Chapter 4.4 Down to the Web of Marinagua.

"Bodhie and Wilbur, take a quick look at all the buildings that could host a listening post or sniper nest. If we can put a ship between us and them we have a better chance of keeping our conversations private. I don't think anyone's going to take a shot at us now, but if we need to make a hot exit, I want to know where the heat is coming from." Chaala straightens up her uniform and prepares to step out with Virel.

As Chaala spoke with the others, Virel stood nearby, his expression unreadable as he calmly surveyed the surroundings. It was not how he had hoped things would unfold, but missions rarely were. What mattered now was adapting to the situation they had stepped into.

Noticing Chaala was ready, he gave her a short nod and stepped down beside her. As they approached Captain Verik, Virel allowed a measured, diplomatic smile to settle onto his features. The smile was friendly enough to invite conversation but cautious enough not to promise trust.

The cutter’s hatch opens into heat, dust, and watching eyes. The first breath of Marinagua outside the hull carries the dry mineral smell of old concrete, sun-baked grit, fuel residue, and distant smoke from Balac Pontli. Across the apron, Star’s Mercy waits with its side ramp lowered. Captain Jalen Verik stands at the foot of that ramp beside a compact, sharp-eyed crewmember in a worn utility jacket marked with the ship’s colors. He has chosen his position carefully: not high on his ramp like a lord receiving petitioners, and not so far forward that he appears to claim the newcomers in front of the Xá’kai. Voss steps down with Chaala, Virel, and Doctor Shone, glancing once toward the Xá’kai observers near the pad edge before his eyes settle on Verik.

"Engineer Voss. You look better with a ship at your back."

"Captain Verik."

There is recognition there, but not familiarity. Gratitude, perhaps, but not trust. Verik’s attention moves to the others without lingering too obviously on uniforms, posture, or equipment. He notices the lack of visible weapons, the measured spacing, and the fact that some of the team remains with the cutter.

"Welcome to Marinagua," he says. "And to Balac Pontli’s least comfortable doorway."

Inside the cutter, Bohdie and Wilber remain at the systems stations as the hatch stays active and the ship settles into ground-ready status. The external feed expands across the cockpit and mission displays: visual, thermal, passive RF, lidar range mapping, and a stitched overhead pad model built from the descent pass. The cutter’s sensors are not a dedicated battlefield surveillance suite, but they are Scout hardware, and Scout hardware is built to notice terrain, movement, machinery, and things that do not belong.

The first sweep confirms the obvious threat geometry. The cutter and Star’s Mercy sit on the easternmost Free Trader pad, less than a hundred meters from the northeast berm. The berm is not just a dirt wall. It is a built security feature: compacted earth, reinforced in places, with rough access paths and intermittent observation points. It blocks most ground-level sightlines from outside the starport, but anything on top of it can look down into the pad area. From the cutter’s position, the berm is close enough that a watcher with good optics would not need sophisticated gear to study movement around the ships.

The northeast security outpost sits farther away, roughly eight hundred meters north along the berm line. Its main orientation is outward, toward the open ground and the patchwork of unaligned Alejia family farms beyond Xá’kai control, but its structure still has partial line of sight back into the Free Trader apron. Thermal imaging shows two or three warm-bodied figures inside or just behind the outpost’s shaded firing slits. No active weapons signatures. No ranging laser. No hard targeting. But the outpost can observe the pad if it chooses to, and it almost certainly has a standing comm link to the old terminal and tower network.

To the south-southwest, the two large service buildings become the more immediate concern. They are only about a hundred meters from the cutter, each roughly one hundred meters long and fifty meters wide, with their long hangar doors facing west toward the old runways. Their short ends face north and south, giving the northern faces an oblique view toward the Free Trader pads. The rooflines are flat enough for equipment or observers, and thermal imaging shows patchy heat blooms from generators, stored cargo, fuel handling, and occupied interior spaces. These buildings are not abandoned hangars. They are working Xá’kai-administered service structures: storage, cargo handling, fuel support, maintenance, and probably the informal nerve center for the Free Trader apron.

