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.

Jadrus - Chapter 1 Script

This is the script for the first part of the first chapter of my comic, which will be starting next week. I usually fine-tune it right before putting it into the comic (basically just tweaking the phrasing so that it's appropriate to the situation), but I could always use input. This comic is long-form, which means that it's going to be sloooow in its buildup. I've been having difficulty with trying to keep it interesting. 


Well, we'll just see how much I improve over time, I guess....


NOTES: Gehnn has a severe speech imdediment as a result of her scarring. So any 'speaking' done by her would be in thought form (with a few exceptions)
Remish-plural
Rem-singular (somewhat deragotory)
Remishman-singular (proper)
(but no one uses it.)
(oh well.)

Chapter 1: The Man in the Bush
Gehnn: There's always a reason for everything, Paskkah used to say.
He was the smartest person I knew, and so I took his word for it. He always answered my questions. Not the answers everyone else always gave me, the ones that dodged around telling me what I wanted to know.
Of course, there are some questions that don't really have good answers.
And it seems the older you get, the more of them there are.
It stinks. But that's life, I guess.
And honestly.....it would be real boring any other way.
(Gehnn is standing at a food stand, leaning on her elbows. A fly comes in. She watches it.)
Gehnn: Hello, Mr. Fly.
Your eyes are looking especially shiny today.
I imagine you want a taste of the yams we've got here.
I don't blame you. You must be tired of people's garbage.
Too bad you're a fly, though. If you were a cute little dog, I might've given you something.
(Shadow approaches - fly goes away.)
Yul: Talking to bugs again?
(Gehnn sighs, straightens)
Yul: So....Min left you to man the stall, I see.
During dead time. Again.
Gehnn: (shrugs)
Yul: Where is he, anyway?
Gehnn: (points in some direction - mimes talking with hands)
*translation: he's at the Market District.
Yul: Ah. Market District, huh?
What do you wanna bet he'll come back with another load of wormy apples?
Gehnn: (waves a hand)
Yul: Always sticking up for him. Sheesh, Gehnn.
Gehnn: (shrugs again, with hands)
Yul: Whatever. He's not going to be back for a few hours, right?
Gehnn: shrug.
Yul: Stop that.
 How about we head over to Moiah's stall? She's actually got some fresh rabbit in the stew today.
She said she'd give us first dibs if we snuck some of the thornapples from Min.
Gehnn: Looks disapproving.
Yul: Come on, Gehnn, he's got more than enough to sell. You told me he had to throw out half the shipment a few days ago.
So come on. Let's not waste.
Gehnn: raises eyebrow. looks from right to left and then starts packing in apples.
(Min approaches.)
Min: GEHNN!
(Gehnn hides the bag and shoves Yul under the counter)
Min: (getting closer)
Gehnn! I actually have something for you to do!
Yul: I'll bet.
(Gehnn kicks her)

Further in the Valles Marineris story

Control Room of Mariner II: Incoming transmission from UNKNOWN
Phillip Ottenson, this is Lawrence Major at Valles Marineris colony! Our radar can’t track a thing in this storm—have you changed course yet? The situation here is rapidly degenerating into insanity! We’re abandoning the colony, Ottenson! You’re as stubborn as stubborn will allow by its dictionary definition, but listen to me: do—not—come—here! Get as far away as you can! You have equipment to settle elsewhere—do so!

I repeat, we are abandoning the colony at Valles Marineris! I don’t know what the future holds for the nn, but it’s not here! People have disappeared, died, and … Phillip, we’ve discovered something in the mines. We dug too deep. There was … something down there, I don’t know what it was, but it’s not down there any more! And then people started having hallucinations, and disappearing, coming down witht he sickness …

Phillip Ottenson, are you reading me? Can you hear me? If you can hear anything I’m saying, for the love of all that is good and holy, pick up the receiver and answer me immediately!

We’re going to hide inside the mine, where we can set up a much tighter security detail. Change course immediately!

Phillip, answer me!

