(This is a memory of Niven's given to Logan through imaging. Logan then penned it. It gives a little history of the inhabitants of Dark Pavilion.)
"Niven paused. His blood was thick; it coursed through his veins as icy sludge. He listened for any sign of them, intent on reacquiring the targets. The had stopped the frantic whispers quite a way back, but it wasn't their voices he concentrated on, anyway. He sought out the more subtle: rapid, shallow breathing, or a panic-induced throbbing heartbeat. Things considered inaudible by most.
Although the evening was balmy, Niven dressed in his usual attire. For all the time he had invested in the Ministry, he had found it not only comfortable, but suitable for the work he performed, as well. The high-lace boots, though an annoyance with regards to their weight, made for sure-footing and kept his ankles well-protected. He wore thick, reinforced denim jeans, that resisted tearing but allowed him to move and stretch as was required. And over the plain white cotton tee--his fabric of choice--was draped a double-stitched, thickly-lined black leather coat that fell just below his hips. Though some close to him warned that the coat would, one day, impede his progress while on a job, he scoffed at the notion and continued to wear it. Niven felt it made him look as fearless as he was. Of course, sunglasses topped the ensemble; dark stylish ones that sheilded his eyes from the sun's fatal rays. Niven closed his sterling eyes for a moment, to let his ears do as they needed. His hearing was always more precise when he shut out his other senses. Niven blocked out the sensation of the warm brick wall he was pressed against; he blocked the anticipation he felt in the pit of his stomach; he blocked the taste of his own blood, as he had a peculiar habit of biting his tongue when stress got the best of him. In that perfect darkness within himself, he listened.
Nothing came at first. The buzzing of insects, the whirring of a nearby neon sign, the crackling of heat rising from the pavement. He knew they had nowhere to run. Having tried to lose themselves in a maze of back alley-ways littered with trash and debris, they had managed to trap themselves in a dead-end.
And then it came. Slowly at first, like a trickling of fresh rainwater, then once he held onto it it hit him like a tsunami. Niven shifted slightly to tune in a little better, not realizing he was smiling.
He could feel them: their sticky panic and their sweaty bodies huddled together as they tried to remain silent. Perhaps they were crying, their chests heaving in great jerking sobs. Ever-mindful of the fallen leaves strewn about the pavement, Niven opened his eyes. This moment of clarity excited him greatly, this calm before the storm, as it were.
His footsteps made no sound as he stepped around the corner of the dilapidated building. He was radiant in perfect focus. Ignoring the dumpster near the far wall, he moved past the stripped automobile without a thought. The greasy papers and rotting boxes nestled along either side of the alley were of no concern. Niven instead made his way toward a small service door nearly completely hidden by a rusted gate. His eyes set in determination, he pushed the gate aside with ease, and stood for a moment outside the door behind which the offenders hid.
Quietly, so as to not give away his position, he used one hand to pull aside the flap of his coat. The weapon was there, warm and comforting. He ran one finger along to trigger lightly. Niven hated undue force; however, they were fugitives and needed to be brought to justice. And his job was to do just that.
Niven removed the weapon from its holster and held it at the ready. The reading was currently set to SUBDUE; however, he doubted he would need to raise it at all. They were fast but they were also very afraid. Fear, everyone knew, was an agent's best ally. Niven thanked Fear silently as he slowly pushed the door open, and gazed without pity at their shuddering forms in the darkness.
'Under Revised Statute 38.2-A, I've come to collect you,' he told them matter-of-factly. None replied...they tried only to back themselves further against the back wall at the far end of the small room, which was hardly more than a pantry closet. The only resistance was an uncomfortable squirming. Noting the rancid odor of the fugitives, he did not approach them. After all, they had nowhere to run; they were defeated.
Never taking his eyes off them, Niven pressed the comm button in his belt and spoke in a low, soft voice to his back-up, awaiting orders from the Ministry: 'All are accounted for.'
The static yeilded for a moment, and a tinny reproduction of his partner's voice seeped through the earpiece Niven wore. It asked if the targets had been harmed.
Knowing all transmissions were recorded, Niven paused, then chose his words carefully. 'All are alive and ambulatory. Beyond that, I haven't discerned. By the looks of it, they are willing to be taken into custody, however...' He paused and supressed a small smile. 'To ensure that none have been tainted, I would have to take a sample. Hereby request permission.'
