He scowled and then leaned nearer. He had nothing to fear, as restraints held her. “You have deviated from the Dictates,” Octagon said. “You are a Secessionist.”
The prisoner groaned, and pain contorted her features.
Octagon looked up.
The technician wiped a sleeve across a suddenly moist forehead. He typed quickly on the keypad, and he kept biting his lower lip. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he whispered.
“Fix it!” Octagon said.
“I’m trying.”
Octagon put a hand on the articulated frame. Heat radiated from the prisoner’s skin. He asked, “Do you belong to a triad?”
She was staring at him again. Her lips moved, and words bubbled from her throat. “Yes,” she admitted.
Octagon’s eyes glittered. “Are you the liaison to a higher circle?”
Her lips twisted as if she tried to keep from speaking. But she said, “I am the liaison.”
Yes, it was as he suspected. Finally, he was going to break into a higher circle. “Who is your operative?” Octagon asked.
There was a loud buzz from the technician’s device. Several motes glimmered from the glassy barbs. The prisoner made a horribly deep groan as every muscle went rigid.
“What occurs?” Octagon demanded.
“No, no,” the technician said, his fingers flying across the keypad.
The prisoner sighed, and the rigidity left her muscles. She relaxed and then went limp.
“Talk!” shouted Octagon. “Tell me the operative’s name.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook, which caused cables to jiggle.
The prisoner’s mouth sagged and more drool slid down her chin.
With his thumb, Octagon peeled back an eyelid. It was like peering into an animal’s eye, a brute beast.
“How long will she remain in this state?” Octagon asked.
The technician had grown paler. His small fingers moved listlessly over the keypad.
“I asked you a question,” Octagon said, releasing the prisoner, straightening and then adjusting his uniform.
“Something odd occurred,” the technician whispered. “I must perform an autopsy. Maybe they implanted a mote into her cortex.”
Octagon frowned. “Explain yourself,” he said.
“Arbiter, I can’t explain it. I attempted a braintap. I followed the standard procedures. But by what I’m seeing, a brain-burn has occurred.”
“She’s become an imbecile?”
The technician shook his head. “The memories are there, but the connectives were irretrievable burned. We should eliminate her body as a last mercy.”
Octagon walked stiffly backward. His gaze kept flickering from the prisoner to the technician.
“I did my best, Your Guidance. But her memories are beyond us now. Perhaps—”
Octagon pressed a stud on his belt. The door to the operating chamber swished open. A squat man with long, dangling arms, heavily-muscular arms entered. He was a myrmidon, a gene-warped creature.
“Take him to my quarters,” Octagon said.
“Arbiter!” the technician cried. “I tried my best. You must believe me.”
The myrmidon moved fast, and his large hands proved irresistible. The technician cried out a second time, his arms twisted behind his back. Shoved by the myrmidon, the technician stumbled for the door.
“Please!” the small technician sobbed. “I tried.”
“Hm,” said Octagon. “We shall see. We shall see.”
The technician and myrmidon exited the operating chamber. The door slid shut.
Octagon regarded the inert prisoner. This was infuriating. He’d had a lead into a Secessionist triad, one aboard a military vessel. The prisoner could have opened up everything for him. Octagon snarled in frustration, and he drew his palm-pistol. He should remain calm. He was an Arbiter after all. He lived by the Dictates and with decorum.
He aimed, squeezed the trigger and shot the drooling prisoner. Sight of the smoking hole in her forehead helped compose his features. He clipped the pistol back onto his belt. He must display serenity for the good of the crew. First, however, he was going to have a small chat with the technician. They would chat after he attached a shock collar to the bungler’s neck. The thought brought a tingle of pleasure to Octagon’s lower abdomen.
As the fusion engine pulsed, as the bulkheads around him shivered, Octagon headed for the door. Nothing must stand in the way of the continued implementation of the Dictates, the most perfected life-system devised by men. Certainly, this crew wasn’t going to defeat him. By Plato’s Bones, he was going to crack this nest of intriguers if he had to brain-burn the lot of them. Even Yakov might end up on the obedience frame. The thought brought a grin to Octagon’s lips. Then he exited the operating chamber, hurrying through a narrow corridor to his quarters.
The Engagement
-1-
In 2351, the Jupiter System thrived as one of the richest in resources. The population there swelled and their wealth grew, despite the intense radiation belts and the heavy gravity-well. The reason was the gas giant itself. Like Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, Jupiter’s upper atmosphere contained massive quantities of deuterium and helium-3. These plentiful fuels drove the system’s fusion economy.
Automated factories floating in Jupiter’s upper atmosphere collected the deuterium and the more important helium-3, an isotope of helium. At scheduled intervals, heavy boosters lifted the fuels to the nearest moons, the Inner group, where vast storage facilities stood. In historical terms, the gas giants were like the Solar System’s Persian Gulf, in the days when oil ran the Earth’s economy.
Plentiful fusion power had allowed the first Deuterium Barons to turn the otherwise inhospitable moons into vast industrial basins. That in turn had enticed more colonists seeking escape from the nascent Social Unity Party. The vast exodus of wealthy, intellectual and daring people had been the driving force behind the increasingly harsh Anti-Emigration Laws of Inner Planets.
The growing wealthy class of the Jupiter System had turned toward intellectual pursuits. This held truest for the rich on Callisto, the fourth Galilean Moon. Many there had become absorbed with philosophy, and became particularly concerned with the examined life. This had inspired the Dictates, a codex of axioms that governed a neo-Socratic lifestyle.
Backed by fusion-powered heavy industry, the lords of Callisto had created the Guardian Fleet. For over one hundred years, the Fleet grew in political power until it ruled the system. Serving as a velvet-covered platinum fist, the Fleet had ensured Callisto’s dominance over the rest of Jupiter’s sixty-two moons.
If Social Unity propaganda was the measure, the Guardian Fleet was one of the strongest in the Solar System. Many claimed it was the reason for building the Doom Stars. Others said the lust to gain access to the deuterium and helium-3 rich gas giants was the real reason. Whatever the case, in 2351, the Jupiter System was awash in wealth, ships and inhabited moons.
“I’m not receiving any video,
Marten sat at the controls of his shuttle, the
