“Speak clearly.”
“The cyborg is no longer under Neptunian control. It means she has her mind back. She thinks and feels just like you and me.”
“I don’t understand that,” the woman snapped. “She’s melded with a machine.”
“We should disarm them,” the man said.
“Yes!” the tight-faced woman said. She thrust her arm out, the muzzle of her hammer-gun aimed at Osadar’s head. “Drop your weapons!” she shouted.
“Why not let your artisan come to us,” Marten suggested, with his hands in the air. “Let her draw out our needlers so you don’t get nervous. We don’t want you to accidentally shoot us.”
The tight-faced woman chewed that over for a half-second. “Good idea.” She gave the order. She had to give it a second time more harshly than the first.
Timidly, the artisan-mechanic floated to Marten and drew the needler from his holster. After all the needlers were in the hands of ship-guardians, the commander cocked her head. She had an implant in her right ear, a black mote.
“Which of you is the leader?”
“I am,” said Marten.
“You’re coming with me,” the woman said. “You and—” Her eyes narrowed. “Cyborg, do you understand me?”
“I do,” Osadar said, with a hint of weariness.
“If you resist, we will have to destroy you. Do you understand that?”
“Destroy equals death,” Osadar said. “I understand.”
“She’s still human,” Marten said.
The tight-faced woman gave no indication that she heard his words. She spoke louder at Osadar, as if that would help the cyborg understand better. “We’re taking you to a holding cell. Both you and the man will enter it. We will lock you there for now. Any resistance—”
“I will not resist,” Osadar said. “You are the authority and speak for the philosopher-governors.”
The tight-faced woman blinked in surprise.
“I was born in the Jupiter System,” Osadar said.
“Born?” asked the woman, as if Osadar spoke absurdities.
“She’s human,” Marten said. “The Web-Mind on Neptune torn down her former body and replaced it with a cyborg body. But in her heart, her brain, her soul, she’s still just as human as you or I.”
The tight-faced woman squinted, making it impossible to see her eyes. “No tricks, do you understand? We’re ship-guardians and will do what we must to secure our vessel. To the holding cell with the cyborg. And you,” she told Marten, “are going to the Arbiter. He’ll know what to do.”
-6-
Two ship-guardians with drawn hammer-guns urged Marten through the narrow companionways.
A Velcro-like fiber had been laid on the deckplates, and both the ship-guardians and Marten wore Velcro-pads under their boots. A ripping-sound accompanied their progress through the meteor-ship. Marten figured it would have been easier just floating toward wherever they were going, but he adjusted to their procedures. He hoped Omi and Osadar were okay.
The ship was a maze of narrow halls, corridors and shafts. He passed cubbyhole quarters and heard the throb of a fusion engine down the corridor as they passed by. Grilles emitted recycled air. In a larger room, mechanics clanged metallic tools against what looked like twenty-foot drums placed side-by-side. Space was a premium in there, too. Some of the floating personnel squeezed between the drums, using hand-monitors to check on something.
Marten would hate to see their recreation room, if they had one. It was likely a closet with stationary cycles parked side-by-side. Twice, he and the ship-guardians squeezed past personnel in brown smocks, artisan- mechanics. The mechanics gave off an oily, machine odor. Marten was sure he gave off a rank, sweaty odor. He badly needed a shower.
It was difficult to tell, but Marten believed he moved into the depths of the meteor-ship, into the most protected portion. Until now, the halls had been painted blue and gray. Abruptly, the corridor ahead became red and white.
“Halt,” a ship-guardian said. They were the man’s first words.
Marten noticed a red light wink above. It was on the ceiling, marking the change in colors. It seemed to be part of a recorder or a camera.
A door opened in the red and white companionway. Two tough-looking men stood there. They were different from other Jovians. There was something elemental about them, something that spoke about gene labs and modified test-tube babies. Were these the myrmidons the woman had spoken about earlier?
The two squeezed out of the opening. They were nearly identical in appearance. Each was shorter than Marten, but immensely broad of shoulder and deep of chest, with knotted, muscular arms that almost dangled to the deckplates. They had low, hunched heads, black helmets and fierce, darting eyes. They wore white trousers and jackets, with epaulettes on their shoulders. They had various devices on their belts—rods, disks and restraints.
They vaguely reminded Marten of Major Orlov’s red-suited killers from Sydney, Australian Sector. The fight in the deep-core mine—
“Go,” the ship-guardian told him.
Marten glanced back at the man.
“The myrmidons will take you to the Arbiter. Go,” the ship-guardian repeated, motioning with his hammer- gun.
Marten walked into the red and white corridor. One of the myrmidons grabbed his wrist. The man’s fingers tightened like a spring-loaded clamp, and Marten had a sense of dynamic strength, likely much greater than his own.
“Come,” grunted the myrmidon. It was hard to call it a word. The short, powerfully-built man jerked his arm.
Resistance seemed useless. The two myrmidons could likely wrestle him to the Velcroed deckplates in short order. Marten twisted his wrist anyway. He twisted and jerked hard, exerting force at the thumb. The thumb was the weakest spot of a gripping hand. The myrmidon’s thumb was like iron, but Marten must have caught him by surprise. He ripped his wrist free.
The myrmidon whirled toward him. Marten felt the second myrmidon at his back, ready to apply whatever force was necessary to subdue him.
In the hallway, in the gray and white portion, a ship-guardian gasped.
“Just show me the way,” Marten said. “I’ll follow you.”
The myrmidon in front of him bared his lips, revealing small teeth. The muscles in his arms bunched, and Marten was sure the man was about to attack. Then the myrmidon’s head twitched as if an insect had bitten him or perhaps some implant in the black helmet had buzzed.
The myrmidon stepped back, making Velcro-ripping sounds. He twitched his head in a signal to go
Marten followed, with the second myrmidon breathing against his back.
They entered the first spacious room Marten had seen, although it was still confined compared to Highborn standards. A man in a white uniform with red buttons and shoulder-tabs sat behind a desk. There were screens behind him, various hanging vidshots of people and several pithy sayings.
Marten read one:
It seemed innocuous enough, but it set Marten on edge. More than ever, the two myrmidons reminded him of Political Harmony Corps killers, but with the gene-warping of a Highborn. The white-uniformed man had the feel of a political officer or a hall leader like Quirn.
