Stardust and Bloodlust pt. 1

Mordechai slammed into the door and was caught between the fake wood and the groupie covering his mouth with hers. There was a cough somewhere beyond her wild blonde hair. Gently, he unlatched her lips from his and pushed her head aside.

"Dismissed," he said to Adam, who was hovering near with a faint air of embarressment. The big man nodded and turned away, retreating to the apartment next door.

"Oh, baby," the girl whispered into his ear. "This is exactly what I always wanted.”

He leaned in, opting out of running a hand through her hair. It was a classic but considering the state of her butt-length mane, his hand would likely get stuck. “Let's improve that to 'beyond your wildest dreams', shall we?” he murmured and unlocked the door behind him.

The two of them tumbled into his apartment, the door swinging shut behind him. The lights brightened to a pleasant dimness, illuminating the thick red carpet, the sprawling couch and the picture window, the velvety darkness outside scattered with stars, grouped randomly as grains of sugar discarded from a careless teaspoon.

On the opposite wall, a massive flatscreen hung on the wall over a dark wooden chest of drawers. It was antique, with silver handles and locks that required an old-fashioned metal key. It had cost half a fortune to transport, but its presence in the otherwise modern living room was a brooding reminder of wealth. That, and it was an excellent place to keep private things, as most people were afraid to break the thing.

Mordechai pulled his fangirl along and dumped her onto the couch. She bounced, giggled, and clashed with the upholstery.

He leaned over her and looked her deep in the eyes. He held her gaze and waited, until her eyes took on a dreamy look. She focused on him, his eyes a shifting blue, almost iridescent.

Without preamble, he said: “I offered you some drugs and you took it. Unfortunately it made you really sleepy, but not after you managed to get a hand down my pants,” he paused, “or something similarly exciting. You started nodding off, though, and the last thing you remember is me suggesting you take a nap. When you wake up, you might be a little embarrassed that nothing happened, and you'll want to leave.” He nodded, thoughtfully, and added: “Also, I shave. Now, you're going to sleep, and you won't wake up for a few hours.”

It only took her a few minutes to drift off. Mordechai watched her closely so she wouldn't roll off the couch and come to her senses covered in bruises.

“Computer,” he said, once he was certain she would no longer hear him. The room remained silent and he cursed softly. “Computer, this is Mordechai,” and after a moment, added with great reluctance: “Hello?”

A chime sounded. “Hello Mordechai.” It was a soft yet strangely indifferent feminine voice.

“Turn the lights up, would you.”

Another chime and: “Command not recognised.”

Mordechai sighed. “Turn up the lights.”

“What would you like me to do with the lights?” Unlike Mordechai, the computer was incapable of expressing irritation.

“Turn off the bloody dimmers,” he snarled. The room instantly went dark, and Mordechai cursed again. In his arms, the girl was still motionless. “Lights on!” he snapped, and finally the room brightened to a normal level. He covered his eyes for a moment to let them adjust. Then, he rearranged his blonde fan. A trip to the kitchen produced a towel, which he tucked under her head and neck. He knelt by the couch and watched her breathe for a short moment. Her pulse was visible in her neck, slow and steady. He leaned forward and bit her.

There was very little resistance at all. She tasted faintly of alcohol and perfume, and underneath that of an omnivore with an appetite for meat. Underneath that she tasted like every single other human here, of sterilely grown food and recycling. It was very good.

Mordechai limited himself to an amount she would hardly notice. He then pulled away and wiped her neck clean of a tiny smudge of red. The wound immediately started closing up, in no time at all there would be nother there but a slightly sore spot.

He lowered her head onto the couch and returned the towel to the kitchen. The apartment computer dimmed the lights again after a short argument and Mordechai settled on the couch, a respectable distance from the girl, to watch reruns of Criminal Investigation: Space. He was still rooting for Jack and his clone Jacktoo to hook up.

The next day, Mordechai had a talk with his second in command.

“Your choices in prey are simply abominable,” he said.

She glanced up at him. “Why? You look well-fed.”