Isaac Davis’ Personal Log
At the promised time, I left the Mariner II and climbed into the dark tunnels of the Mariner. As I promised myself, I did actually bring a flashlight. the shaft of light did little dispell my apprehension. something about the fact that it was actually night (it’s hard to tell on board the Mariner, but the security monitors on board the II showed as much) caused me an extra measur eof anxiety. Maybe it’s the old Earthly notions of ghosts and monsters int he dark still held sway over me, somewhere deeep in my subconscoous. A lot lurks down there that my rational mind would put an end to if it could. The flaishlight really only served the send the shadows of the tubes and pipes rinning everywhere dancing on the walls as I moved, or make a black cloud of gas that spewed in front of me white like some sort of phantom. I paused periodically as I followed the arrows to the residential district (the Sleepy Willow Suites) to listen for footsteps other than mine, but I heard nothing.

I reached the stairs which lead up to the shaft to the Sleepy Willow, when my light fell upon a man’s face, a man standing beside the stairwell. I nearly dropped my flashlight before I recognized the man as Thompson, one of the security men, young and somewhat wild-looking, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“Hello,” I said as I walked passed him, “Sorry, you kind of startled me.”

He didn’t say anything, but only nodded as I passed, and lit his cigarette. His eyes followed me as I climbed the stairs, and my back almost prickled, knowing he was watching me as I walked. I stole a glance down. He hadn’t moved. His eyes gleamed reflecting the flashlight’s beam above him, underscored by the red glare of the cigarette tip. He is a quiet one. I can’t abide quiet people. I always feel like they’re evaluating everyone and everything, and everything is falling short in their evaluation.

Finally I came to the shaft. I was glad to leave the tunnels. I climbed eagerly and opened the hatch.

It opened to new wonders. I climbed out and found myself in the service closet that opened to a long, ill-lit narrow hallway hemmed in on each side by doors and lit by a canopy of small, dim yellow lights set in glass casings in the shapes of various flowers, twelve feet off the ground and covering the barrel-vaulted ceiling. The ceiling itself was painted to resemble branches of twisted bushes and vines. The carpet was dark crimson, and at least as thick as that of Le Canape d’Aphrodite. Rich red wood framed doors in beautifully carved arches, each resembling a miniatureized entry to the City of Petra, the tops of which held ornamental wooden canisters which melted into ribs, panelling hte barrel-vault ceiling with its electric flower garden of lamps. The doors themselves were black and metallic, panelled and covered in swirling patterns of dark steel. In ornate, victorian-style golden panels set at eye level of each door were engraven the number of the apartment.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: the richness of the common accomodations or the fact that no one else was gawking up at them. The hallway was deserted. I sat alone in the half-lit corridor staring like an idiot at the pretty lights. What’s with this design and keeping everything so dark? Something about the hallway felt cold, and I felt uncomfortably vulnerable. The barrel ceiling loomed overhead with its pacifying flower-lights, and it seemed that more than my staring at them, that something was staring at me.

After a minute I came to my senses and remembered the number I was supposed to be looking for—32791—and started looking.

The number nearest to me was 32004. I was a good seven hundred away, but on the right floor. my feet made no sound on the carpet, and the silence was almost as much a part of the hallway as the doors or the ceiling. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t hear myself—I hated to let my imagine run away, but I couldn’t shut out the thought of Thompson, quiet Thompson, creeping along the hallway behind me. I’d never know it. That sent me looking over my shoulder until I finally came across door 32791, after what seemed like hours and miles.

I knocked, not really knowing what else to do. Almost immediately, the door swung open, and there was Caroline. She was wearing the same gown, and her hair was the same, if a bit unkempt. Her eyes were wide and her relaxed smile from earlier was gone. She still did not directly at me, but rather through me.

“Good of you to come,” she said, wasting no time, “now get inside.”

I obliged, all too happy to leave the hallway.

She shut the door quickly and locked it. Her room was circular, and more brightly lit than without. A bed lay in the center of the small room, also circular, with four posts where they would normally be found on a four-poster bed, thrust up toward the muraled ceiling, where they met, wound around one another, and finally entwined into a spiral shape which dipped downward. At the end of the drooping spiral, like a carved stalagtite, blossomed another, larger glass flower, illuminated by a bright yellow lightbulb, whose light filled the room with the warmth and security the hallway lacked.

