The desk was big. It had a screen and controls built into it. There was a bronze statuette of a man in a flowing robe who looked outward with a serene gaze. The statuette’s arm was half-lifted and a finger pointed to nothing.
The white-uniformed man lacked that serenity. He was short like all the other Jovians, hairless, thin and had sharp features. The thrust of his narrow face was a stern, downward turn, as if he disapproved of everything.
“Sit,” the man said. He had a surprisingly deep voice, and he was obviously used to giving commands that others obeyed.
There was one chair before the desk. Marten took it. He felt the two myrmidons settle into position behind him.
“I am Arbiter Octagon,” the man said. “When speaking, you may refer to me as ‘Arbiter’ or as ‘Your Guidance’. Do you understand?”
Marten nodded.
Arbiter Octagon folded his hands on the desk. “We intercepted some of your transmissions. You claim to have arrived from Mars.”
“I am from Mars. Are you aware that cyborgs have invaded the Jupiter System?”
Octagon shook his head minutely as he spoke with quiet menace. “Do not query me. You are here for me to determine your status. I am the sole arbiter on the
“I’m not trying to—”
Octagon raised a finger.
One of the myrmidons clapped a hand onto Marten’s shoulder. The myrmidon applied pressure, grinding Marten’s shoulder-bones together. He ceased abruptly, before Marten could cry out or try to squirm free.
“Consider that as a crude demonstration,” Octagon said. “You are obviously an out-system barbarian, a creature given to direct stimuli. Therefore, failure to follow my directions will result in pain. Comply, and you will continue to sit here in relative comfort.”
“I’m trying to help you,” Marten said.
Octagon gave a sharp, humorous bark of laughter before he shook his head. “What do you call yourself?”
“I’m Marten Kluge.”
“Wipe that angry look from your face or you will experience more pain.”
“You think this is my angry look?” Marten asked.
Octagon sighed, throwing himself back against his chair. “Collar him,” he said.
Marten began to twist around and tried to rise. Powerful hands gripped him. In seconds, one of the myrmidons snapped a metal collar around his neck. The click seemed ominous. As the myrmidons relaxed their grip, Marten grabbed the collar, intending to rip it off. A buzz sounded, and from the collar, volts sizzled through him.
Marten went limp in the chair, releasing the collar as if it were on fire. The buzzing stopped and volts no longer charged through his flesh.
“Yes, much better,” said Octagon, who smiled for the first time. It was a cruel and predatory expression. He leaned forward, holding a small box. “This is a pain meter. If I dial it low like this. You feel this.” Using a narrow thumb, Octagon pressed a red button.
A mild shock caused Marten to clench his teeth. The pain ceased the moment the Arbiter lifted his thumb off the button.
“However, if I dial it up to this—” Octagon twisted the switch and let his thumb hover over the button. He raised his eyebrows. “Shall I press the switch?”
Marten licked his lips. He knew what Octagon wanted. He should speak meek words. But rage pounded in his skull. Marten lunged, catching them by surprise. He made it across the desk and slapped the pain meter out of Octagon’s hands. The Arbiter must have never expected that. Before Marten could strike the bastard, the two myrmidons grabbed him, wrenching his arms as they slammed him back against the chair.
Octagon was white with fury as he snatched the pain meter from where it floated. There was something wild in his black eyes, something feral and twisted. His mouth moved, but no sounds issued.
Marten would have tried to lunge again, but the myrmidons held him tight.
“Release him,” Octagon whispered.
Gingerly, the powerful hands let go.
“That was a mistake, barbarian. It shows—” The thumb stabbed onto the red button.
Agony lanced through Marten. It was impossible to move. Numbing jolts flashed through him. He couldn’t even croak in pain. Finally, it stopped.
Marten panted in his chair as sweat trickled down his back. His mouth tasted dry and it was difficult to focus. He wanted to kill Arbiter Octagon. But he couldn’t attempt it now. He needed to hide as his parents had once hidden in the Ring-Works Factory. He couldn’t hide physically. No. He would have to resort to the trickery of his Highborn days. He would have to eat dust until Octagon relaxed his guard.
“I am the sole arbiter aboard the
Octagon adjusted the pain dial as he sat back in his chair. He examined Marten as if examining some untrustworthy piece of equipment.
“Barbarians are akin to animals even though they hold the guise of humans.” Octagon pursed his lips. “Even humans trained in the Dictates at times fail to maintain their temperance. Hence, a need for arbiters arises. I am highly advanced in the Dictates. I have examined my life under the Dictates’ fulfilling philosophies. I use reason instead of relying upon passion such as a brute as yourself practices. I am of the eleventh rank! I understand that is meaningless to an out-system barbarian. Therefore, let me say that eleventh rank meant years of toil, years of study and self-examination. I understand myself. And now, I understand the human condition. It is a squalid affair filled with a bewildering set of inner mandates of spurious use. ‘Fill the belly.’ ‘Lay at ease.’ ‘Rut with a female.’ It is chaotic, leading to debauchery and a disintegration of spirit.”
Marten was finally breathing normally again. He sat straighter. He was highly aware of the two myrmidons behind him. He also noticed the position of Octagon’s right thumb on the pain meter. Marten dipped his head.
“Might I say a word, Arbiter Octagon?” Marten asked.
Octagon gave another of his humorless barks of laughter. “How quickly the barbarian heels, eh? But I know that you think to trick me, to distract me from the truth. In reality, this shows me that you have a cunning mind. Therefore, you are dangerous.” With his left hand, Octagon pressed a switch in his desk. He leaned forward, scanning a screen.
“Caught in a damaged pod of the
Marten touched the collar. “This device leads me to realize that lies are useless.”
“Oh, you are a clever barbarian,” Octagon said. “You think that I’m a fool. Fortunately for you, I follow the Dictates, I have learned to control my passions. Your attempted cleverness might anger a lesser man than me, one much lower than eleventh rank. I have harnessed my passions. Reason alone guides me. Thus, barbarian, you will feel pain now not because you’ve angered me but because my rationality tells me that you need further training.”
The thumb stabbed down.
Marten squirmed as pain flooded. His mouth sagged. Then the thumb lifted and the pain ended.
Octagon leaned forward with a hungry look. “Yes, I’m beginning to detect fear in you, barbarian. I see it as a gleam in your eyes. You are trying hard to maintain your pose of toughness. Let me assure you that I shall root out every vestige of cleverness in you. The Dictates demand honesty. If nothing else, I will make you an honest brute.”
A blue light blinked on the desk. Annoyance flickered across Octagon’s features. “Hold him,” he snapped.
Powerful hands gripped Marten’s shoulders.
Octagon set down the pain meter. He composed his face so the cruel smile disappeared. He let serenity spread across his face until his features resembled those of the statuette.
Marten was reminded of Hall Leader Quirn, another philosophical fraud.
Octagon pressed a switch. “Yes, Strategist,” he said in a quiet voice.
