I thought of this scene, and I could not help but write it down.

      The stranger the jailer brought in was a foreigner, that much was certain. No proper Threydin was so broad in build, nor so embarassingly short in comparison to the guards walking beside him. His hair was peculiar, like nothing Thuet had ever seen - all gathered together in thick rat-tails, which were tied together in a bundle by a thick golden ring. His dress, although now dirtied and torn, was fine in make and rich in color. His shirt was left open, chest bare, collar left loose - not keeping with the Custom. As he approached, Thuet saw the darker skin in the flickering torchlight, contrasting with the pale hands gripping his arms.
No, he was no Threydin at all.
Thuet stood aside when they brought the foreigner to the cell he was sent to guard. The jailer tossed him in. "Qalman," he said to Thuet, shutting the cell door and briskly locking it. "Started a brawl. Should be released in a week. The First wants to have a look at him tomorrow."
Thuet nodded. His training kept his expression stoic, but within his chest his curiosity burned. The First wanted to see the foreigner? Not just any foreigner, but a Qalman. The word, so rarely used, sent a thrill of excitement through him. And the First wanted to see him....he was important. Obviously, he was important.
He took a deep breath. Calm, calm. No need to get overexcited. After all, he was just a man, not some exotic animal. Just another brute to keep an eye on. Nothing new.
My job, he thought wryly, is far dulller than people might think.
"You're just burning to know who I am, aren't you?"
Involuntarily, Thuet's head jerked around. He found himself meeting a pair of bright eyes, glittering in the shadows, the color of molten gold.
The foreigner was smiling. Thuet noticed, for the first time, that his face was scarred. A deep, bloody cut ran over one cheek, going through his lips and ending at his chin. It did nothing to improve his face, a  chiseled square dominated by a crooked nose that sat atop a thick neck.
"I'll tell you who I am," the prisoner continued, lisping through his scarred lips, mixing with his rough accent, "If you tell me who you are."
Thuet turned back to facing the corridor. He had guarded many men before, richer and more prominent than this one. He had heard it all before, the bribes and the begging and the threats.  He knew they meant nothing in the prison, unless he allowed it.
"Names are important things, you know," the prisoner went on. "Mine is very important to me. But I know they'll have it out of me by tomorrow. I'd rather you knew it first. You seem like a decent fellow."
Thuet determinedly retained his silence.
"I can tell you how I came to be here. That's a fine, fine story. It has everything you would want to hear - shady dealings, bloody battles, beautiful women...." his voice trailed off. He added, quietly, "But one, in particular. She's why I'm here."
Thuet stared straight ahead.
"She's a Threydin, just like you. Strong and steady, with thick black hair and eyes like the full moon. She can weild a sword better than any man, and carries a shield that's bigger than she is like it's an empty basket."
Thuet found himself slowly turning around, straining to listen.
"She's no taller than I am, but she has twice the heart of any Threydin I've ever met," the man said. His coarse tone had transformed, turning into the chorus of a passionate bard singing a ballad. "She's got a temper like a volcano, and she detests the very sight of steamed corn. Her fine skin breaks out in hives at the mention of cats, and -"
"Wait, wait." Thuet was now facing him, unable to contain his incredulity. The man was grinning.
"You're making all this up." Thuet said.
The man laughed. "If only I were, boy. I wouldn't be here talking to you, if I was."
"So you tell the truth, then?" Thuet said, still maintaining a tone of disbelief. "There is such a woman, and she is the reason you are here?"
"Yes." the prisoner answered. He was no longer grinning. "Her name is Luthe."
Thuet couldn't think of anything to say for a minute. The man seemed absolutely sincere.
"Oh." he said finally. He hesitated, and then asked, "Did you love her? Is that why you're here?"
"Quite the romantic, aren't you?" the man said wryly. He sighed. "But...yes, I suppose. Although I didn't realize that until it was too late."
"What do you mean?"
The man smiled again. "Give me your name, and I'll tell you."
Thuet pursed his lips. A very un-manly gesture, but one he was prone to on these occasions. He was longing to hear the story  - burning, even - but he was well aware of how stupid it was to underestimate prisoners.
"Why do you want my name?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "Because....well, you know, you seem like a decent fellow. I would like to know who you are, so at least you're not a stranger. And -" his voice hardened, "I don't tell my name to someone who doesn't tell me his. It's a matter of trust, you might say. An exchange."
"A deal."
"Yes." The man seemed surprised, but pleased. "A deal. I used to make my living on making deals, you know. Made a fortune out of it, too." he tapped his head. "You see, people see me and they think 'thug'. No brains under any of that muscle. I let them think that. It makes it easier for me to get them where I want them, so I can get what goods I need."
"I see," Thuet said. "You understand that this isn't making me trust you any more?"
"Of course not," the man said.
They sat there for a few moments, silent.
Thuet sighed. "My name is Thuet," he said.
The man nodded. "Thuet. Good name. Very...Threydin."
"It means 'gods' path'." Thuet said quietly.
"That makes it all the more honorable, then," the man said. "My name is Kybo Uzel. Kybo translates to 'strong'. Uzel is 'big brain'. My ancestors weren't the most imaginative bunch. But big brains they did have. I come from a whole family of ugly little geniuses."
"You have no gods, then?" Thuet asked.
"What a question. Of course we have gods. We just aren't on speaking terms."

