text: No one knew the woman that accompanied Finn Dralor through the dimly lit corridors of the trader’s deck, but everyone knew enough about Dralor to realize that whatever business she was conducting with him, it was sure to be bad. Dralor was well known to be a slaver, smuggler, pimp ...and worse. If this were anywhere but the pirate-run Salvation Station, he’d have a dozen or more Inter-Sol bounty hunters already taking aim on him. His rakish good looks and unusually tall frame, in addition to his penchant for rich, colorful clothing, made him quite recognizable for those looking to cash in on the sizable reward offered for his capture. Fortunately for him, it was Salvation, the only space station in the entire solar system where the laws of the Inter-Solar Union didn’t hold sway. Those who came here knew that while they might look and listen, they had better keep their mouths firmly shut and mind to their own affairs. The woman herself was anything but attractive. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her scowling face and the fierce glances she cast about made her seem older than her years. One cheek was badly scarred, perhaps from a serious burn, and her left arm, from the elbow down, was a cybernetic replacement, steel and plexicon grafted to living flesh. Her dark hair was cropped short and her clothing, in contrast to Dralor’s rich finery, was made of a course black fabric, sleeveless and unadorned. Usually, no one would have taken notice of her, save for one glaring detail; she wore no weapon. On Salvation, a lawless bastion of murderers and thieves, everyone was expected to provide their own protection. The fact that the woman in Dralor’s company didn’t feel the need to carry any form of protection led to one of only two possible assumptions. Either she believed that Finn Dralor would keep her safe (which would make her a fool) or, there was much more to this young woman than her appearance suggested. All eyes watched as the pair made their way to Garl Varo’s shop, The Wicked Way. A run-down, rusted corner of the deck where illicit drugs, synth-whores, and other forms of debased entertainment could be easily purchased. As the sliding steel door of the store closed behind them, the onlookers turned back to their own business, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened inside Varo’s store, the less they knew about it, the better. Inside, the shop was a cacophony of lights, music, and perversion. The walls were covered with monitrons displaying images of nude synthetic prostitutes, both male and female, dancing and offering their customizable bodies to those that had the currency to buy them. One simply had to select the features and attributes they desired from the touch menu on the screen, pay the required fee, and the synth-whore would be ready and willing in seconds in one of several rooms below the shop. Directly across from the entrance sat several counters, each with a selection of holographic images showing various wares the store had to offer. Pharmaceuticals, pornographic holovids, and the latest in recreational bio-mods were on sale. The dancing colors coming from the multitude of strobing light emitters, coupled with the sound of Martian jazz, was enough to make a customer brain-dead within minutes from sensory overload, which was probably the intent. The worst salesman in the galaxy could make easy money off a zombie. At the back of the building sitting on a hover chair was the proprietor, Garl Varo himself. A bloated, greasy lump of pale, pasty flesh, Garl was not someone most people enjoyed being around. A stinking miasma hung in the air around him at all times, a result of his addiction to muru, an extract from the root of the Venusian Orchid that put the user into a state of relaxed euphoria. His bald head and pig-like face were covered in wart-like growths, a side effect of the drug, and his wide mouth resembled nothing so much as two slabs of raw liver, gone bad. His hairless torso was bare, and sweat ran down in rivulets over his sickly-looking skin, even though the room was quite cool. He was the picture of over-indulgence and gluttony. However, anyone who drew their conclusions about Garl from his appearance alone would soon be dismayed by any business dealings they might have with him. His mind was as sharp as a razor, and his greed knew no bounds. Those two traits, along with the selection of wares he chose to sell, made him one of the most ruthless and under-handed traders on the station. He glanced up as the two entered the shop and his face broke into a wide, stained-tooth grin. Removing his muru pipe from his lips, he beckoned to them. “Finn, my boy!” He exclaimed throwing his gelatinous arms wide in greeting, “What brings the dirtiest scoundrel in the nine quadrants to my humble little corner of space?” Finn grinned back at the fat blob as he strolled towards him. “Oh, you know,” He said with a casual wave of his hand, “business as usual.” “Oh?” Garl replied, his eyebrows arching. “Well, let’s see if I can help you out then, alright?” Suddenly, Garl’s hover chair spun around one hundred eighty degrees. From the back a series of panels