The cutter’s optics identify several possible listening or overwatch positions on those service buildings: roof corners, old ventilation housings, a broken second-level window line, and one external stairwell with a good view across the pad. None shows an obvious sniper profile. No long-barrel silhouette. No weapon-mounted optic glint. But the buildings are close enough that a patient observer could watch hand movements, formations, and body language without difficulty. A directed microphone or laser vibration pickup from that range would be plausible if the Xá’kai have brought the right tools.

Farther northwest, Proud Swiftsure sits on its pad about one hundred fifty meters from the cutter and Star’s Mercy. Captain Cox’s courier has the lean, ready posture of a ship that never quite looks parked. Its hull and landing gear create a partial visual barrier from the northwest side of the Free Trader area. The sensor display flags two figures near that berth who are not trying hard to hide that they are watching. Their attention appears split between the cutter, Verik’s ship, and the Xá’kai service buildings.

Another one hundred fifty meters beyond Proud Swiftsure, Solana rests on its own pad. Raimes’s 600-ton merchant looks deliberately unremarkable even through enhanced optics, a plain working ship with very little that draws the eye. That plainness makes the sensor pass linger on it longer than expected. Two faint thermal shapes are visible around its cargo-side access area, and a low-power comm cycle pulses twice during the scan window. Nothing aggressive. Nothing overt. But Solana is listening to the day’s business like everyone else.

The four unoccupied pads in the Free Trader tramac are not empty in the useful sense. They contain scattered service boxes, faded color-coded ground equipment, old tie-down points, and enough abandoned or half-used cargo gear to conceal small devices. The cutter’s passive scan catches several low-power emissions from the pad infrastructure: maintenance tags, local transponders, cargo beacons, and at least one signal that does not resolve cleanly into any familiar offworld standard. It may be Xá’kai equipment. It may be old airport hardware. It may be somebody’s quiet recorder. The cutter cannot tell without a more aggressive sweep, and an aggressive sweep would be its own announcement.

The control tower is the distant but dominant watcher. It rises on the west side of the two old runways, more than a thousand meters away, restored in stages from observation post back into starport control tower. At that distance, it is not the most immediate sniper concern unless someone has brought precision equipment and a reason to use it. As a listening and observation post, however, it matters. Its elevation gives it a broad line of sight across the old airport complex, the Free Trader pads, the service buildings, and the berm access roads. Passive RF shows a steady traffic-control pulse, intermittent tight local bursts, and what looks like a low-band relay tied into the Xá’kai port network. The tower is not merely watching the sky. It is watching the starport behave.

The tactical picture becomes clearer as the cutter builds its overlay. Star’s Mercy itself is the best immediate shield. Its bulk blocks much of the western and northwest visual field when the team moves toward the side ramp, especially from portions of the runways and some tower angles. The cutter’s own hull blocks sight from parts of the northeast berm, but not from the higher berm crest. If the meeting stays just inside Star’s Mercy, the ship’s hull will defeat most direct optical observation from the pad. If the conversation happens on the apron, everyone with height, glass, or patience can read too much.

---

The electronic picture is quieter but not clean. There are no weapons locks. No active targeting. No combat radar. No obvious jamming. The local RF environment is dense with short-range administrative traffic, Free Captain ship chatter, Xá’kai service coordination, cargo tags, and background leakage from Balac Pontli beyond the berm. Several passive receivers are almost certainly present. The cutter cannot identify all of them, but the pattern is consistent with a watched port rather than an ambush site.

Outside, the crewmember beside Verik finally speaks, voice low and practical.

"Pad perimeter remains clear, Captain. Cox’s people are watching from their berth. Raimes’s ship has two on the apron. Xá’kai observers holding position." Verik nods once without looking away from the team.

"Thank you, Sera."

The name is offered casually, but not accidentally. A name given into the air. A small courtesy. A small test.

Verik steps half a pace aside, opening the path toward Star’s Mercy’s ramp without demanding anyone take it.

"We can exchange pleasantries here, if custom requires it," he says. "But if your purpose is still what you suggested over the channel, then we should begin where words are less likely to grow extra listeners."