She went to a chair by the bed and took a seat, leaving me to find my own seat. I took the bed. She turned to me and opened her mouth. For a moment, no sound came out. Then she said in a hushed tone,

“Isaac, I think

ALERT FOR UNKNOWN RECORDING DEVICE: ISAAC DAVIS’ PERSONAL LOG: POWER SURGE FAILURE. EMERGENCY POWER DOWN. INSTANT BACKUP SAVED.

Control Room, Mariner II.
Black Box
[POWER FAILURE]
[Tech Officer] Computer, switch to emergency generators!
**emergency generators engaged. Vital systems operational. All auxiliary power: off. Entertainment systems: off. Lighting: minimal—work lights engaged. Security systems: minimal.**
COMPUTER: Do you wish to engage emergency security measures, sir?
[Tech Officer] Of course! What do you take me for?
COMPUTER: Idiom not understood, sir. Engaging.
**emergency security measures engaged. Doors: sealed. Blast doors: engaged.**
[Tech Officer] Computer, what happened?
COMPUTER:  Unknown power surge, sir. Effects similar to that of an EMP, sir.
[Tech Officer] Any hints as to what may have caused this surge?
COMPUTER:  Restatement: Unknown power surge, sir.
[Tech Officer] Fine, fine. Scan for life, make sure everyone is okay. We don’t want anyone to panic. Now would be a very bad time for mass hysteria.
COMPUTER: Agreed, sir. Scan in progress.
[Tech Officer] Staff accounted for?
COMPUTER: 27 staff members accounted for, sir. 5083 total life forms detected on board the Mariner I, the Mariner II, and the Mariner III.
[Tech Officer] Good … wait. Weird. Confirm that number, 5082 total life forms on board?
COMPUTER: Error, sir. Total life forms on board: 5083.
[Tech Officer] What, did someone give birth?
COMPUTER: Medical scans conducted prior to departure would have revealed any stage of fetal development as an additional life form. No pregnancies or births are possible for another five months, approximately, sir.
[Tech Officer] But that can’t be right. Computer, confirm the manifest for the three Mariner vessels.
COMPUTER: As of departure date [datestamp: ‘44], 5082 life forms were admitted to the Mariner vessels.
[Tech Officer] So what’s this extra one?
COMPUTER: Unknown.
[Tech Officer] You’re telling me that we picked up an extra passenger somewhere?
COMPUTER: Scans indicate 5083 life forms. Confirmed, scans detected one more life form than are accounted for in the manifests. Attempting to discern location 5083rd life form.
[Tech Officer] Patch me in to Ottenson immediately. We need to tell him we have a visitor.

Isaac Davis’ Personal Log:
MICROPHONE ONLINE
REBOOTING RECORDING DEVICE: DATA SAVED. RESUMING RECORDING.
[do not put into present tense in re-write]
I guess my recording device is working again, because the light came on on my neck. I can see it because it’s pitch black in here. I’m in Caroline’s room. The power just died on us, and everything just plunged into black, not even a flicker int he lights to warn us. At least the carpet is nice and soft. Caroline’s pretty on edge. I haven’t heard a woman scream in a long time. It’s pretty jarring if you’re not used to it.

I know we have emergency power, because I can see a faint glow from the hallway seeping in underneath the door.

[rewrite above section in past tense]

Caroline just clung to me, her fingers digging deep into my arm. Her breath was hot on my ear as she leaned near to whisper, “Isaac, I’m getting that feeling again. Like someone’s following me.”

I hushed her, because under the door, the light from the hall was blocked by the shadow of someone’s feet, walking down the hall. The person made no sound. The pair of feet passed the door, and then returned a moment later. They shifted back and forth, as if uncertain, and then finally stopped directly in front of the door.

“Ottenson,” I whispered, “Phillip Ottenson, can you hear me?”

There was a moment of silence, and then a voice came in my ear,

“This is Technical Officer Whitman[?]. Phillip Ottenson is not available at present. We are dealing with an emergency. Where are you, Isaac?”

