A Murder - A Maker Pt. 03

Resource exploitation came before colonization when mankind began to stretch beyond Earth. When commercial probes scouted Mars and its two moons, the discovery of a vast deposit of rich ores and minerals on Phobos prompted a scurry of activity, as the supplies to establish bases of extraction were delivered and the moon was carefully pushed away from its planet to form a more stable, distant orbit. Constructs blossomed over and around the moon, vast containers to store the metals until they could be shipped, huge drills and sifters: all duplicated a number of times, as vying interests laid their claim to the moon in the nebulous disputes of ownership that afflicted the early spacefaring years. They consumed the moon, leaving a riddled corpse of rock and dust, and after everything valuable had been claimed the stations themselves were abandoned, whatever couldn't be easily reclaimed left derelict.

Arms braced against both of the pilot seats, I stared wide-eyed at the pock-scarred moon and the web of satellites and stations connected to it as our shuttle quietly approached. Collisions with small bits of debris had scored many of the platforms but most still looked in remarkable condition, preserved by the emptiness of space.

"Where are we going?" I asked, glancing between the men seated before me.

Jardine opened his mouth but Ivalian, who had adopted an exasperated mien of the past hour of his partner's constant prattle, cut him off.

"Lot of machinery left up here, after all the companies cleared out. Didn't take long for someone to move in, make the habitation areas airtight again and start linking them together to form a complex. It was a base for a gang of raiders who needed to lay low somewhere, called the Raptors. Over time it transformed into a kind of outlaw's paradise; they're still there, but now it's open to anyone who comes by, with them running the show enough to keep things livable. Not many rules on the station, either, but if anyone makes too much trouble they disappear real quick."

Jardine looked back toward me at that.

"Do make certain you are confident in what you are doing, dear friend. But rest assured, our warnings are solely out of concern for your well-being, and we have the utmost faith that you shall navigate the coming trials with wisdom and shrewd thinking, never once stepping astray."

The description had begun to set me on edge, but Jardine's words drew a smile again and I nodded to the pair.

"Thank you. I will. And if it hadn't been for you two, and for Riss, I don't know how I ever would have managed to get this far. I appreciate it."

Ivalian grunted. "Good to finally have someone grateful for a change," hands leaving the piloting console as a thud resonated through the shuttle's frame. "But you'd best get your things together and be on your way. We're here."

I had little to gather beyond what I was already wearing, so after bidding the two men farewell I found myself stepping through the airlock and down a passage that large metal door with a thick glass plate in the center. As I reached it the door started to hiss, and I leaned forward to take in the station beyond as I waited for it to open.

The Roost sprawled out in all directions, a jigsaw mess of modular and standalone station components all cut, welded, and sealed together in a way that looked ever on the verge of breaking apart, to the layman's eye. Or perhaps to any eye. I stepped free of the airlock, wondering at the marvels of reclamation and improvisation that had given birth to this place. There was a hanger bay, viewable over a balcony railing nearby, open to space but for a narrow field of some sort that projected across the opening, making a small barrier to contain the atmosphere. A quick glance of the ships within told me that only vessels in need of repair were permitted in the docks, while functional ones were relegated to external airlocks.

I wandered for a time, exploring the multi-colored hallways and listening in to the conversations that large groups carried any time I passed nearby. The people were diverse: some matching colors with their companions, others a mix of odd pieces of equipment. There were merchants and what looked like civilians walking alongside heavily armored warriors with horrific scars, and on occasion I could see blocky freight robots towing cargo in the wake of their owners. The attitudes I encountered ranged from cautious to brash, and I lowered my shoulders and slimmed my profile to ease the concerns of any who looked my way.

There was a wide area near the middle of the station that had been claimed by hawkers and people with wares to sell, but it seemed less populated than I would have anticipated. As I scanned the merchants I realized it made sense, after a fashion. The busiest were the men selling typical supplies you might find at any market anywhere, and the others had odd arrays of contraband items or substances - at least, those they were willing to display. Most people who came here for something specific knew where to find it, and preferred that destination be somewhere a little more private, more likely than not.