He glances once toward Voss, then back to the others.

"And before anyone asks the obvious question: yes, I have more to tell you. No, I will not say it all out here. The first lesson of Balac Pontli is that information does not stay where you put it."

From the cutter, the situation overlay reaches its first clean conclusion: the pad is not a kill zone, but it is an observation box. The likely heat, if it comes, will not come from a single obvious gunman. It will come from the service buildings to the south-southwest, the berm observers to the northeast, the tower’s command network to the west, or one of the Free Captain ships deciding that today’s quiet meeting is worth turning into tomorrow’s advantage.

The wind pushes a thin sheet of dust across the pad between the cutter and Star’s Mercy. Behind Verik, the side ramp waits open. Beyond the berm, the immense city watches without needing to move.

Verik’s tone remains calm, but the invitation has edges.

"Come aboard. We will start with what you need to know before you ask the wrong question to the wrong people."

---

For the moment, nothing moves against them.

That does not mean nothing is moving.

Chaala gives a small but deliberate nod to tell Virel and Doc that it's OK to follow Verik aboard and so those on the Cutter can see that it's all voluntary.

Without turning, Virel quietly noted the information Verik had chosen to reveal. It all felt deliberate. Interesting, he thought, though little of it showed on his face.

Catching Chaala’s nod, Virel stepped forward and offered Verik his hand.

"As you say, Captain, certain discussions are better held elsewhere. Please, lead on."

Inside Star’s Mercy and Onto Discussions

The side ramp of Star’s Mercy leads into a short entry bay rather than directly into the ship’s working spaces. The compartment is functional, worn, and deliberately plain. It has the smell of metal warmed too many times by too many suns, filtered air, lubricant, old cargo matting, and something faintly spiced from farther inside the ship. The deck plating underfoot is scuffed into dull patterns by years of boots, pallet skids, tool cases, and hard use that never appears in corporate maintenance brochures. A pressure door stands open ahead, but a second crew member waits beside it with arms folded, not blocking the way, simply making it clear that no one wanders unescorted aboard Star’s Mercy.

The newcomer is a broad-shouldered Vilani-descended spacer in a sleeveless utility vest over a faded shipsuit, one side of their scalp shaved close around an old burn scar. A mechanic’s multitool hangs at the hip where a pistol might hang on a less disciplined ship. Their eyes move across the team quickly, not rudely, but with the practiced speed of someone counting hands, pockets, gait, stress, and possible trouble. They give Voss a brief nod of recognition, then look to Verik for instruction.

Verik makes a small gesture toward the inner door.

"This is Maro Tane," he says. "Chief hand aboard Star’s Mercy. If Sera decides something is about to become a problem, Maro decides whether it needs tools, cargo straps, or a closed hatch."

Maro gives the barest flicker of a smile.

"Usually straps."

Sera remains near the ramp behind the group, watching the pad through a narrow side viewport and a small external feed mounted beside the hatch controls. From this angle, the team can still see the cutter outside, its cylindrical hull resting on the adjacent pad, landing gear settled into the old concrete markings. The view also captures a slice of the apron beyond: two tall Xá’kai observers standing near the perimeter, one utility tug idle beside a faded service frame, and, farther away, the flat ugly line of the security berm cutting the starport off from Balac Pontli.

The entry bay door shuts only after everyone who intends to enter has crossed the threshold. It does not lock with a dramatic clank. It simply seals, smooth and routine, leaving the outside noise reduced to a faint vibration through the hull. For the first time since the cutter opened, the team is not standing under the direct eye of the whole pad.

The receiving compartment lies just beyond the entry bay. It has clearly been prepared for this meeting, but not decorated for it. This is not a passenger lounge. It is a converted cargo-control room or auxiliary planning space, the kind of compartment that can become a trade office, customs station, negotiation room, or temporary bunkroom depending on what the voyage requires. The overhead is low enough to remind everyone they are inside a merchant vessel, and the walls are lined with tie-down rails, foldaway lockers, old cargo inspection tags, and patched conduit runs. Someone has cleaned the table, cleared the floor, and removed anything that looks like a weapon. They have not tried to hide what the ship is.

