Cyborg Assault

“May I?” asked the black-uniformed man.

Tan gave the barest of nods.

“I am Force-Leader Yakov of Ganymede,” the man told Marten. Yakov had a pelt of fine silver hair. And although small and round-headed like the others, he had lines around his mouth and bunched muscles at the hinges of his jaw. A feeling of deadliness emanated from him, the subtle hints of a trained soldier. “I lead the Descartes during hostilities. I wish to query you.”

Marten nodded.

“I have your permission then?” Yakov asked.

“Oh,” Marten said. “Sure.”

“First,” said Yakov, “who exactly is the cyborg that was trapped with you in the pod?”

“She is Osadar Di. In Neptune, the Prime Web-Mind converted her.”

“If you would,” Yakov said, “please explain what that means.”

“They have a process in Neptune by which a person is torn down and rebuilt into a cyborg. They program the cyborg. Osadar, however, broke her programming.”

Yakov’s manner tightened. “That could have been a ploy, allowing the Web-Mind to insert a spy into your ranks.”

“I’m sure that’s possible,” Marten said. “But Osadar saved our lives on Mars, killing other cyborgs. According to the Martian broadcasts, all the cyborgs were slain in the Mars System. Osadar did nothing to help save any of them. Finally, for nearly a year, she has traveled with Omi and me aboard the Mayflower.”

“If you will pardon my interruption,” Tan said. “Your statement lacks precision. You said all cyborgs died on Mars, but Osadar survived and she is a cyborg.”

“All programmed cyborgs died on Mars,” Marten said. “Look, I don’t think you people understand just how much danger you’re in. The cyborgs have come to Jupiter. They’re here and they’ve likely been converting Jovians.”

“Explain, please,” Yakov said.

Marten glanced from Yakov, to Tan, to angry Octagon. Before he could say another word, one of the technicians spoke up.

“I’m getting a voice signal from the last known location of the Rousseau. They’re requesting urgent evacuation.”

Force-Leader Yakov swiveled in his command chair to look at Tan.

Tan frowned, moodily staring at the largest screen. “I must attend the War Council.”

“I could give you a shuttle,” Yakov said.

“No…” Tan said. “The Chief Strategist was explicit. All military vessels of the Guardian Fleet are to rendezvous at Athena Station.”

“What are the coordinates of the voice signals?” Yakov asked the technician.

The technician read off a series of numbers that were meaningless to Marten. But they must have made sense to the Force-Leader.

“You could use the shuttle,” Yakov told Tan. “Then I could delay my arrival by first examining the distress call. Then I would—”

“The Rousseau was controlled by cyborgs,” Marten blurted out. “That means a Web-Mind is probably already operating in your system. You have an emergency. If I were you, I’d tell your War Council—” Marten closed his mouth as a new possibility slammed into his thoughts. The possibility sickened him, and he wondered if it was already too late to save the Jovian System.

“Again he hesitates,” Octagon said. “The barbarian obviously hides pertinent information. We are reckless to take his credentials at face value. I suggest we hook him to the obedience frame.”

Marten laughed harshly, which made Octagon scowl.

“This War Council,” Marten asked, “where does it meet?”

“That is privileged information,” Tan said.

“If it’s near this Athena Station,” Marten said, “I would think twice about going. Before you ask me why, let me tell you what happened to the Rousseau. The sooner you know what’s going on, the better for everyone.”

As Tan, Yakov and Octagon listened, Marten told them about the harrowing ordeal Omi, Osadar and he had recently undergone against the dreadnaught.

-8-

With a strangled sound, Octagon drew a palm-pistol and aimed it at Marten. It was a neat little gun and had been strapped to his belt. It was oval, with handgrips like brass knuckles, and fit into Octagon’s slender palm.

The myrmidons crouched like beasts, ready to fling themselves at Marten.

“His entire fabrication of lies is a web meant to bewilder us into inactivity,” Octagon snarled. “Social Unity must have sent him as a saboteur or as a fragmentation agent. His single mote of truth is that he attacked the Rousseau. I await your word, Exalted One. I will terminate this enemy saboteur.”

“Put up your weapon,” said Tan.

“Your Visionary, I must—”

Small Strategist Tan turned toward Octagon. Her words came out cold and clipped, cutting him off. “You have served too long in isolation, I see. Maybe you’ve forgotten that you regulate temperance, not govern this ship.”

Octagon sputtered.

“Yes,” said Tan. “I note your red shoulder tabs and red bars and crescents, but you are a probationary authority. I am a governor. I am a strategist on the War Council. You will seek to teach me nothing, unless you wish me to relieve you of your station.”

Octagon’s features blazed crimson. His pistol-hand quivered as tendons rose.

“Must I summon ship-guardians?” asked Tan.

With a hiss of expelled air, Octagon lowered his palm-pistol.

Tan held out a tiny hand toward him.

Octagon blinked at her. The flush left his cheeks, as he turned pale. He began to tremble.

Inflexibly, Tan held out her hand.

Octagon said hoarsely, “Exalted One, I crave your pardon. You…you speak truth that I have maintained my post too long. I have served here for two entire cycles. There is a reason for that, but I am reluctant to state it.”

“Then don’t,” said Tan.

“Except for me,” Octagon said, “none from Callisto serves aboard the ship.”

Tan glanced at Yakov sitting in the command chair. “That has no bearing on your status,” Tan told Octagon.

“That is understood,” said Octagon. “The guardian-soldiers of the Descartes— soldiers of Ganymede and Europa—are shining examples of duty. They guard with no ulterior loyalties. During my two cycles here, I have only discovered three instances of class overstep.”

“Three?” asked Tan, betraying surprise, and again glancing at the stoic Yakov.

“There might have been more oversteps,” Octagon said, “but I acted decisively to quash them. During each guardian’s off-duty period, I demanded a careful hour of study, periodic examination and my precise explanation of the Dictates.”

“You have been zealous,” admitted Tan.

“As you’ve implied, Exalted One, I have overworked myself. That is not sufficient reason for my… unwarranted display of moments ago. I dare not say more. Otherwise, I fear that my restraint will depart.”

“Hm,” said Tan, as her outstretched hand lowered. “I appreciate that you’ve shackled your… display. Restraint is the watchword.”

“It is the watchword,” echoed Octagon.

“Yes,” said Tan, “this is an unusual situation. Although, it is in such situations that our philosophical approach