As I crossed the area something caught my eye and I changed course, heading for the far wall. The hallways beyond seemed uncharacteristically uniform, with none of the patchwork feel that permeated the rest of the station. I ventured down the hallway, curious at the lack of any traffic through the area. Soon the corridor took a hard turn, and I found myself face to face with an armed man leaning against a sealed door. A rifle dangled from his chest, held in place by a strap that looped over his shoulders, and he raised the weapon enough to to aim its muzzle at my feet, threatening but not overly aggressive, which matched his expression. I noticed a camera nestled against the join of ceiling and wall just above him, but had a hard time focusing on anything but the rifle.

"This area's off limits," he said, straightening off the door and looking me over. "And you're not anyone I recognize. No closer, but you can put your hands down."

My hands had splayed up and aside in surrender without my realizing it. His comment prompted me to slowly drop them to my sides, a sheepish, wryly amused feeling growing in my chest. Clearing my throat, I said,

"Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I've just been exploring, and I didn't know there were off-limits areas. Not ones this easy to get into."

He smiled thinly, but he seemed to have discounted me as a threat already, lowering the rifle and resuming a comfortable lean. He was taller than me by nearly half a foot, broad-shouldered and muscular. Eyes hidden behind a pair of dark shades built into the tan helmet atop his head, he wore a suit of light body armor over his uniform, but an arm band above his left elbow depicted the image of a bird of prey in flight.

"Raptor territory. We've got a few parts of the station closed off to the public, for our use and for high-paying guests. This is the first time on the station and you don't have a friend to give you the lay of the land?" he said.

The question made it sound more embarrassing than it had just minutes ago. Chagrined, I nodded.

He whistled. "People never cease to amaze. Alright, stranger, what brought you here?"

I couldn't see his eyes behind the helmet, but the slight tilt of his head reinforced the feeling of his eyes searching over my figure. Trying to ignore the sensation, I answered,

"I need expertise for a job that I must complete. I was hoping to find that here."

He smiled faintly, saying nothing. I swallowed, and it seemed best to wait. After a short stretch of mutual silence the guard finally said,

"Alright, that's not too unusual." He lifted a hand from the top of his rifle, gesturing at the hallway I had come down. "If you head back out, take the second hallway out of the market on the left. Just head straight down and eventually you'll see signs for a place called the Helldive. Lot of negotiation happens in there. Might do you good."

I let out a grateful sigh, internally repeating the directions to keep them in mind. "Thank you," I said, flashing him a smile. He gave another thin smile in reply, and I turned to leave.

"If you don't have any luck," I heard him call after I had turned the corner, "I'll be heading that way after there's a shift change. I'll keep an eye out for you."

The Helldive was an intimidating place to enter, and once I reached it I found myself hesitating outside for some time. Partly-dried stains covered the floor outside the entrance, looking as though someone had made a halfhearted effort at wiping them away before giving up. As I was first arriving a trio stepped out of the doorway, two men and one women, turning drunkenly to support each other down the hall, and as I lingered and watched other people slipped into the place, alone or in small groups. A cacophony of shouts rose from within, drowning out the strains of music that reached me from the door, but whatever prompted the outbursts settled as quickly as it had broken out. Sucking in a deep breath and trying to reassure myself, I walked through the doorway.

A spicy smell permeated the air within the Helldive. The lights were dim, leaving the booths that lined the wide room dark and secluded. An island bar in the middle of the room was better lit, ringed by patrons on the outside and worked by a pair of quick-moving bartenders within it. Square tables were scattered across the floor all around, most of them occupied. I started toward an empty seat along the bar, wading through the sea of voices, and gritted my teeth. It was difficult to focus on my own goal, to keep from reaching out to take a nearby man's glass and refill it for him, or any of the myriad impulses that came and went in a rush.