The table itself sits in the center of the compartment: rectangular, heavy, bolted to the deck, with eight mismatched chairs arranged around it. None is at the "head." That is probably deliberate. A compact wall screen shows a silent feed of the cutter outside, another shows the pad perimeter, and a third is dark except for an open comm window labeled only with Cutter Local Link — Passive. A small speaker and pickup sit on the table, placed where either side can see them. If the team wants Bodhie, Ruhia or Wilber connected from the cutter, the channel is physically present and visibly muted.

There is also food, though not enough to pretend this is hospitality instead of business. A tray of sealed water bulbs sits beside a battered metal pot of dark tea. Next to it are flat, dense ration cakes, sliced fruit with a waxy rind, and a small dish of something that looks like spiced salt or ground seed. The food is positioned closer to the middle of the table than to Verik’s side. Again, deliberate. Nothing here says luxury. Everything says: you are guests, but this is still a ship.

The compartment has three exits. The one back to the ramp. A narrow hatch toward the ship’s working corridor. A second hatch, currently shut, marked with faded cargo-control symbols and an old warning stencil in a language the team may not recognize. Above the working-corridor hatch, a small status strip glows amber. Not red. Not green. Amber. Restricted, but not alarmed.

Only three of Verik’s crew remain inside with the group. Sera takes position near the ramp-side hatch, one hand still near the comm unit. Maro stands by the working-corridor door, casual enough to seem relaxed, placed well enough to control access. A third crew member sits at a fold-down console along the wall: slight, older, silver-haired, with magnifier lenses perched low on the nose and a thin data stylus moving between two battered tablets. This one does not look like security. They look like accounts, manifests, and memory.

Verik notices the glance toward the older crewmember.

"Elo Venn," he says. "Purser, recorder, and the reason half my mistakes do not become permanent. Elo will not speak unless needed."

Elo Venn gives a polite nod without rising, then returns to the tablets. One of the tablets appears to be running a local transcript. The other shows columns of names, dates, pad numbers, cargo codes, and short notations. Nothing sensitive is displayed long enough to read in full, but the implication is clear: Star’s Mercy remembers things.

Verik waits until everyone has had time to see the room before he sits. He chooses one of the side chairs rather than an end position. Sera does not sit. Maro does not sit. Elo Venn remains at the console. The empty seats at the table are left for the team without instruction.

"Neutral table," Verik says. "As promised. No formal recorder tied to the port net. No live feed to the Xá’kai. No Free Captain channel listening in unless one of you brought them in your pocket."

A faint smile touches the edge of his mouth.

"That was a joke. Mostly."

He places his trade terminal on the table but does not activate it. His hands remain visible, relaxed, and empty.

"Before we begin, there are three things you should understand about this room. First: nothing said here obligates you to act. Second: nothing I say here is charity. Third: anything you ask me to carry beyond this room becomes a thing with weight. Once a question enters Balac Pontli, someone will try to own the answer."

He looks briefly toward Voss, then back to the team.

"Engineer Voss can confirm that I prefer useful truths over comforting ones. I will not promise certainty where I do not have it. But I can give you a better map of the ground than you have now."

Outside, the wall screen shows one of the Xá’kai observers shift position. The motion is subtle, almost birdlike, head and shoulders moving before the rest of the body follows. Sera watches the feed, then murmurs something too soft for the room to catch. Verik glances once, reads Sera’s posture, and continues without concern.

"The port is Xá’kai ground. That is the first layer. They control the roads, the gates, the berm, and the old terminal. If you leave this ship and walk across that apron without context, you belong to their procedure until someone of standing says otherwise."

He taps one finger lightly against the table.

"The second layer is Wiyá’hka interest. They are not standing at the pad with flags and drums, but they are present. Through observers, obligations, old favors, and people who hear things before anyone admits they were said."

A second tap.

"The third layer is the matter of your missing people. That is not fully a Xá’kai matter. That is why it has not resolved. Too many hands touch the edges of it. No one wants to be seen holding the blade."

