Cyborg Assault

“Has the interloper explained his presence aboard the pod?” a female asked from a desk-speaker.

“We are exploring the matter,” Octagon said gravely. “He is proving troublesome, however.”

“I hope you have refrained from any harsh tactics.”

Octagon gently cleared his throat. “The interloper’s barbarian instincts are deeply imbedded, as I’m sure you already would know, Strategist Tan.”

“Please, Arbiter, none of your didactic word-essays. This is a possible emergency.”

Octagon leaned back from the screen and glanced at a wall. Gentleness and calm returned to his face. He bent over the screen.

“I will employ emergency—”

“You will not,” Tan said. “You will question him another five minutes at the most. Then you will escort him to the command center. Force-Leader Yakov is eager to hear his explanation.”

“I hear you, Strategist, but I feel that I must protest.”

“I am the philosophic guidance aboard the Descartes, Arbiter. I have been elevated to the governors. I am sixty-ninth ranked. You do understand what that means, yes?”

“Your radiance suffuses us with enlightenment,” Octagon said.

“Enough of that,” Tan said. “Maintain decorum throughout your questioning. You have less than five minutes left. Do you desire further clarification?”

Octagon moistened his lips. “As always, you are succinct. I am bidden by the Dictates and your own flawless reasoning to comply with your wishes.”

“I have given orders, Arbiter.”

“Yes,” he said. “I understand. Thank you for your precision.”

The blue light flashed, perhaps signaling an end to the conversation.

Octagon leaned back in his chair. He picked up the pain meter. He scowled at it and then he glared at Marten.

By struggling with himself, Marten kept his features bland.

“I am the sole arbiter aboard the Descartes,” Octagon said. “The Strategist—” His mouth tightened as he twisted the dial first in one direction and then in the other. He watched Marten as he did so.

“If you would like my story,” Marten said, “I can tell you now.”

“I detect smugness in your words,” Octagon hissed. His thumb stabbed down.

Marten clenched his teeth as the jolts roared through him. It was one gigantic sensation. He felt himself twisting in the chair. Hatred filled him. He would have glared at Octagon, but his eyes were painfully screwed shut.

Abruptly, the pain ceased.

Marten sagged. His jaw muscles ached. But he stirred, and he whispered, “Did that little jolt come because of your emotions, Arbiter, or was there a reason for it?”

“Impertinence,” Octagon whispered. “That implies future malice.”

“Your system has been invaded.”

“Bah! You cling to the absurd notion that cyborgs have entered the Jovian Confederation. It is another of your base lies.”

“Look in your holding cell, at the cyborg there.”

“A creature of your own devising,” Octagon said.

“I’ve seen other cyborgs.”

“Lunacy,” said Octagon, “sheer fabrication of an unfettered, emotional mind. I wonder if you were sent here by Social Unity to spread discord among us. Believe me, you shall fail in the attempt.”

“How did I come to be in the dreadnaught’s pod?”

“I am querying you, barbarian, not you me.”

“No. You’ve been telling me many things, but asking very little. Why is that, Your Guidance?”

The dark eyes seemed to shine as Octagon’s features froze. Carefully, he slotted the pain meter on his belt. “You are a fool, filled with false illusions. Strategist Tan uses our ship as a taxi. Soon, she shall depart. Then all governance decisions revert to me. You and I shall have long discussions concerning questions, answers, emotional states and rational understanding of the Dictates. It is the human heart laid bare to our superior understanding. We have examined man’s nature and we know it thoroughly. Here, we act with reason, without malice or subterfuge.”

The blue light flashed on the desk. “Arbiter Octagon,” said the Strategist, “we await the interloper in the command center. Report on the double.”

Octagon bared his teeth as the blue light flashed again, cutting the connection. He rose, and he signaled the two myrmidons.

“Bring him,” Octagon said. He stared at Marten as the predatory smile made a faint reappearance. Then Octagon Velcro-walked toward the door.

-7-

In his worn silver jumpsuit and old boots, Marten marched between the myrmidons. Octagon brought up the rear. They continued to use boot-pads because weightlessness reigned. That told Marten the meteor-ship was still near the hijacked pod.

With an effort of will, Marten focused on that instead of the shock collar and myrmidons. He needed to use his wits, as he had little else now. Were ship personnel inspecting the pod?

Octagon cleared his throat.

The myrmidons halted. The one in front whirled around to face Marten.

“Barbarian,” Octagon said softly.

Marten scowled, and the myrmidon facing him made a low, growling sound. There was little intelligence in the myrmidon’s eyes, but eager readiness for battle. There was also something akin to the hatred of the neutraloids in him. The squat, black-helmeted myrmidon was bestial, made to enforce Octagon’s orders. And Octagon supposedly gave his orders through reason alone. The dichotomy between myrmidon and philosophic governance—what did that say about the Jovians?

Marten smoothed away the scowl as he turned toward Octagon.

“Remember, that you will remain with me long after Strategist Tan leaves the ship.”

“Why do you care?” Marten asked.

Octagon’s right hand dropped to the pain meter hooked to his belt. “I have certain theories regarding barbarians,” he said softly. “You couldn’t understand, however, even if I explained it to you.”

“Try me.”

“Enjoy your liberty of impertinence, barbarian, for it shall be your last. Now go, hurry.”

They entered a narrow hall that led to a hatch. The first myrmidon darted through. Marten followed, walking past a man-sized statue. It was ivory-colored and showed a sparse intellectual in a toga. The statue had a serene smile, with an unfocused gaze. His hands were near his hips, the palms outward in an imploring gesture.

The statue startled Marten, and it took him a moment to realize he’d entered the roomiest place he’d seen. Large screens showed the stars. Spacers in zero-G worksuits floated around the pod or magnetically walked across its surface. From time to time, white particles of hydrogen-spray propelled a work-suited spacer elsewhere.

The room, or command center, had small modules along the walls, with black-uniformed personnel squeezed into each. The people in the modules wore ear-jacks and stared at vidscreens and other monitors. Marten recognized thermal scanners, broad-spectrum electromagnetic sensors and neutrino and mass detectors. Passive sensing systems allowed one to spot an enemy without giving oneself away. Active systems pinged a noticeable pulse off the enemy, who if alert would realize they were being scanned.