When I had almost reached the bar, I spotted a dark-haired woman leaning on its opposite side and my step faltered. She had luminous green eyes that were intently locked on a man close by, but not within the protective the bodyguards that flanked her. She was astonishingly beautiful, the arrogant cast of her features that should have soured her appearance instead elevating it, joined with the aristocratic jacket and elegant, out-of-place style her hair was bound in. My steps changed course, guiding me around the table and toward her. Her expression was steady but her displeasure radiated like waves, focused on the man before her. I couldn't hear their conversation over the din, but he was threatening her somehow. She needed him gone. Why weren't her bodyguards doing anything?

The small field of energy shimmered to life as I stretched out a hand, searing through the man's back, pressing against his spine. I felt him stiffen, then the bone gave and my fingers lurched forward, destroying muscle and flesh as I pierced through the bottom of his heart, and a spray of boiling blood gushed back along my arm as he crumpled to the ground.

The stench of cooked flesh filled my nostrils and suddenly terror overcame me. Mouth agape, I stared down at my hand, then slowly looked up to meet the woman's astonished face. I barely had time to realize her bodyguards weren't in their seats anymore before a hard blow caught me in the ribs, spasms of pain running up my left side. I started to jerk away, curling toward the impact, but a rough arm slipped around me from behind and jerked me upright again, the inside of an elbow bracing against my throat. I reached up but another hand clamped down on my wrist, trapping the arm and wrenching it down and away, into a stiff lock that grated bone against bone. I think I heard a shout and everything stopped.

The woman stood before me, now, and I could feel both bodyguards keeping me standing and restrained. Still too shocked to act, I stared dumbly at her and breathed in rapid, short gasps. The surprise on her face had been replaced by a mix of curiosity and suspicion, and she reached forward to set hands on either side of the visor covering my face. The tips of her fingers brushed my temples as she pulled the screen away, sending a cool, calming weight upon the panic and confusion rising within me.

"Ah," she murmured. "Not an assassin at all. How strange." She reached forward, grazing my cheek with a row of curled knuckles. "Quiet, little thing," she told me. Her head lifted, focus leaving me. "Take her back to my quarters and leave her there before things get messy, Edgar. No need to be rough, she won't put up a fight. James, stay here with me. We'll need to sort this out."

Shock and disbelief still clawed at me, the brief calm I had felt fading as I was wrenched away by one of the bodyguards. I can't recall much of what else happened, the faces of the other patrons, the trip through the halls of the Roost. I blinked, and I was being shoved through an open doorway that hissed shut in my wake and, with a quiet report, bolted itself shut.

What had I done? The dazed stupor I was in broke apart, filling me with a rush of agony and fright. I had killed Collin, but it had been necessary and he had meant to kill me. I didn't even have a clue what this man's name had been. I never even saw his face, but I had been filled with such irresistable conviction that I had acted before even thinking about it. Where had that come from? My hands trembled, and when I saw the bloody glove I shook violently, fighting it off and throwing it across the room. There were couches and lavish furnishings all around me, I realized, but I retreated to a far corner and sank down into a crouch there, tears coursing down my face. I had killed a man for no reason. Still reeling, and now battering myself with condemnations, I cried.

Some time later the sound of the door's bolts retracting jerked my head up from my knees. It slid open a moment later, permitting the woman from the Helldive to step through. My breath hitched at her beauty, but I shoved the thought aside and rushed to say,

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened, I could-"

"Shh."

She stepped forward as I snapped my mouth shut. Halting a few steps in front of me, hands on her hips, she looked me over for a short time before shaking her head.

"My name is Vivian Voss," she said, nodding at the involuntary jerk of my head. "Yes, little empath, the same Voss. My father made you. Who is your owner?"

"Richmond Essar," I told her. "But he's dead." Even the shock of her name was muted compared to the agony I had been in moments before, and I took a calming breath. After a small pause, I added, "I'm Min. I don't... I don't know why I did that."

Her lips twisted in amusement. "Min, is it?" she said. "Empaths do not have names, save for what their owners call them. Did Essar call you that?"

I shook my head, cheeks heating in embarrassment at her tone. "No. He never gave me a real name, but that's what the rest of the staff took to calling me when he wasn't around. One of the cooks came up with it."