Verik leans back slightly.

"Your arrival changes the shape of that problem. Not because you are powerful enough to force a result. Do not mistake the situation. Because you give several parties a new way to argue that the old arrangement has become unstable."

He lets that settle before continuing.

"That can help you. It can also get your people moved, hidden, displayed, traded, protected, or endangered depending on who believes they are about to lose advantage."

The room is quiet around that statement. The ship hums softly through the deck. Somewhere deeper inside Star’s Mercy, machinery cycles with a low hydraulic thump.

Verik reaches for the pot of tea, pours a measure into a chipped cup, and sets it near the center of the table rather than drinking first.

"So. We begin carefully."

His eyes move across the group, not demanding an answer from any one person yet.

"I can tell you what I know of the parties involved. I can tell you what I believe happened to the Scout team after they left this port. I can tell you which paths might get you a meeting, and which paths are just prettier ways to walk into a cage."

A pause.

"But before I choose the order of those truths, I need to know which question you want answered first."

He settles back, calm and watchful.

"Who has them, why they still have them, or what price Marinagua is likely to ask for their return?"

Chaala accepts the implicitly proffered cup and takes a seat at one end of the table, leaving the center for Virel.

"Chaala. Captain Angushlii when we need to be formal. You know Engineer Voss. Virel Kilmire is our diplomatic officer and this is Victor Shone, our medical officer. It sounds like you have a read on our needs. We prefer to resolve the issue with the least impact on the situation, but the priority is to resolve the situation. And, as you so kindly point out, we'd like to avoid any further personnel getting into situations that require extraction. We should also address your needs, since I would hate to create a situation where expectations are unclear."

Verik accepts Chaala’s words with a small nod, neither rushing to agree nor challenging her phrasing.

His gaze shifts briefly to Voss when Chaala names him, acknowledging the engineer’s presence without making him the center of the room. Then Verik looks to Virel Kilmire.

Not sharply. Not expectantly enough to be rude.

Simply enough to make clear he has heard who Chaala has placed in the diplomatic chair.

"Captain Angushlii," Verik says, voice calm, "that is a useful beginning."

He rests one hand beside his cup.

"But since you have brought a diplomatic officer to my table, I would hear how Officer Kilmire frames the matter before I mistake courtesy for commitment."

Virel followed the introductions without comment, his expression revealing little as he listened to the names and careful placement of each member of Verik's crew. He quietly noted what was being shown and specifically stated.

When the attention of the room turned toward him, he accepted the offered cup with a curt nod and set it beside his chair before taking his seat.

His gaze settled on Verik.

"Interesting questions. However, before we decide which matters most to us, it would be useful to understand the perspective of the man offering the answers."

He folded his hands loosely on the table.

"You have expended effort on our behalf. Many would not do so without having some stake in the outcome."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"So before we discuss our missing people, tell me this: what does a successful resolution look like to Captain Verik?"

Verik’s expression changes only slightly.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

The faintest suggestion that Virel has chosen the correct door to open. He looks down at the cup in his hand, turns it once between his fingers, then sets it back on the table.

"A successful resolution?" he says.

He lets the question sit for a moment.

"Your missing people leave Marinagua alive. Preferably walking, preferably speaking for themselves, and preferably without requiring anyone in this city to pretend they were stolen from a place where no one steals."

His eyes return to Virel.

"The Xá’kai keep their face. The Wiyá’hka do not feel cornered into proving strength. The smaller hands involved in this matter are not forced to become martyrs for someone else’s politics. And the Free Captains are not made into the obvious path by which outside pressure enters Balac Pontli."

Verik gives a small, humorless smile.

"That is the clean version."

He leans back slightly.

"The honest version is this: I want the people who can still be saved to be saved, and I want the market to survive the saving."

His gaze moves briefly to Chaala, then back to Virel.

"And yes, I profit from that market. I have no holy reason to pretend otherwise. Star’s Mercy eats fuel, parts, crew wages, port favors, tribal obligations, and the occasional bribe dressed in better clothing. Marinagua is dangerous, complicated, and profitable because it is not yet flattened into someone else’s trade schedule."