It was a little selfish, he knew. But they had led him on such a wild chase, Niven believed he deserved it. He waited patiently for the request to be processed and began to salivate involutarily. Knowing what was about to occur, they did not even whimper. In fact, they had apparently lost all will to fight. They remained huddled together, unmoving. Small lumps of moldable clay, that was their essence. Engineered to serve, and nothing more.
Static flared again in Niven's ear, and he was told that permission had been granted. In the meantime, the Ministry was to be sending out five units to escort the targets to Interrogation, and Niven was to report back to Headquarters.
With his weapon still drawn, Niven switched his comm status to STAND-BY and stepped into the tiny room. As he loomed over them, he let the heavy door close and latch behind him. Even in that perfect darkness, he could still see clearly. In fact, all his senses were exceptionally well-honed, if not beyond normal human capabilities. He smelled the salt in their tears, he felt the mold growing into the moisture of the walls, he was aware of their smooth naked bodies, blemish-free except for light scarring just below the crook of the elbows. Even then, Niven thought the scarring made them beautiful. These genetically-engineered Purebreeds...they were the reason he was able to survive. That aside, however, they were lower-class citizens and had broken the rules. Niven, thereofore, felt no remorse as he removed his self-sterilizing mechanized hypo-extractor gun from the small leather case in his inner coat pocket.
The hypo-extractor was necessary to feed. Dhampir recieve their first one when they are about nine years old, but it was a good year or so before they are truly able to master the technique. One usually didn't acquire the Thirst until one felt the first stirrings of puberty, but because of the epidemic years ago, it became necessary to train the children while still young.
All was nearly lost when it happened: the viral epidemic was severe and distasterous, tainting the blood of nearly everyone within their world. Over half of the Vampir population had died of malnutrition or poisoning in the months before a base inhibitor was found to sterilize the blood and send the virus into remission. Then a team of scientists and medical doctors developed the hypo-extractor, which was able to not only extract blood in a sterile manner, but also test the purity and clarity of the specimen. It wasn't until years later that the same team developed the Purebreeds who, although nearly guaranteed to be immune, were still tested. The epidemic had left an indelible scar on the Vampir, indeed.
With a nod of his head, Niven gave the signal to the Purebreeds to present for inspection. Due to universal precaution codes, it was deemed unsafe to extract from an area with fresh wounds; too easily infected.
The smallest came forward first, and presented both arms to Niven. He scrutinized the area thoroughly before choosing a site at the brachial artery in the upper arm. The hypo gun was positioned correctly and Niven steadied his subject as he pulled the trigger. The needle pierced the flesh and they both watched as thick red blood filled the tiny transparent ovoid chamber atop the extractor. There was an audible click as the register tested the specimen for toxins and blood cell count, then the LCD screen displayed its figure. Any number under 2.0 with regards to toxicity levels was deemed acceptable, and this specimen qualified. Niven released the Purebreed's arm as the needle was ejected into the self-enclosed biohazard recepticle stored below the gun's handle. A new sterilized neddle slowly slid into place and Niven guided it into his catheter port. He felt the curious sensation of the needle clicking properly into place, and he pulled the trigger. A single ounce of pureblood left the holding chamber and drained into his body. A smile played upon his lips, and he salivated even though he could not remember the last time he had actually tasted blood. The procedure was repeated again with his other two captives; he then resumed standing guard over them until transport arrived moments later."
A few sidenotes:
1. The catheter port was surgically grafted into the Vampir as children as a necessary precaution. It was irrigated with saline monthly, and even the youngest among them knew the dangers of an infected port. An obvious solution would be to insert catheter ports into the Purebreeds as well, but their blood vessels were decidedly weaker and generally collapsed only a few days after insertion.
2. The Purebreeds reside at a place known as the Farm: it is there they are engineered, hatched, grown and housed. They live much like livestock, and are often treated as such.
3. Earlier Vampir were mortally wounded by even the dimmest sunbeam on the flesh, but they had apparently evolved. Now they were merely easily sunburned, and it was only the corneas of the eyes that were susceptible. A cornea scorched by the sun's rays was always fatal, as the eyes are the window to one's soul.
4. Vampir are those known to have first fed before the epidemic. Dhampir are their off-spring, who, for reasons unknown, are not required to feed on whole blood to survive. This is because there was a sort of evolutionary step taken by the newer generation...as odd as that seems. There is always a physical desire to feed, and always an ache when the Thirst is denied. The Dhampir are still without the necessary clotting factor, but it does not affect them as it does the Vampir; they merely take serum injections that replenish the body with what is necessary. They find that they have taken to injesting sugar to stave off the addictive quality that whole blood still holds over them.
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