The second Canapé scene in Valles Marineris

Previously, on Valles Marineris the Vampire Slayer:

Mariner II Black Box [Datestamp]

INCOMING COMMUNICATION FROM MAINTENANCE BAY 45a of MARINER I

[Steve Mannis] Come in, Mariner I! Come in, Mariner I!

[John Turon] This is Mariner I. Who is this?

[Tech Officer] It’s Mannis! What’s going on?

[Steve Mannis] It’s … It’s not Thompson!

[Tech Officer] Do you know where Thompson is?

[Steve Mannis] I don’t know who it is! Switch to camera 0145a! There’s someone else down in the maintenance tunnels and it’s not Thompson, repeat, it’s not Thompson! He’s coming closer! Activate the defense turrets! Open the shaft, Whitman—I’m coming your way!

[Tech Officer] Computer, display camera 0145a.

[POWER FAILURE]

Computer emergency shut down.

Section II: Noctis Labyrinthus: the Second Power Outage/Visitation

from the viewpoint of Isaac Davis and John Turon

In which many characters are placed in unnecessary peril

Isaac Davis’ Personal Log [timestamp]
After my encounter with Caroline, I made my way to the Aphrodite Lounge, winding my way through my favorite dark tunnels. I passed Mannis—he’s been like a nervous squirrel since Thompson disappeared the other day, very jumpy and wide-eyed. He didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m assuming. No blame there—none of us did.

I won’t lie: I don’t envy him for where his job takes him. To have to stay in the dark tunnels all day, knowing that something is very much not right, and whatever it is, it’s capable of making people disappear.

I chatted with him as I went up to the Canapé d’Aphrodite, glad for the company in the tunnels. I might just ask Whitman to amplify the lights down here, if he can. No need for it to be so murky.

I finally gave him the most awkward friendly pat on the back I had ever given — “Bye, now! Good luck in the dark shadows where your friend went missing!” — and climbed up the ladder to the Canapé. I opened the hatch.

It slid away to reveal a man’s face staring straight down at me. His eyes seemed to flicker with the difficulty of concentrating on me. He didn’t say a word of greeting, or really make any indication he had seen me except that his eyes were staring with such intensity—into my soul or into some abyss his mind had conjured up, I couldn’t tell. After I had caught my breath and my heart stopped pounding, it became apparent he was not altogether well. I climbed out of the ladder, and his eyes did not follow me. The hatch closed beneath his face, and he continued to stare at it. I checked his pulse quickly—he didn’t resist as I held his arm and pressed my finger against his wrist—and determined he was alive, and his heart rate was at least slower than mine after he almost gave me a heart attack. Not sure what to do, I looked beyond into the Canapé.