A pause.

"NMTC would like Marinagua to become legible to them. Contracts. Port schedules. Recognized authorities. Predictable tolls. Useful concessions. They will call that stability."

Another pause.

"The Alejia will call it being measured for chains."

His tone remains calm. No anger. No speechmaking. Just a trader stating the weight of cargo.

"You ask what my stake is. That is part of it. I have traded around this world long enough to know what happens when outsiders decide a place is too complicated to remain itself. Oujda would prefer recognized offices. The Verstand-Jugartha houses prefer enforceable contracts. The broker houses prefer channels they can price, insure, and tax. The defense pacts and border powers prefer maps with clean colors on them. Everyone wants Marinagua translated into something they can file."

He taps one finger lightly against the table.

"And once that happens, men like me become unnecessary. Worse, we become inconvenient."

Verik allows that to rest between them, neither ashamed of it nor proud.

"So yes, I have a selfish interest. Trade. Access. Reputation. Profit. The continued right to move between people who do not trust each other, because I have not yet made myself useful to only one side."

His eyes shift briefly toward Voss, acknowledging the Scout-Engineer without dragging him into the exchange.

"As for your distant Imperium, I know what Voss has told me. I know what Alejia rumor makes of it. A civilization so large it becomes a story before it becomes a fact. Two hundred forty parsecs away, give or take. Half a year by a very good ship, if the route behaves and no one important decides otherwise."

A faint smile returns, thinner this time.

"That is far enough away to be useful as a rumor and harmless as a neighbor. I would prefer it remain both."

He looks back to Virel.

"But your people are not a rumor. They came here in a Scout ship. They landed. They made contact. Then they became part of a local problem that was already moving before they arrived. If their recovery becomes a humiliation for the Xá’kai, NMTC benefits. If it becomes an outrage for the Wiyá’hka, NMTC benefits. If it becomes proof that offworlders only understand force, NMTC benefits. Every loud failure makes the corporate answer look reasonable."

Verik rests both hands flat on the table now.

"So my preferred successful resolution is quiet, narrow, and deniable. You recover Dominicus and the others. You learn enough truth to avoid being used. The tribes involved are given a way to release what they hold without admitting weakness. The Free Captains remain bridges, not banners. And when your ship leaves Marinagua, no one can point to Star’s Mercy and say Verik brought the next empire, compact, corporation, or broker house into their courtyard."

He holds Virel’s gaze for a long moment.

"That is my stake, Officer Kilmire."

The title carries its own small courtesy.

"Not charity. Not friendship. Not obedience to your Service. A bargain. A narrow one. Save the people. Preserve the market. Keep the profit possible. Do not turn a rescue into a precedent everyone else can exploit."

Virel picked up the cup and took a sip.

"You describe a very delicate situation, Captain. One that may be difficult to resolve exactly as you would wish."

He set the cup down.

"However, if one wished to move toward that resolution, where would one begin?"

Verik considers Virel’s question for a moment, then gives a slow nod.

"Where would one begin?"

He looks at the cup rather than at any one of them.

"With the door that remains a door after you knock."

He lets that settle, then looks back to Virel.

"You do not begin by asking who took your people. Not here. Not first. That question turns every listener into either an accused party, a witness, or a liar. Sometimes all three."

His eyes move briefly to Chaala, then to Voss, then back to Virel.

"You begin by asking who holds obligation over lost guests."

The phrase is deliberate.

"Not prisoners. Not hostages. Not stolen personnel. Lost guests. That gives the Alejia room to answer without admitting dishonor. If someone chooses to correct the word, then we learn something. If no one corrects it, we also learn something."

Verik rests one hand flat on the table.

"The first road is a quiet petition. I can arrange a controlled introduction through someone close enough to the Xá’kai to be heard, but not close enough to make the meeting a public test of their authority. You go in as petitioners seeking obligation, not as armed outsiders demanding return of property. Officer Kilmire speaks. Captain Angushlii gives the request weight. Engineer Voss may be present, but carefully. He is proof that your concern is real. He is also a wound that may bleed into the conversation if pressed."