“I'm hardly likely to turn down a perfectly good meal, am I? But you're going to have to start doing better, or I'll have Adam replace you.”

Cynthia snorted and returned to the administration. “What was wrong with her, then?” He stared at her but the look was lost. She took advantage of the momentary silence to type a quick response to an interview request. (Only if he was personally interested, only in person, no cameras, only voice recordings.) “Well?” she said.

“You are disrespectful,” he said with no real malice. “I should fire you right now.”

“See how you like doing paperwork by yourself,” she said, but folded down her screen and turned towards him. “What is it, then? Not pliable enough?”

He waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. “No, nothing like that. She was mostly fine, only...” He gestured, two hands in front of his chest, and shot Cynthia a look.

“Female?” she suggested.

“Yes,” he said, feeling a little like a five-year-old explaining his preferences in pudding to a mother who kept buying vanilla when she knew he preferred gooseberry, dammit. Which was more than a little silly, as he was quite a bit older than her and would outlive her, too, if he had anything to say about it.

Cynthia had the decency to look apologetic. “Terribly sorry,” she said, “you know your concerts don't attract a majority of attractive young men. If that is all you'll take, then maybe you should change your strategy.”

Mordechai smirked and said: “Oh come on. It's not like my concerts produce a majority of attractive young women either. I tend to attract a healthy variety of people. Your job is to find the ones who satisfy my preferences.”

“Well, maybe you could do something to increase the pool of candidates,” she shot back.

“Like what?”

Cynthia smiled an evil smile. “I don't know. You could switch to techno-pop?”

Mordechai scoffed.

“It's more popular,” she said.

“I'm making opera more popular every day.”

Cynthia folded her screen open again. “That much is true. You do have an excellent voice.”

“Don't kid yourself,” he said, “it's my mystique and boundless good looks. They drive people wild.”

“Huh,” said Cynthia. She turned the screen so Mordechai could see.

After a moment, he said: “Another interview request? I fail to see the importance.”

“You don't think it's at all strange that he goes on about your refusal to have pictures taken, but only spends one line on your singing career?” said Cynthia.

“I agree, there isn't nearly enough gushing.” Mordechai raised an eyebrow and leaned back, straightening the cuffs on his shirt. They were edged with black lace. It was one of his more conservative shirts, without a single shiny stone. “Who is that man anyway? His name seems familiar.”

Cynthia nodded and pulled up a webpage before turning the screen back towards him. “That is because we've mentioned him. He's been trying to get at you for a while now, and he's a complete conspiracy fan. This is his blog.” A banner at the top of the page proudly proclaimed the name, and presumably goal, was Dig Deeper. A little down the page, next to the main text (currectly a blog entry on shady practices in the recycling plants) was a picture of the author. He was a young man, with curly, deep red hair that was just beyond short, brown eyes, and a scattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose.

“Last month,” Cynthia continued, “he was accusing you of abduction via the contact form on your website. This month, I get to be spammed on my personal email address.” She sneered at the picture on her screen.

“Clancy Gosling,” Mordechai hissed. “That's him?”

She nodded.

“Well, why the hell have you been refusing him?” said Mordechai. He locked his eyes on Cynthia, impatiently tapping his fingers on his armrest. “Look at the man, he is absolutely adorable.”

“He is accusing you of just about everything he can think of,” Cynthia spluttered.

Mordechai bared his teeth at her, flashing his immaculate set of fangs. “Well, I don't want them for their personality, do I?”

Mordechai stalked his bedroom. Like the living room, it had an actual window. He paused at the window, placed a hand against the reinforced glass, roughly half a meter thick, and stared out into his eternal night. There were definite advantages for someone like him to live on Coriolis.

Technology was so advanced that no one believed in the monsters of past times anymore. Science simply wouldn't accept it.

The same science also gave him a plausible excuse for his lack of reflection and the fact that he just didn't show up in any sort of photographic image or recording. It was widely rumoured that the opera star Mordechai Soet caked on an experimental nano-cream whenever he went out to prevent any pictures being taken. After all, invisibility was possible these days. It was just very expensive. Some people would even give their lives for it. In his case, that had been the exact price.