dropped open and half a dozen tubes extended out. Finn dove to one side as the tubes began discharging ion rounds, all of them aimed squarely for the young woman still standing near the front of the room. The entire store turned into a blaze of screaming energy eruptions, the charges detonating on impact and incinerating anything they came in contact with. After a few seconds, the firing stopped and the chair spun back around. Garl looked around at the damage to his store. The blackened monitrons filled the air with the stench of burnt ozone, and the music that had been playing was reduced to a quiet garble. The shelves with the built in holographic projectors fizzed and sparked, while puddles of melted plexicon congealed and solidified on the floor. Of the woman, there was no sign. “Well, it looks like you owe me quite a bit of money, Finn,” He said while still surveying the destruction, “I’d say about ten thousand cred’s worth.” He finished smugly. He drew deeply from his pipe as he catalogued everything that would need to be replaced. “Who was that slut, anyway?” He asked, finally turning to look at Finn, still lying on the floor. “She wasn’t much of a looker, if ya...” Garl’s voice trailed off as he looked at the man on the floor. Finn Dralor wasn’t paying attention to Garl. His eyes were turned upward, with a look in them that Garl didn’t like at all. Just as he turned to see what had Finn’s attention, he felt a sudden burst of pain as the woman, whom moments before he had assumed vaporized, leaped down from the ceiling she had been clinging to and caught him in the side of his bulbous, warty head with a hard kick that sent him flying from the hover chair and crashing down to the floor next to Finn. He barely had time to realize he might be in real trouble before a cybernetic hand closed on his throat and yanked him to an almost standing position. Trying to focus his vision, he looked into the eyes of the woman who now held his immense weight up with what appeared to be very little effort on her part. “That was a really cute trick.” She said calmly, drawing her face closer to his. “Tell me, was it the phrase ‘business as usual’ or the wave of the hand that signaled you?” She asked. “Look, miss, I ...” Garl began. The steel grasp around his throat closed tighter, restricting the flow of oxygen. She held him like that for a few moments, emotionlessly watching him to struggle to breathe. He was almost to the point of passing out when she finally loosened her hold enough for air to pass through to his lungs. His vision fading in and out, Garl heard the woman speak again. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, beyond the answers to my questions.” She stated flatly. “Do you understand?” Garl nodded weakly, his jowls quivering. Almost contemptuously, the woman tossed him back to the floor to once again lie next to Dralor, who hadn’t moved during their brief conversation. Looking down on both of them, the woman asked, “You deal in the drug, Irellion-9?” It was more of a statement than a question. Propping himself up on one elbow and massaging his throat, Garl nodded. “It’s an inhibitor class stimulant, used mostly by rift pilots traveling beyond the Plutonian quadrant.” He responded. “It alleviates the symptoms of void sickness while allowing the pilots to stay conscious for months at a time.” The woman nodded, then asked, “Do you know of anyone other than a freighter pilot who has purchased it from you in the last six months?” Garl glanced over at Finn, his eyes questioning. Finn slowly nodded his head, not saying a word. The woman kneeled down in front of Garl, her fierce eyes boring into his. “I’m not given to asking questions a second time, Garl.” She intoned. Garl swallowed hard, his whole body now soaked in a cold sweat. “This is Salvation, miss.“ He explained, “Someone who goes around talking too much about other people’s business don’t last very long here.” “Oh, is that so?” The woman asked. Reaching down with the prosthetic appendage, the woman gripped a handful of the fat man’s belly and clenched her fist. Garl began to scream, but the sound was cut short by the woman’s other hand forcing its way into his mouth, and down his throat. “I know ways to make you suffer for days without dying, Garl.” The woman calmly assured him. Suddenly a burning, ripping pain exploded in Garl’s chest, crawling through his abdomen and worming through his extremities. The pain grew and expanded until his entire body felt as if it were imploding in on itself. Squirming on the floor, he began wishing he would die, that he would give in to the pain and horror and simply cease to be. It felt like hours passed, all the while Garl could do nothing but suffer and hope for oblivion. Then, when he was beginning to feel what may have been the first stirrings of death, the pain ceased, and the hand was drawn out of his mouth. Gasping and vomiting, he rolled to one side, fear and dread washing over him. To hell with the code of Salvation, he thought. He had never felt such pain! He would tell this woman whatever she wanted to hear, so long as it would get her out of his shop. “Now, I hope we have a new understanding of one another, Garl. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll begin to get creative. Understand?” The woman said, in that eerie calm voice. Rolling back over to face her, Garl nodded his head vigorously in answer. After a moment or two of silence, Garl remembered that she was awaiting an answer to her earlier question. As the woman’s eyebrow raised, a possible sign of impatience, Garl sputtered forth a response. “There was a woman that came here about four or five weeks ago.” He said, “She purchased a large quantity of I-9.” “How much is a ‘large quantity’?” The woman asked. “Three liters.” Garl replied quickly. “She cleared out my entire stock.” “How do you know she wasn’t a pilot?” The woman asked intently. “I’ve been in business a long time, miss, and I know the look of a long trek pilot.” He assured her. “They get a real spacy and distant look in their eyes.” He said, partly smiling, as if it were an inside joke between them. When the woman didn’t smile in return, he hastily continued, “Oh, and she wasn’t armed, just like you.” He added. “Nobody comes to Salvation unarmed.” He looked nervously at her for a moment. “Well, at least, not usually.” “Describe her.” The woman ordered. “What did she look like?” Garl licked his quivering lips. He tried to call up the image of the woman in his mind, but he couldn’t remember what she looked like, and that bothered him. He had an unusually good memory. Years of being in the business of selling to people who might come back with buyer’s remorse had sharpened his powers of observation considerably. For him to not be able to remember a customer, especially one as unique as the one in question ...it just didn’t add up. After a few moments, he saw the woman’s eyebrow rise again. “I’m sorry, miss!” He wailed, terrified at what new torment might be forthcoming. “I can’t remember what she looked like!” He began to blubber, “I know it was a woman, but I can’t remember anything about her beyond that.” The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment, her eyes studying his for any sign of deception. Then she asked, “Do you know where she went, after making her purchase?” Garl was on the verge of telling the woman ‘No’ out of force of habit, when he remembered the pain from only moments ago. It went against the grain to tell someone about someone else’s affairs, but this was no ordinary someone. He had no doubts this woman was being nothing less than truthful when she said she could put him through the most excruciating torture for days before allowing him the luxury of dying. He also had no doubts she would follow through on her word without hesitation if he gave her an unfavorable response. “Yeah,” He nodded, “Word got back to me that she made straight for the docking ports.” He said. “She got on a transport bound for Xanadu.” Xanadu was the largest colony on the moon Titan, orbiting Saturn. It would only take a few hours to get there by ship. “You’re sure it was Xanadu?” The woman pressed him. “Absolutely, miss.” Garl answered. The woman stood up slowly and looked over at Finn Dralor. “We’ll be leaving now.” She said. Suddenly, the fabric of reality seemed to shift in front of Garl Varo’s eyes. One moment he was lying on the floor of his ruined shop, looking up at the woman who had caused him so much pain and misery. The next, he was seated in his hover chair, looking across the unmarred shop at the woman and Finn Dralor standing just inside the door. He stared in dumbfounded amazement at the displays and monitrons, all undamaged and just as they were before the two had entered his store. Finally his gaze settled back on the woman, who was looking at him with a hint of veiled amusement. Dralor was standing at her side, a somewhat regretful look on his face. Then, it suddenly came clear. “Bloody shite,” He swore. “You’re a Dah’shia!” The Dah’shia was a sect of assassins known throughout the entire solar system as powerful psionicists, beings able to manipulate the thoughts of others with their minds. Many considered them to be a legend or myth, due to the rarity of survived encounters. It was said a Dah’shia assassin could turn a person’s own mind into a weapon against them. Based upon his recent experience, Garl could personally vouch for it. “You’ve been very helpful, Garl.” The woman told him in a matter-of-fact manner. “But I’m afraid I can’t leave you alive to tell others about this meeting.” “Wait ...please ...I won’t ...” Garl stammered, before his consciousness abruptly shut off forever. Turning to her companion, who was still staring at the twitching corpse floating in the hover chair, the woman spoke. “We will return to your ship now.” She said. “I want to depart for Xanadu as soon as possible.” With that, she moved towards the door. Finn turned to leave, following the woman, and then glanced back at the body of Garl Varo. They had only stepped inside the store for a few moments, and though Finn had no way of knowing what had passed between the mind-assassin and the smut-peddler, he knew it had to have been horrifying. Exiting the shop, he and the woman, whose name he didn’t even know, made their way back to his ship.