The lounge, with its swirling neon-against-black splendor, looked as it had before, with the exception of two other people—a woman in a black dress with a feather boa and a man in a tuxedo—were sprawled on the floor, though they seemed more lucid than the other man, and were conversing with one another as though it were perfectly ordinary. No one seemed to take notice of them except for myself. Lain in chairs and booths, like bones in a crypt, were several others, sipping weakly out of hands that seemed to act independent of their lolling, staring heads, which sipped obediently when prompted. Those who stood swayed and swooned, many of them dancing together, their smoking jackets or silken gowns glowing under the blacklight that was now shining from tiny bulbs scattered throughout the black vaulted ceiling like stars.

It was much more crowded than yesterday. The tables were packed with food and the occasional human sprawled on top, oblivious to the mess. Cigar smoke filled the air, and the smell of something else, bitter and sweet at the same time, that I couldn’t identify. The laughing and chatter almost drowned out the ghostly jazz piano music, though I couldn’t see a piano anywhere.

It was as though someone had taken a picture of my most cynical imagination of what obscenely rich people did in their spare time and reproduced it to the tiniest detail with living people.

I found my way to the bright-shining bar and took a seat on one of the unoccupied stools. The bartender gave me surprised look, but didn’t say anything—for the better, I guess, since things were so loud. I just pointed to a form of liquor or rather. Some idiot danced right into my arm, turned, and danced just as hard the other way, laughing like an old children’s cartoon villain as he did. He smelled of sweat and that same odd, bitter spicy smell that filled the room, as if he were sweating it.

When the bartender brought me the bottle, which he handed to me, he leaned close and shouted so as to be heard, “Haven’t you got a job to do around here?”

“Yes,” I shouted back, “I’m just pointedly not doing it.”

“You might want to get back to it, or you’ll be like the others.”

“What, rich and stupid?”

He cocked an eyebrow and gave me a queer little smile, and then backed away. I didn’t try to understand it. I was in great need to hard, quick relaxing.

After I had nursed the bottle for a few minutes, the bartender laid in front of me a plate with some sort of meat on it. Real meat, a whole piece of an animal, free of protein redistribution, cellular redimensioning, or carbohydrate insertion. It was decorated with a collection of herbs and moistened with a dark sauce. A few visible steam tendrils lilted seductively off it.

“Give the rich, stupid life a shot,” he said.

I wasn’t keen on wealth or stupidity, but the meat was most compelling. I may have inhaled it or merely chewed insufficiently, but it was off the plate and in me in a few minutes.

I don’t know why I do this ... describe things so flippantly, I mean. Maybe it’s my self-defense mechanism. I know Alice would always ask me to take thing seriously when things were getting dark and grave. That’s one thing I wish she’d understood. Things might have gone differently if she’d known that I whistle at the shadows when I’m too scared to do anything else. Because what happened next is that everything went black.

The music died, the lights died, the bar went out, and I was sitting on a stool in a hot, hellish blackness. The people were laughing and chattering louder than ever, but didn’t react. My heart froze inside me and I had a hard time breathing. My hand went to the bottle, but I knew that I needed my wits about me, that my life might depend on what happened in the next few minutes. I went straight down to the deeply carpeted floor and huddled against the bar, blinking in the darkness.

The laughter and partying went right on.

The emergency lights came on and flooded the dark room with all its smoky haze and careening, dancing bodies in bright, white light. Again, no reaction.

I felt my skin prickle and although I know the noise was as loud as ever, I was suddenly keenly focused.

There was something, something I didn’t like. For a while I pretended I didn’t notice the feeling. It nipped at the back of my neck, ran its fingers along my spine. I didn’t know where it was or what it came from, but somehow I knew exactly where it was. It was the place I was afraid to look, the source of my crawling skin and hair on edge.