The best part of Coriolis, though, was that for its casual inhabitants, a space station did not have an outside. With all windows on the station mandatorily UV-shielded, Mordechai simply never had to worry about sunrise anymore. He smiled as he remembered manipulating the station's specifications. He'd had to be wary of the sun for so long, but here in space, behind shielded glass, sunlight could no longer reach him.

Unfortunately, people were never content to let a good thing be, and some bureaucrat with ambitious dreams had found the obscure little rule and had decided it was a grand way to save a little money, a gesture he hoped would buy his way into the hearts of voters station-wide.

This simply could not be allowed. Mordechai was attached to his windows, and he was not about to start avoiding newly-built parts of the station for fear of incineration.

He glanced at the ceiling. “Computer?” he said. There was no answer and he sighed. He hated addressing the thing as if it were a person. It had no personality, no scent, no physical presence, no life. Besides, the damned thing refused to acknowledge him. “Hello?” he said.

“Hello Mordechai,” the thing chirped.

Resentfully, he asked: “What time is it?”

“It is twenty past midnight station time,” answered the computer.

Refusing to thank a machine, Mordechai grabbed his most uncharacteristic coat, a black trenchcoat with no embellishments whatsoever, not even shiny buttons, and paced out the door.

Though it was early, large parts of the station were quiet at this time. There were jobs that went on around the clock, but the usual daily life of humans tended towards a collective devide between day and night. And this was night, so the grey corridors and passageways that were what passed for streets in Coriolis were mostly empty. Mordechai passed along unseen by people, and invisible to cameras.

This almost got him into trouble at McKillen's house, when he realised he probably wasn't opening the door because as far as he could see on the cameras, there was no one outside. Fortunately, he opened the door on Mordechai's fourth try, looking very annoyed at whoever was playing games with his doorbell. This immediately turned into surprise as he realised there really was someone at the door.

Then, as Mordechai reached out with his glamour, his pupils dilated and he meekly backed into his apartment. Mordechai followed. He could feel the man's mind in his metaphoricals hands. It put up very little resistance. Glamour was a lot like telepathy, except that Mordechai could not just read everyone's minds. It was far easier to force his will on a mortal mind than to accurately know what was going on in there. Most humans were quite unfocused, like a random cloud of rust, and very unprepared for the magnet that was Mordechai to pull them all in.

It took only a little nudge for a focused mind to present an alluring idea to an unfocused mind. And Mordechai had had a lot of time to practise. He had learned to influence people with them barely noticing. Of course, right now that sort of subtlety was hardly required. Brute force would do the trick

“Pretend I'm not here,” he murmured. Obediently, the politician sat down. Mordechai leaned down and continued, softly so that the computer wouldn't hear him: “I'm terribly sorry about this, but you simply wouldn't listen to reason. Or money. Or threats, for that matters. So now comes the time to make good on those threats, hmm?”

There was a flash of fear on the man's face, and he began to sweat. Still, he said nothing and did not move.

“You are going into the kitchen,” said Mordechai, leaning so close that he could smell his scent clearly. The man might not be particularly handsome, but he smelled delicious. He pushed down the urge to lunge forward. “You are going into the kitchen and you will have a glass of water.” He raised his hand and set a small nondescript pill on the man's lap. “You will put this in your glass and you will drink all of it.”

Mordechai stepped back. He didn't really want this man dead, but his policies would cause quite a bit of trouble. Keeping him as minion, under Mordechai's glamour all the time, just wasn't an option either. People always managed to break control, or get a message through, and keeping hold of an unwilling minion was just too draining. Still, even if he didn't care about this man, it was a meal wasted.

Gritting his teeth with self-control, Mordechai watched as McKillen stood and walked to the kitchen. After he drained the glass, he shot a final look at Mordechai and started crying. Mordechai allowed him that much.

