could hear the panic in the man’s voice. “Yes, that makes sense,” he said quickly. “Uh, let me . . . Okay, I have a digital connection code for you . . . do you have a pen?”

“Transfer me,” Brooks ordered.

“Yes, sir. And thank you sir. You have a nice day, and thank you for, uh, calling Caligari Security-“

Brooks muted him and checked the connection code. It looked authentic, and when the line rung, he received an automated under-secretary.

It accepted his Union credentials and sent him up to the human secretary.

Who was out at lunch.

“If this is an emergency, please contact Caligari Security at . . .”

“This is a diplomatic emergency,” Brooks said. “And Romon Xatier must be contacted.”

The answering machine was, as he suspected, smart. It went silent for a moment, and then finally, a human voice appeared.

“Good afternoon, Captain-Mayor,” the voice said. It was deep and calm, and Brooks knew he had reached Romon Xatier at last.

“Mr. Xatier, I am pleased I have been able to reach you,” he began.

“Yes, I know. You have been trying for some time, Captain-Mayor.”

Brooks had wondered if he was going through some sort of test, and this seemed to confirm it. He pushed his annoyance aside.

“I don’t suppose you’re already aware of why I’m calling?”

“Something about a danger to my life,” Romon replied, sounding both dismissive and amused. “Which I highly doubt is true.”

“It may be a threat to your person. You see, we have apprehended a man on one of our tour ships who attempted to murder one of its crew-“

“I do not see how that threatens me,” Romon replied coolly.

“. . . and who afterward has said he will only speak to you.”

“How unfortunate,” Romon replied. “As I have no desire to come onto your vessel to speak with an attempted murderer. Is that all, Captain?”

Brooks knew the game was not over yet. “The man is Jan Holdur, of the family that owns Holdur Conglomerate. I understand he frequents the same poetry groups that you do. You two may have met numerous times, which makes his request for you rather curious at a time like this.”

“I am afraid I barely know the man,” Romon replied. Yet something had changed in his voice. Brooks was not sure if it was concern or interest.

“I did not imagine so. However, we still remain with the issue that he will only talk to you. And given that he committed his crime on one of our vessels, he is also under our jurisdiction.”

Xatier was quiet for a few moments. “I will have my people send you the data for the issuing of my diplomatic expediency. Upon receiving that I will come to your vessel, Captain-Mayor.”

Which was quite necessary; nearly every Lord Executive was wanted for crimes in the Sapient Union. What they considered ‘normal business’ was considered barbaric in more civilized places, and all too frequently their unsavory practices slipped across the ephemeral borders of space. It was Brooks’s prerogative to give expedient diplomatic status, and he could deny it entirely at his discretion. “All right, Mr. Xatier. Please send word when you are on your way and we will arrange a drone escort.”

“That will be unnecessary. I will bring my own security.”

“They will have to wait outside of our ship,” Brooks replied firmly.

“Very well,” Romon replied.

The call ended.

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

Oh Dark, he hated these tiny tunnels.

Tred carefully navigated the drone through the maintenance shaft. It was a sort too small for any grown human to fit through; even the Beetle-Slugs found them tight if they had to go in there, but the sheer quantity of equipment that potentially needed accessing meant that they had no choice but to use very narrow tunnels.

His eye implants were feeding him the view from the drone he was remotely piloting, even while he sat outside in the maintenance room.

His view was fully that of the drones, and it moved as fluidly and easily as any person – it felt nearly like he himself was shrunk down and inside the maintenance tube.

Which made him feel so claustrophobic.

Sweat was running down his face, forcing him to blink often.

The scanners on the drones were checking each and every circuit in the systems.

No one ever thought about how inconvenient a battle was for maintenance personnel. These ships were not just aluminum skinned tubes strapped to rockets like in ancient times! Every single component was a computer or part of a computer, and the horrible blasting of a fight meant anything and everything could be disturbed.

The scan on this section completed, and his own visual checks – as poor as they were compared to the drone’s scanners – found everything to be in order.

He moved the drone towards the next section when he got an alert; something was moving towards him!

Well, towards the drone, at least.

He still felt a rush of adrenaline, but he didn’t actually have to do anything.

It was a Beetle-Slug, which activated the drone’s movement circuit. His view dimmed momentarily to avoid giving him vertigo as it moved into an alcove.

He overrode the controls anyway, morbidly curious. He looked down as the Bicet passed.

It moved swiftly, its many small legs a blur of motion. Its leathery carapace with small plates of chitin indicating it was of a different caste than Cutter.

It stopped, and he jerked back as it rotated to look directly at the camera of the drone. Tred had not physically moved the drone to peer at the creature, but – did it somehow know he was looking at it?

More sweat ran down his brow.

“Your drone requires maintenance,” the Bicet said. “Micro-tearing of wire coating on arm C. Send in for repairs after shift.”

Then it crawled away, and Tred felt stupid that he’d panicked so much.

“Ah, thanks,” he called out through its speaker, though he doubted the Bicet was even anywhere near his drone at that point.

Making a note to get the wire checked, he crawled on, finding a few molecules out of place in a crystal board matrix. The whole section would have to be removed later for the adjustment, but right now it was . . . acceptable. Its efficiency would be lowered by a very small margin, not enough to worry most, even if it bothered him. And it did bother him; the molecules should be in their proper places, not . . . just flung out there wildly.

He made a note to go back for it. Then, as he started to move on, he stopped.

No, no, he would take care of it now.

Detaching the crystal matrix case, he had the drone carry it out to a repair depot. Other drones had dropped off other matrices, which were all in quite worse shape than his.

He’d probably get another annoyed message from the repair crew later telling him this matrix was fine and it didn’t need to be dragged out for repair . . .

Ignoring that, he crawled back into the tunnel.

Did he really want to keep doing this?

Not just the tunnel, but . . . the Craton.

He had been born here and he’d always thought that he’d die here.

But they’d been in a battle recently. A battle! And it wasn’t the first time lately that the ship had been in such a dangerous situation.

During all of that he’d just been so nervous that he’d felt faint. He hadn’t even had to do anything, just hid in a bunker like the civilians.

But he’d felt the impacts, the hard ship movements. He’d known what various subtle signs meant, even when no one else around him did.

He was, by sheer skills, qualified to be a bridge officer. Yet the concept terrified him; that much pressure upon him. He’d mess up and people would be killed. Or even the whole ship.

His home ship.

Maybe he should leave. With his skill set there would be thousands of job openings even in a nice and cushy system like Ran or Tau Ceti or Luyten. Or even someplace exotic like Van Maanen or Cygni!

Even the thought of Cygni and its flares made him nervous, though. And Van Maanen was a White Dwarf, sure, but – who wanted to live around a dead star?

Ran was beautiful, but he wasn’t the type to go sunbathing on the beaches of that pleasant world, and its dominant culture in space was almost . . . hedonistic by his standards. Tau Ceti, he’d known a very rude man from there once, and Luyten . . .

One by one he ruled out the obvious choices.

He knew that there were literally thousands of other options, but that he would find something that made them inadequate for him.

He honestly did not even know where he wanted to live.

A call came in.

He blinked, fumbling for a moment before calling out, a little too loudly; “Cut drone feed! Switch to call.”

He hadn’t even seen who it was, but it was probably too soon to be the repair crew – unless one had been operating a drone right there and checked the matrix!

No visual came up, just audio.

“Tred?” a cool female voice said. It was nervous, hesitant, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Oh, madam Ambassador!” he cried.

“Oh! Tred, is that you?”