[more show, not tell of what he’s feeling … more concrete details about himself? a la “For a while I pretended I didn’t notice the feeling. It nipped at the back of my neck, ran its fingers along my spine”]

There, through the door of the room, on a landing of staircase lit in cold white light, was a small corner of darkness. I saw what looked like a human form, but I could see nothing more distinct than a vague shadow. As I looked at it, its head seemed to swivel about and look at me.

I blinked.

There was only an ornate landing of staircase. It seemed to lean close to me, as if it were trying to show me that there was no corner of shadow. Nevertheless, it all but screamed that in center of the landing lay a body that had not been there bore.

The feeling passed, as though a hand that held all my skin tightly had let go, and I felt it relax. The sweltering heat returned, and the smell of that odd cigar and weird spice choked me again. I noticed for the first time that the meat I had just eaten had been rank with that bitter-sweet taste, and that the smell was heavy on my breath.

I stood as quickly as I could, but must have drunk more than I thought. I reeled and caught myself on the bar stool. The world spun a little.

I knew I had to get back to the science vessel, but I was afraid to go alone. I stayed where I was, huddled back against the bar for hours, until John Turon showed up, like in a dream, and helped me to my feet. Together we headed to the hatch down to the utility tunnels, stepping over several chattering individuals. the man who had been lying near the hatch was now gone.

We made it back to the science vessel without incident, but I’m too sick to go on. The food. Something is in the food.

[maybe extend the scene wher ehe’s eating so we can see a regression into him being all loopy and stuff]


John Turon’s Journal [datestamp]

We experienced another blackout earlier this evening. I would normally have been confined to my quarters on the science vessel, tracking the weather patterns and advising Whitman on how to best avoid Commonwealth scanners, but since the last blackout, I’ve been free to roam the science vessel. I didn’t dare leave it—for some reason, the science vessel has not blacked out, but always retained some of its power during each incident. This is fascinating and terrifying, because the schematics betrayed no engineering failure, and the power fluctuations come and go with no indicator as to their source.

I don’t need any indicators, however. Simple deduction is enough: the Valles Marineris colony warned us of strange happenings, and wouldn’t you know it? Strange things started happening among us after we arrived within 20 kilometers of the Valles Marineris colony. The evidence we have to go on is a perfect syllogism: we are experiencing the same trouble that sent the colony in an uproar. Whatever caused the trouble at the prior Valles Marineris colony can effect the same trouble up to a 20 kilometer radius at least.

I presented my findings—rather, my reasoning and my lack of findings—to Whitman, who on my advice further disobeyed Phillip Ottenson’s orders and turned the Mariner vessels around, steering us to a 100 kilometer distance, through a nearby channel slop that will bring us out of the main Noctis Labyrinthus canyon system.

Since his last public announcement, we have heard nothing from Ottenson. His threats make me uneasy, however. He’s shown himself capable of carrying out threats, but never when he was acting alone. I’m not sure how we’ll handle him when he confronts us, but I have no doubt that a confrontation is not far off.

Yesterday’s blackout occurred after we received a distress call from Mannis, the remaining technical assistant. He was speaking incoherently, but said that he had run into somebody and wanted us to see. When we switched the view the camera he indicated, our lights flickered, and the screens went blank.

We still had power, but the computer indicated that the Mariner I was powerless. However, it appeared that the system merely needed to be rebooted—like a crashed personal computer system from the earlier, buggier days of computer technology. While Whitman worked on that and Perry—one of the other technical officers, apparently another nn member—stood guard at the entrance, I felt inclined to search for Mannis.

They must be very trusting of me, because Whitman insisted I take a gun. I’ve never found use for weapons before, but I wasn’t going to deny him.

I set out into the pitch-black corridor with only a flashlight to light the way.

I had never been in total darkness before, but for some reason I didn’t mind it. I’ll have to look into why at some later date.

I did find Mannis, huddled against a wall in a tunnel leading to the drinking lounge. He was mumbling under his breath, but did not resist me as I checked his vital signs and helped him to his feet. He clung tightly to my arm, as if afraid of letting go. His head whipped about nervously, peering into the darkness over his shoulder periodically.