When he collapsed, Mordechai knelt to feel his pulse. There was none. He stood and stalked out, leaving the door to swing closed automatically behind him. He was about to call the night a succesfull one when he rounded a corner and nearly collided with a young man in a hat that barely concealed his red curls.

Mordechai goggled. “Gosling?” he managed.

“Oh wow,” the man said. “What a coincidence is this? I'm due to interview you in a few days.” Clancy Gosling smiled.

“Yes, I know,” Mordechai said. He tilted his head. In real life, the man was just as attractive. Taller than Mordechai, as a lot of people were, and a bit lanky. Mordechai found the obvious softness of his stomach endearing. “Do you live here?”

Clancy waved a hand, the smile growing strained. “Oh, no. I should be so lucky. No, I was planning to pay someone a little surprise visit. Did you know,” he said, quite sternly, “that one of those politicians wants to cancel mandatory filters on screens? It's disgraceful, we'll be exposed to all sorts of radiation.”

“That's simply unacceptable,” Mordechai deadpanned.

“I know!” Clancy looked almost distressed. The idea of harmful space-rays invading the station seemed so near to his heart, Mordechai declined to mention these filters were really mostly UV, which would probably only give him a tan. Then again, given the red hair and freckles, perhaps that was a fearful enough prospect as it was.

Then, he remembered something. “You were going to visit him at his apartment?” he said and added, without waiting for an answer: “That might not be such a good idea. Trust me, you'll want to head back the way you came.” Mordechai set his hand on the man's shoulder, nudging him gently. “Let's just say the authorities are involved.” They would be soon, anyway, as the AI in McKillen's apartment started sending distress signals.

At the word authorities, Clancy's expression turned from puzzled to alarmed. “The- do we need to run?”

“No need, but I'd stay away from there tonight. I wouldn't want you to be indisposed when the time comes for that interview.”

The hint thoroughly taken, Clancy turned and they walked down the passageway together. It was quiet, save for the usual hissing and clanking of the station, and almost peaceful. Through the smell of recycling and metal, Mordechai could smell that particular scent of human. After charming the hell out of a dead man, he was more than a little hungry. Still, Mordechai had not survived this long by indulging every dangerous urge. He said goodbye to Clancy at the nearest intersection and stumbled home to his apartment.

Stomach growling, he ripped a bag from his fridge and stood in the dark because his apartment's AI was no more capable of seeing him than the security cameras and he was in no mood to have another argument with a computer.

Like a commuter craving the first coffee of the day, he warmed up a liter of blood in a little saucepan. The blood still only lukewarm, he fished out a straw and finally convinced the computer that he was home and a little lighting wouldn't be remiss.

The airconditioning backstage was broken. It made the make-up room stiflingly warm, seeing as there were almost thirty people in a space already stuffed with mirrors, lamps, adjustable chairs, racks of clothing and boxes upon boxes of make-up.

The choir was queuing up to be bedazzled, and every single one of them were complaining. To mitigate the effects of sweat on the finished product, those who were finished were shooed into the corridor as soon as possible. In the meantime, the room was filled with a bevy of singers waiting to be carefully painted with glittering stars. Sophia, a rather scatter-brained soprano, raised her hand absent-mindedly to pick at the black stars plastered across her cheekbones.

“They itch,” she said, apologetically.

Next to her, Laura snorted. Her cheeks were covered in white stars, for better contrast. She mumbled, careful not to disturb the application of more stars: “You better get used to it. They need to stay on for four hours, and then you can rip to your heart's content.”

“Just remember to stop at your skin,” offered Mordechai. He was perched on top of a stack of crates, out of obvious mirror-range. He was rewarded with a giggle from the make-up counters, and a dirty look from the makeup-artist. He winked. This looked rather odd, as Mordechai had already been painted, and his face was covered in a crescent moon. A moon which Mordechai had just caused to wink.

“What are you still doing here?” said the makeup-artist. “Get out of the warm already, shoo.”