A small pause follows.

"That road is slow. It preserves face. It gives whoever holds Dominicus and the others a way to release them without confessing weakness. But slow roads give nervous people time to move things."

He shifts slightly in his chair.

"The second road is quieter, but less polite."

His tone does not change.

"We follow the hands. Who received them. Who fed them. Who moved them. Who was paid, honored, threatened, or embarrassed. A custody chain leaves marks. Cargo movements. Meal obligations. Escort patterns. Free Captain gossip. Tribal silences. The sort of dirt that never appears in a treaty but keeps ships alive."

Verik gives a thin smile.

"People call it gossip until it saves your life."

He looks toward Chaala again.

"That road is faster. It lets you know where your people are before you ask for them back. It may also show you things the Alejia do not want named aloud. If you confront the wrong person too early, Dominicus may move from guest, to burden, to liability."

He pauses, then continues.

"The third road is pressure."

The word is spoken plainly, without enthusiasm.

"NMTC is already measuring the walls. They may not own the room yet, but they are counting exits. If certain Alejia ears hear that this Scout problem could become part of a larger outside entanglement, some people may decide it is better to resolve the matter before a corporation, broker house, compact, or colonial office finds a way to profit from it."

Verik’s gaze hardens slightly.

"That road may work quickly. It may also make your missing people more valuable as witnesses, bargaining pieces, or bodies no one wants found. Once NMTC enters the room, everyone starts choosing sides."

He sits back.

"So if you ask where I would begin, I would begin with courtesy and verify with dirt."

A faint, humorless smile returns.

"One hand knocks at the proper door. The other counts the footprints behind the house."

He looks from Virel to Chaala.

"I can help arrange the first hand. I can help guide the second. I would not use the third unless time, evidence, or blood leaves you no better choice."

"It took time for us to arrive here and the situation did not change much. Our presence changes things, compressing time and triggering contingencies for those who have expected it. I worry about the ones who did not expect it and may act without plans." Chaala pauses, "But I still favor a more gentle, measured approach."

Verik’s gaze shifts back to Chaala as she speaks. He does not interrupt. When she finishes, he gives a slow nod, as if the distinction she has drawn matters.

"That is the danger," he says. "Not the people who expected you. Expected people prepare doors, knives, witnesses, excuses. The ones who did not expect you may reach for whatever is closest and call it wisdom afterward."

He looks briefly toward Virel, then back to Chaala.

"A gentle approach is not a weak approach. Not here. Done properly, it gives nervous people time to choose a better answer before pride chooses one for them."

Verik rests his fingertips lightly against the tabletop.

"So we begin with the quiet petition. No accusations. No demands. No names placed on the wrong side of a blade. I will send word to a trade speaker who can approach the edge of the Xá’kai circle without making this a public challenge. You will ask after obligation over lost guests. Not prisoners. Not hostages. Not stolen crew. Lost guests."

He lets the phrase settle again, making clear that the wording is not decoration.

"Officer Kilmire should carry the first words. Captain Angushlii should be present to give those words weight. Doctor Shone may be useful if the question turns toward health or care, but I would not place medicine at the front unless you wish them to hear accusation in it."

His eyes move to Voss for a moment.

"And Engineer Voss..."

Verik pauses, not unkindly.

"Engineer Voss is proof. He is also pain. The Alejia will see both. I would keep him near enough to be acknowledged, but not so near that every silence becomes a wound."

He sits back slightly.

"While that door is being approached, my people will follow the quieter road. Food purchases. Escort movements. Who has gone silent, who has become suddenly careful, who is buying offworld supplies without wanting offworld eyes on the transaction. If your missing people are still being held as guests, they are eating. If they are being protected, someone is carrying obligation. If they have become inconvenient, someone is hiding the cost."

A thin, humorless smile touches his face.

"One hand knocks. The other counts footprints."

Verik looks between Chaala and Virel now.

"If you accept that path, then the next choice is simple. Who sits in the petition, who remains aboard your ship, and who you trust to ask ugly questions quietly while the polite ones are being carried inward."