Cyborg Assault

Upon entering the command room, Yakov signaled a woman at a module. She climbed out and left the room.

Marten floated to the empty module. It was built for a Jovian person’s frame. Aboard the Mayflower, everything had been too big, here everything was too small. Marten squeezed into the module and familiarized himself with the vidscreen and controls.

And then, like everyone else, Marten was surprised. The ship gave a noticeable lurch as a large drone detached from it. Around the room, voices said.

“Force-Leader?” someone asked Yakov.

“We’re taking precautionary measures, Primary Gunner.”

“I must log an objection,” the Primary Gunner said. Her name was Rhea.

Rhea spoke from a module across the room from Marten. She had short brunette curls, and her black uniform stretched tightly across her curvaceous figure. A blue medal dangling from a choker around her neck only heightened her loveliness. The choker reminded Marten of Molly and the day he’d gone to see Hall Leader Quirn. He wondered if Rhea kissed as well as Molly had. The Jovian exuded a similar sort of worry. He could hear it in her voice.

“Since the Arbiter has strangely decided to hurry to the Rousseau,” Rhea said, “the Strategist should be here. We need her authorization to detach any active drones.”

“I am logging your objection and your reasoning,” Yakov said, who played with the controls on his chair. “Do you have any further clarifications?”

Rhea licked her lips, glanced around the room and dropped her gaze as she noticed Marten staring at her.

“No, Force-Leader,” she said.

Yakov nodded in his calm way and went back to studying the main screen.

Marten tore his gaze from her and adjusted his vidscreen. He could now see from cameras on the meteor- ship.

A large Zeno drone had detached from the ship and floated away from them. The drone was long with a bulbous head. Cursive Jovian script decorated the sides. As Marten examined it, the drone fired its chemical engine. With a stabbing orange flame, the drone accelerated away from them and toward the last known location of the Rousseau. After a five-minute burn, the Zeno’s engine shut-off. The drone had already been a tiny orange dot. Now it winked off and disappeared from the ship’s teleoptic sights as it coasted.

There was a critical advantage in space combat with a chemical engine versus a fusion engine. In order to operate a fusion engine had to maintain a continuous reaction. Thus, fusion engines always gave off a faint heat signature and spewed neutrinos. The chemically-fuelled drone could remain cold until needed and thus aided its ability to remain hidden until it ignited again.

Despite its size, the drone was small in stellar scale, hidden by the immensity of space, even the space of the Jupiter System. Interferometer sweeps, a hunt for thermal signatures and electromagnetic pulses would now likely search in vain for it. Radiation from Jupiter and Io’s ionized sulfur spewing from its volcanoes only made things more difficult.

In ancient Twentieth Century terms, space combat was often like a submarine captain and his detection crew, with radar, sonar and other technicians grouped together around their highly sensitive equipment. It was often a matter of endless listening and searching, seeking to find the enemy lurking under a cold layer of ocean current. For a variety of reasons, finding hidden drones often proved an order of magnitude more difficult in space than finding torpedoes or submarines in the old days.

There was another lurch to the warship. Yakov must have released another Zeno.

“I am ordering a practice drill,” Yakov announced. “We will take this opportunity to engage the Rousseau in a war-game maneuver.”

“Force-Leader,” Rhea said. “I must object and point—”

“For the duration of the drill,” Yakov said, “we will assume battle-status. You will therefore refrain from further outbursts, Primary Gunner.”

Rhea shifted uneasily, highlighting her figure.

Marten realized he was staring at her again. He forced himself to glance at Yakov.

The Force-Leader studied the main screen. He looked up, and said, “Engine room, be ready to engage the fusion core.”

Rhea stared out of her module at Yakov. Her lovely features showed that she was in an agony of spirit. Perhaps she had similar feelings as Anshan. As her shoulders slumped, she turned back to her control board.

Marten wondered if he should attempt to speak with her later. Whatever happened with Octagon and the drones would take days to occur. That was the reality of space combat and the distances such combat entailed.

-14-

Two days passed as Arbiter Octagon glided through the void, seething with indignation. Once again, he inspected his white uniform and the black marks all over it from the tape the barbarians had used on him. Rubbing the marks hadn’t helped, but only spread the blackness deeper into the fabric.

Octagon glared at the starry void. How he longed to make Marten Kluge pay. How he longed to hear a shock collar click shut as a myrmidon placed it around the barbarian’s neck. By Plato’s Bones, he would shock him many times. He would make Marten writhe on the floor. He would ask questions, appear mollified, and then the shocks would begin anew. Marten would howl for mercy. Yes, yes, he would even appear to grant it. Then he would use special myrmidons to perform degrading acts on the barbarian. That would break the man’s stubborn will. He would permanently remove the smirk from the Earthman’s lips.

Octagon scowled as thrusters rotated his pod. That was new and unexpected. Now Jupiter appeared in the corner of his single polarized window. Once more, as he had for days, he clicked toggles and attempted to regain control of the craft. His efforts had no effect on the thrusters, which increased their power. The acceleration pushed him deeper into the cushioned chair.

Despite the Gs, Octagon reached out and struck the panel. He’d finally reached his breaking point. He swiveled around in the pilot’s chair. Now his chest strained against the straps. While choking against the straps, adrenalin gripped him. His thoughts sped up. He wondered as he had before if the others monitored his actions. Were they observing him even now, mocking his display of anger? Were they recording it, to damn him later before the Philosopher’s Board on Callisto? He must control himself. He must continue to mask his emotions.

He recited appropriate maxims and thought about the Dictates. Calm, calm, he needed serenity. He closed his eyes. He needed to think, to engage his reason.

Yakov was in on the conspiracy. That explained the Descartes’ sudden acceleration, the acceleration that had hurled him at one of the walls. The blow had rendered him unconscious. Yes, Yakov had allied with the barbarians. The Secessionist Plot had finally erupted into action. Oh, for months now, he had tried to ferret out their secrets. He had known that Yakov was untrustworthy. No one else had believed him. Even Tan had been fooled. She had wronged him, disarming an arbiter of his palm-pistol in the presence of an enemy barbarian.

Could Tan be in on the plot?

Octagon shook his head. Tan had lived on Callisto most of her life. It was inconceivable the Strategist had thrown in her lot with those of Ganymede. No. It was impossible.

Octagon swiveled back to the control panel. The Gs pressed him into the cushions. His lips were a tight line. He would not let them see him emote. They would witness perfect control. Perhaps he had smote the panel a single time with his fist, but that’s all he would give them.

With serenity, he moved toggles and observed their uselessness. Was there some secret way he could reroute the controls and regain use of the pod? A mechanic or a technician would know the answer. He had never sullied himself with such base endeavors before. Trust a barbarian to send him on a flight without any proper crew to