“It wasn’t Thompson!” He said.

“I know,” I replied, “You told me earlier.”

“No,” he repeated, “it was not Thompson.”

He didn’t seem very reasonable, so I set about taking him back to the science vessel, when he stopped in his tracks.

“Davis!” he hissed. “Isaac Davis! He’s upstairs.”

I pinged Davis on my communicator, but I received no response. I pinged again—nothing.

Suddenly the lights cam on again. My breath caught, and I panicked for a moment, but I quickly regained my wits and realized the coast was clear.

“Whitman, do you hear me?” I asked into my comm device.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Do we have any information on Isaac Davis’ location?”

“He should be at his station down here.”

“He isn’t here. I think I may know where he is. I’ll be back in a moment. I have Mannis, by the way. No worse for wear.”

“Understood.”

Together with Mannis, who seemed much calmed by the return of the lights, I climbed up the hatch to the drinking lounge, with the strange title Ottenson gave it—Le Canapé d’Aphrodite.

There, in all the neon and black splendor of a billion-dollar speakeasy, was pandemonium—a mass of human flesh in finely-tailored suits and silken dresses, dancing, crawling, or sitting and staring, laughing, crying, smoking, drinking, eating, all in lazy, drunken movements. the place reeked of some strong spice, like burning sage and cough syrup, as well as fine tobacco smoke. It was a den of sin, and the sinners entirely unaware of the danger they were in.

At the center of the room, with all its curls, twirls, and neon frills, was a bightly-lit bar, with one of the Ascraeus Mons military guards in the attitude and dress of a bartender. I recognized him as one of those who kept watch over the federal offices in the science facility. His name was Andrew Baker. I suppose hwas also in the secret society that started this all. He regarded us darkly and curiously. We were not supposed to be here, his eyes told us.

There, at the foot of the bar, was Isaac Davis, crumpled much as Mannis had been. I went to him and lifted him to his feet, but he seemed barely able to stand. With some aid I brought him through the oblivious crowd of rioutous merrymaking to the hatch, where i sat him down and began to quiz him on what he had seen and heard, and if he knew whether these people were being guarded.

As he spoke to me, his face was a mask of intensity, but his answers were only semi-coherent, and his eyes seemed to be focusing just over my shoulder. I looked closer and noticed his pupils unusually dilated—far too small for the dim light. He blinked unnaturally as he spoke. All of this spoke much more clearly than he himself did (something about shadows moving and how someone  was following him). Although I am no medical doctor, I did study toxicology for a small time in my chemistry and climate work. I suspect recreational drug use.

Mannis helped me bring him back to the science vessel. As Ottenson has not been willing to lead his little secret society even in the face of disaster, I insisted on securing the premises and debriefing Mannis. I will conduct a blood test on Davis to see what is in his system, and then debrief him as well. Whitman seems all-too willing to have orders to follow, so I don’t need to worry about him. Silverstein and Perry might give me trouble, as well as the security staff, but those are troubles for a later time.

Computer Log [Datestamp]
[Tech Officer Whitman] Computer: compute function “casualties.” Find the difference between total recognized life forms aboard and total life forms on the vessel manifest, label number “casualties.”
[Computer] Casualties: 4.
[Tech Officer] Thank you. Compute function “freakazoid.” Calculate the number of total recognized life forms on board not found on the vessel manifest, label number “freakazoid.”
[Computer] Freakazoid: 0.
[Tech Officer] Thank you. Computer, delve into your records for a moment to last night, when we were within 100 meters of the Valles Marineris colony. At the time of the power outage last night, when the “casualties” number rose to four, compute function “freakazoid.”
[Computer] At [timestap; datestamp]: Freakazoid: 1.
[Tech Officer] Thank you. When did this anomaly first show itself?
[Computer] [datestamp], sir.
[Tech Officer] Computer, our security system was intended to be excellent. Failing to alert us to an invasion of our security falls somewhat short of excellent. Why didn’t you report this extra life form the moment it got on board?
COMPUTER: It asked me not to, sir.