Virtuoso

The Omen of Io strode in measured step through the enemy ship. In the distance, he heard klaxons and alarms, and if he tried, he could see the thousands of radio waves blasting back and forth as the crew of the TES Casanova scurried about their stations. The flare of a debasal emergence would send the astrogators into a panic as the instruments indicated a foreign vessel popping into existence inside their own. Some would recognize the truth, he knew. He could taste it–recycled air full of recycled fear.

He rounded a corner and the sparse, gray hallway extended out before him. It terminated in a heavy sealed door guarded by two soldiers. They snapped to face him and raised their weapons as he walked toward them. He paid no heed to their warnings and orders to surrender. Instead he reached out to touch their minds.

Their surface thoughts swam in a kaleidoscope of senses, vibrant thoughts swirling like mixed paint. His fingers slipped deeper, under the surface, finding the thin strands of thought that wove together in the deep. In the murky grays of the involuntary, he dragged his nails down the threads, sending vibrations thrumming back up through the gray and causing ripples on the surface. The guards screamed, guns abandoned as they cradled their heads. Their hands came away from their ears red with blood and they slumped to the ground.

He stepped over the blood. There was no need to risk staining his immaculate white uniform. As he approached the door the soldiers had been guarding, it opened without a sound. He continued his measured, even pace through the halls. Five men and three women fell as he slipped from one thread to another, nurturing chords that sheared through thought. All throughout, his face was an impassive mask. There was no joy in his killing. In fact, those that fled usually escaped his touch. He was a man on a mission–if you could call him a man.

At last he came to his destination on the fourth deck. The final door opened as silent as the others, and he entered. The bridge of the Casanova was sleek, if drab. It was a long T-shaped room with a captain’s chair at the crux. He strode down this last hallway, and as he did, holographic displays flickered and winked out as consoles burst into sparks and smoke. The officers manning the systems turned, rising from their swiveling seats to draw sidearms, but he held their strings taut, and the men and women froze in mid-motion. The captain’s chair slowly turned to face him as he approached, revealing a stern, worn old man in a uniform speckled with more medals than there were people on the bridge. There was no fear in the old captain’s eye. Young men fought and bled and fled from death, but an old man accepted it gracefully.

The intruder and the captain shared a moment there as the lights flickered and the ship rumbled beneath them. Then he reached into the captain’s mind, slipping hands of grace past memories and thoughts and dreams to grasp a tiny fragile string at his core. A sharp tug, a soft snap, and the captain’s eyes closed.