“Whitman, are any security cameras working?” I asked. The person hadn’t moved a muscle. He didn’t knock, he didn’t go away. He just stood there. He seemed so close, his nose must be touching the door.

“We’ve regained power enough for that, yes. Why, where are you?”

“I’m in room [room] in the Sleepy Willow. Someone’s standing at our door. Can you see him? Is it Thompson?”

Caroline’s nails were biting into my flesh. The person remained in place. Was he listening for something?

“We have visual. Camera 62. Let’s see … no … no idea who that is, Davis. I can’t see his face. It isn’t Thompson, I know that. Look, you’re safe where you are. Don’t move until the power comes back. But you need to know, we think there’s an intruder on board. So stay where you are. We’re going to try to get the security systems online first.”

The shadow then moved, slowly, deliberately, almost awkwardly away and out of sight. As they left, I let out a deep sigh. Caroline even relaxed a short moment. And then the lights came back on.

Computer Log: Black Box, Mariner I.
[Tech Officer] The power’s back. Computer, status report.
Computer: All systems functional, power reserves at 88.56%.
[Tech Officer] Life form count?
Computer: I am pleased to announce that the life form count is again at 5082, sir.
[Tech Officer] Now that you’re up and running, any idea as to what caused the glitch?
Computer: Sir, there was no glitch. A power surge struck out the main power grid upon the addition of the 5083rd life form, sir. The power returned shortly thereafter, and the life form count dropped to 5082.
[Tech Officer] No ID on the person in Camera 62?
Computer: None, sir.
[Tech Officer] I’m confused. Any diagnostic?
Computer: My recommendation, sir, would be to ensure that none of the staff is missing.
[Tech Officer] Computer, broadcast the following throughout the vessel: All staff, go to the nearest ID station and acknowledge you can hear my voice. Alert me to any suspicious activity. End message.
Now, Computer, get me into contact with Phillip Ottenson.
Computer: Phillip Ottenson’s chambers have been in contact for the duration of the voyage.
[Tech Officer] So you’ve been listening in this whole time, Ottenson? You keep awfully quiet.
…
[Tech Officer] Ottenson? You there?
…

Personal Log: Isaac Davis [datestamp: the next day]
I don’t know that to think anymore. Thompson is nowhere to be found, but the life-form count still reads 5082—the number of people we started with. Either he’s dead and someone snuck on board or he’s just … missing. I saw the security footage. Can’t figure out who our mystery man is, but it’s not Thompson. I guess it could just be one of the other passengers, but he was behaving strangely, and Caroline seemed like she knew he would be coming.

I moved her into the staff’s quarters—Quartermistress had no problem with it, but here’s where things get really weird: Ottenson isn’t responding to anyone. So there was no point in asking his approval. Caroline’s relief was visible, but now we’re starting to worry about Ottenson. The computer at first said his office—which, I found out, is in the civilian vessel Mariner and not the science vessel Mariner II where the rest of us live—has been plugged in and monitoring all comm channels and camera feeds, but yesterday, the computer stopped accepting questions about Ottenson. We don’t even know exactly where his office is to go check up on him. This after the Tech Officer hacked into the ship’s official comm channel and intercepted a transmission from the nn colony already at Valles Marineris.

That transmission told us to stay away from the Valles Marineris, and that they’re abandoning it. Why? Because people started going missing, and something else they didn’t elaborate on, but sounded rather grim. We should be at the—abandoned—Valles Marineris colony by tomorrow, if we keep to schedule. Whitman, the chief Tech officer, is diverting us for a moment, pausing the trip till we can talk to Ottenson and figure out what’s going on.

And here’s the really lovely thing in all of this, something I haven’t told anyone else because I don’t want to sound paranoid like Caroline: on the way back from her room, I came down the same shaft I ascended to get to the Sleepy Willow apartments. I noticed, with everything lit with safety lights, a cigarette lying on the floor, half-burned, still smoking from somewhere inside its ashes, right where I had passed Thompson on the way up.