She blinked languidly as she listened, watching me with an intrigued expression. After I had finished she beckoned me up from my crouch, a hand coming to rest against one of my cheeks.

"I have never known an empath to set out on their own after the death of their owner. No, do not tell me. I have no need to hear your story. You are here, and now you are mine." She offered a smile, delighted and empty of warmth. "When my father was initially creating empaths, he found the initial results of his work was too potent. He intended to create a perfect line of servants, capable of their own thoughts and sophistication, but empathetic to the extreme, conforming their own wills to their masters. The first batch were virtually puppets. They drank in the wishes of those around them and lost any sense of self. Useful, but without any conflict, without any sense of identity or depth, they were unnerving to be around to say the least. Minds so easily overridden stop trying on their own, after a while. So he scaled the experiment back, granting a little more strength of mind, and every billionaire in existence fell in love with the result.

"But my father is a vain man," she continued, curling her fingers to lightly drag her fingernails along the tender skin beneath my jaw before pulling her hand away as she began to pace. "He left a trick inside your mind and in your genes, little empath. His wishes, the cravings of his bloodline, these strike you harder than anything else you will ever experience. He likes the thought of an unthinking, obedient army spread across the solar system, should he desire it." She shrugged. "That is why you killed Michael. He was making me angry, and I was fantasizing of the ways I might get my revenge. You blundered right into my web and those thoughts consumed you. And you acted on them. Kneel."

I dropped to my knees without hesitation, folding down and setting my hands on my thighs, just above the knees. The information was bewildering, but I accepted it with an even calmness that surprised me. It was shocking, true, but it felt right. Of course I conformed myself to her will. She was radiant. Even the small notches beneath my jaw, left by her nails, pulsed a satisfying kind of discomfort. She returned to me with slow steps, feet halting just before my knees. I looked up, fighting a shiver as I met her eyes. She had straw-blonde hair that might have been long, though it was hard to judge as the locks were twisted in an intricate knot behind her head. Hard brown eyes, intelligent and conceited. Her face should have been soft but a permanent arrogance kept that from showing. Her figure was generous and feminine, clothing tailored to accent that fact.

"My family eschews using empaths," she said, that unnerving smile returning. "They consider it distasteful, after a fashion. But I do not share those qualms." She slowly lowered to crouch in front of me, eyes darting about my figure in critical assessment. Afterward she leaned forward, tone lowered to a conspiring whisper.

"Do you agree that you are better off belonging to me than running around on your own?"

I felt slightly nauseous as I nodded. She gripped my chin with a hand, steely gaze trapping me.

"Answer me."

"Yes," I meekly answered, eyes wide as I gazed at her. The grip on my jaw vanished, replaced by an affectionate brush over one cheek.

"Good girl," she purred, the condescension filling me with humiliation and a masochistic glee. "Do you think you should be left to wander alone?"

"No," I said, glancing at the bloodstain on the cuff of my jacket. She started to coil up and I jerked my gaze back to her face, breathing a sigh of relief at her approving nod.

"No," she agreed. "Look at what happens. You were blending in with humans and look where that got you, pet."

"I'm sorry," I said with a sinking heart, the offense of my actions weighing down upon me. That man, Michael, hadn't needed to die. Vivian hadn't needed to be inconvenienced with the commotion I had made. Every fiber of me was made to serve and aid, and my brash quest to run around on my own had only caused problems. I opened my mouth to apologize further but she laid a finger over my lips to silence me.

"Quiet," she reinforced. Her hand lowered, testing the fabric of my jacket with an idle laziness. "All these clothes are good for is hiding among others. You are made to be iconic, to stand out and tempt the eye as you serve. Get them off, pet." I complied, shrugging off jacket and reaching down to pull my shirt off, casting it aside. She watched me closely as I stripped and I felt slightly humiliated at my nakedness when I stepped out of the last of my things and settled before her again, curled fingers resting at the tops of my thighs. She nudged my chin up and reached forward, lightly tracing the barcode on the side of my neck. The hand on me shifted, fingers lightly wrapping around the base of my skull, thumb brushing over my ear.