Mordechai slid off the stack of crates in a fluid motion that would make a cat jealous, offered a shallow bow to the man who had full control over what was painted on his face, and made his exit. The corridor was definitely cooler and he felt a sense of relief, despite the fact that he really didn't sweat all that much.

The corridor was also very busy, which resulted in a near-immediate collision.

Mordechai turned and, as he was in a decidedly good mood, flashed one of his more mellow smiles. Opposite hom stood Clancy Gosling, looking decidedly bemused under his mop of red curls.

“You're a moon,” he said.

“Yes, it's intentional,” answered Mordechai. “The choir gets to be stars.”

Clancy blinked, looked around and grinned. “Oh, I see.”

“You're ages too early, you know,” Mordechai said and moved out of the way of the other soloist, painted up as the sun. She saluted him in passing.

Slightly awkwardly, Clancy said: “Yes, I know. I was hoping to catch you before the show. I think I underestimated the amount of,” he paused and smiled.

“Work?” asked Mordechai with a raised eyebrow.

“People,” Clancy said. He took a step to the side, trying to move away from two black-clad people carrying a set of asteroids. Unfortunately, due to the narrowness of the corridor, he only managed to knock his elbow on the wall. Sheepishly, he rubbed his elbow.

Almost casually, Mordechai noted the sweat beading on his journalist's forehead, the way he held himself drawn together to take up minimal space. “I do have a private room,” he said, and the man brightened visibly. “Unfortunately, I have no time. Would you like to wait for me there?”

By the time Mordechai returned to his private dressing room he was feeling that pleasant rush that came with singing one's lungs out in front of a large audience.The applause helped, too. He pushed through the door, still in costume and went straight for the massive box of wet wipes. Grabbing a handful, he turned to Clancy and smiled, only to be faced by a phone aimed at him.

“You can't take pictures of me,” he said, calmly.

Clancy tilted his head. “Why, what will you do? Take my phone?” To his credit, he sounded equally calm.

“No, I don't think you understand,” said Mordechai, and repeated: “You can't take pictures of me. But you can try if you find it necessary.”

He smirked and Clancy hit a button. He stared at the picture for a moment. It was a perfectly clear picture of a wall, a small cupboard and a box of wet wipes.

“It's true,” Clancy breathed and looked up, his cheeks flushed. “You're using experimental technology!”

Mordechai started wiping the paint off his face. It was at times like these that he wished he still had a reflection. Even he looked silly when his ears were still caked with bright purple. He resolved to do the best he could, and have Cynthia look him over later. Paper towels still in his hands, he sat down. This took a little manoeuvering, due to his collar, which was wider than his shoulders and encrusted with shiny stones. His trousers did not give him any such problem, being nearly skin-tight.

Finally, Clancy broke the silence, asking: “How did you know to leave, the other night?”

“What other night?” responded Mordechai, wiping down his neck. Make-up had a tendency to get everywhere.

Clancy shifted in his chair. “With McKillen. I read that he's dead.”

“Oh,” Mordechai said, “what a shame.”

Clancy stared at him. Mordechai unfolded his wet wipes in search of a relatively clean part. They were mostly black and creamy white now, with streaks of blue and purple and a generous peppering of glitter.

Eventually, Mordechai said: “I'd had the same idea as you had. The door was open.” He looked up and smiled. “I didn't feel like waiting for the authorities.

“And they haven't asked you for interrogations yet?” asked Clancy, incredulously.

Mordechai raised an eyebrow, amused scorn invisible to the phone still sitting in Clancy's hand.

Clancy said: “Oh.”

“Suffice it to say, I thought it would be easiest for both of us not to get involved.”

“Yes,” said his guest. “Thank you.”

“Now what did you want to ask me?” Mordechai glanced at the clock – analog – on the wall. “You have half an hour.”

It turned out Clancy was very curious to know how he managed to be invisible on photographs. Mordechai declined a straight answer, instead implying vaguely that there may be something Clancy had never heard of. Clancy assumed this was secret government technology, and eagerly wrote this down.