Maybe Caroline isn’t crazy. Maybe she is. Either way, I think we all need to have some words with him.

Computer Log: Black Box [datestamp]
Computer: Incoming call from Phillip Ottenson.
[Tech Officer] Finally! Patch him in.
[Ottenson] How’s it, Whitman?
[Tech Officer] Where have you been, Ottenson? Why didn’t—
[Ottenson] Let’s not linger on the “didn’ts.” There’s a “did” I’ve taken rank with. Why, Whitman, did you stop us?
[Tech Officer] You’ve been watching and listening this whole time; you know very well why.
[Ottenson] Yes, that brings me to another “did.” Why did you hack my personal communications channel and listen to my mail?
[John Turon] You’re insane, Ottenson! There’s a very good reason whoever that was told us to stay away from the colony!
[Ottenson] I’m talking about the fact that you hacked into my private personal communications channel.
[Tech Officer] None of us has a private channel. I wouldn’t have had to hack it if you hadn’t restricted access to information we should all be privy to.
[John Turon] Whatever you believe about survival and anarchy and whatever you’ve planted in the minds of these people, you have no right to knowingly lead us into danger you don’t even understand!
[Ottenson] Whitman, shut him up, would you?
[Tech Officer] No can do. I happen to agree with him.
[Ottenson] You’re taking orders from Turon, now, are you? I’ll bet he’s the one who—
[Tech Officer] Look, he’s right! You no priest to be the intermediary between us and information we need, and you’re no God to decide our fates for us!
[Ottenson] I saved you all from certain death! I’m saving mankind! I’m closer to being God than anything!
[Tech Officer] Ottenson, listen to yourself. You sound ridiculous. We all know that the Valles Marineris colony expressly warned us not to come, that some catastrophe has happened there, and when we came within a hundred miles of them, we experienced last night’s fiasco. One man is missing. Thousands of people are aboard this vessel, and their lives are in our hands. We’re not going anywhere until we’ve come to a consensus.
[Ottenson] All right, I’ve had enough of this. Computer, patch me through to the Mariner public address system.
Computer: Yes, sir.

Mariner PA System: Announcement from Dr. Ottenson
Alright, so I hear there’s some contention about who’s in charge and where we’re going.

You know, the ancient explorers feared to sail across the globe thinking they would fall off the edge of the world. They were more right than they knew, or than most people care to reflect upon. They were absolutely correct in their fear—they really COULD fall off the face of the earth—except in their belief that the world is flat. They didn’t realize they were standing on the edge of the world—the ground was earth’s end, the tipping point to falling off into the starry void of space. In fact, if it weren’t for the planet’s gravity, they’d have flown off the face of the earth into space. Years later, man intentionally shoved off the earth and took care to fall off the edge of the earth. He drifted, not wholly sure he would even be remembered if he died, like the thousands lost in the ancient seas. He plunged forward and plotted a course for red, rusty, freezing shores here on Mars.

The first colonizers and the Earth government that came with them were a lot more like the ancient mariners than we like to think. They settled unknown shores. We’ve been here for a good while, actually—Mars itself, the whole planet is one big edge of the earth, one big Pacific ocean that their triremes were bobbing in. Now it’s our turn to shove off to stranger shores. It’s our turn to go down in history with Buzz Aldrin and Luis Armstrong. We’re shoving off the edge of the world—instead of an ocean, it’s a desert, but they’re kind of similar, I guess—and some of us are scared we’ll fall off into the inky black void of whatever. You know, that’s a risk we have to take. That didn’t stop the explorers of the past, and it won’t stop us. We aren’t superstitious seafarers who trust stars as compasses and fortune-tellers. We’re us. We’re armed, we’re well-protected, we’re alert. We’ve come a long way, cast off from Spain, only we’re no Columbus, and the Spanish king and queen want us on the Inquisition’s rack. We’ll either succeed and be heroes for generations to come, or we’ll die. We’ll die if we turn around, too. Our options are “definitely death” or “maybe survival.” As long as “survival” is in my list of options, it’s the one I’m going to choose. We have to keep going. It’s the only rational thing to do.