He also asked Mordechai the far more interesting question: why he'd want to be invisible. To this, Mordechai answered truthfully. For privacy, and the unparalleled chance to sneak up on people while they were looking at a mirror.

On no less than four occasions did Mordechai consider turning his glamour on Clancy, which was a clear sign he was getting hungry. He was often ravenous after a big concert, and the sheer excitement of the whole affair was undoubtedly a factor in that. In the end, Mordechai had to admit he liked luring Clancy out too much to go for the kill just yet, so to speak. Hunting him the old-fashioned way would simply be so much more fun.

When Clancy started showing a playful side, Mordechai was sold. He would take this one slowly. They were talking about the recent protests against sharing data from domestic AI – Clancy had been up in arms, of course – and Mordechai said: “I don't like those apartment computers anyway.”

“Why is that?” asked Clancy.

Mordechai all but pouted. “I may be old-fashioned, but I don't appreciate a machine acting human. It's unsettling, and most importantly, dishonest. You can't even touch them.”

With a smile, Clancy asked: “Would you rather have a computer you could touch?”

Mordechai opened his mouth to answer and paused. It was an unexpectedly difficult question. Then he noticed Clancy's near-smirk, his eyes crinkling up in amusement. Mordechai leaned forward and purred: “No, I'd rather have a human servant.” This managed to stun Clancy for a good moment, before he burst out in laughter. Mordechai felt strangely satisfied.

When the half hour was up, Clancy started packing up and Mordechai said: “You could stay a little while, you know.” He smiled, in a lazy, contented way he hoped wasn't marred by leftover make-up.

“I thought you could only give me half an hour?” said Clancy, his laptop in his hands.

Mordechai leaned back in his chair, watching the blood course under Clancy's pale skin, so much paler than Mordechai's. “You could stay,” he smiled viciously, like a predator sizing up prey, “socially.”

Clancy fidgeted with his laptop. “I wouldn't want to take up your time,” he said.

“Don't you worry about that,” said Mordechai. “I'd be happy with some company.”

“Well, are you sure? I mean, you're a popular man. I'm sure you have people lined up outside your door.” To Mordechai's dismay, Clancy stuffed his laptop into his back and straightened up. “We can always schedule another time.”

Mordechai stood with his guest and lightly rested a hand on the man's arm. “Really,” he repeated, “don't worry about it.”

For a moment Clancy looked him in the eyes, then he looked away, uncomfortably. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's just, I want to get back home before the rush from the afterparty.” Mordechai grasped for something to say, but Clancy continued: “I'll definitely be in contact, though. We'll have coffee sometime.” He smiled and offered his hand. “It's been a pleasure, Mordechai.”

With a strained smile, Mordechai shook. “Likewise, do stay in touch.”

Clancy nodded and disappeared outside, where the corridors were as good as abandoned, everyone who hadn't already left busy draining the theatre's supply of alcohol.

Mordechai slumped into his chair once the door had automatically swung closed. The hunt was far from over, he knew that, but it was a bit of a letdown to have lost his prey for tonight. He was still hungry, and high on his recent performance. He could actually feel the dull ache starting to stir in the pit of his stomach as he sat alone in his dressing room.

Then, the lights went off.

“Oh, come on,” he said, sitting in the dark. “Turn that back on.” When the room stayed silent and dark, he tried again. “Turn the lights on!” Again, there was no response, so Mordechai roared: “Hello!” at the empty room.

A chime sounded and a polished yet bored female voice said: “What can I do for you?”

“Bloody turn on the bloody lights!” Mordechai shouted. The lights went on, and Mordechai fumed in the brightness, slumped in his chair.

Moments later, the door opened and Cynthia peeked in. “He's left, then?” she said. He could hear a whiff of sympathy in her voice.

He curled up a lip at her, revealing his magnificent dental assets.

“You still have blue on your face,” she added, gently.

“Well then, you know what to do,” he said. “And send for a bloody groupie, I'm starving.”

The look she gave him was so full of pity that he threw a pillow at her.