As Strategist Tan ejected from the
He lay on a steel table, with his head strapped down and his torso, arms and legs secured by metal bands. He was stark naked, his manhood a shriveled lump that lay like a beaten dog on his hairless scrotum. Whenever he squirmed, punishment
Hypos, prods, needles and a strange, bulky instrument that looked like an oversized gun were attached to the nearest wall. A medical unit monitored his status, and its occasional sounds sent a shiver of terror through Octagon. He’d always hated doctors and dentists in particular. The taps, massages, drills, the needles and the cold scope on his chest, he had always hated them. Such ministrations had made him feel vulnerable again, as he had as an orphan in his youth.
He’d been reared in a harsh world of Platonic instructors, and Master Gensifer had been the worst of his teachers. Octagon could still feel the slaps against the back of his head, and the evil cheek-pinches by the man’s strong fingers. Worst of all, however, had been Master Gensifer’s acid tongue. Gensifer had used his tongue like a wire lash, and it had slashed Octagon’s young ego with brutal precision. It was strange, but over time, Octagon had come to admire Gensifer. He had seen the old man as a tower of strength. If he could become sharp-witted, if he could slap and pinch others, then he would be safe. He would be strong and secure. Maybe the savagery of his childhood had driven Octagon to excel. Maybe the need to defend himself had forced him to hurt others.
Octagon didn’t reason these things out on the steel table. Instead, he felt small again, vulnerable and weak. He loathed these sensations. They shriveled his gut. He was a hurt thing, and he would do anything to stop the hurting, anything to get off the table.
At the moment, Octagon remained rigid—the electrical discharges were too painful to resist. Only his eyes roamed free. A metal band circled his head, keeping his neck from moving. He strained his eyes to the left to see what the nearest cyborg detached from the wall. He peered to the right as the door opened. From the next room came an awful green glow. It implied horrors beyond imagination.
He was still aboard the pod, Octagon was certain of that. Where did they go? What did the cyborgs want with him, other than to convert him into one of them? The idea… is this why he had survived the vacuum of space? It was inconceivable. He had prayed. He had prayed to a myriad of deities.
A horrible thought occurred then. Which of the supernatural entities had heard him? Because he lay on this cold, steel table, the sickening conclusion was that an evil entity must have responded to his prayers. The entity probably laughed at a man’s attempt to wrest an ounce of joy from life.
Octagon wanted to whimper, and that made him cringe, fearing more shocks. Maybe whimpering offended cyborgs. However, no electrical discharges were released. Octagon strained to see what the awful beings were doing now.
A cyborg pulled the bulky, gun-like instrument from the wall. The metallic monster turned toward him, raising the barrel of the ‘gun’. The weapon showed a large opening, and something seemed to be in it. The cyborg floated nearer, both it and the bulky thing were weightless.
“What are you doing?” Octagon whispered. His voice was badly damaged from prolonged screaming. “I insist that you stop at once.”
Octagon writhed then, making horrible croaking sounds as the metal bands activated and
The second cyborg reached out to the medical board and clicked something. The shocks ceased, bringing blessed relief.
Octagon sagged as he blinked his watery eyes. Had the thing turned off the pain? Before he could think to ask why, the first cyborg pressed the bulky, gun-like thing against his neck.
“Wait,” Octagon whispered. “Tell me what you want.”
He tried to squirm away from the gun-thing, and this time no shocks tortured him. Octagon failed to rejoice, however. Spider-like claws emerged from the gun-thing and rigidly clasped his neck.
“If you’d just speak to me,” Octagon pleaded.
Then he screamed as knifing pain pierced the base of his neck. Hypos hissed against him as drugs entered his bloodstream. His neck numbed, but the cutting feeling horrified him. He tried to thrash away. Tears poured from his eyes and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He could feel the thing digging into him. It seemed the gun-thing deposited metal into his flesh. What was its purpose? Why did the universe hate him?
“Marten Kluge!” he hissed in a dry whisper of hate.
Before Octagon could elaborate on his hatred, his eyelids grew heavy and his bodily functions began to shut down. He did not know it, but the cyborg had inserted a Webbie-jack into him. They had modified him because they desired knowledge that only he possessed among their captives. Through careful tests, the two cyborgs had determined he possessed this knowledge.
As former Arbiter Octagon relaxed and entered sleep mode, the first cyborg removed the jack-gun. The second cyborg began to remove the metal bands. The restraints would no longer be necessary.
As Webbie Octagon sped toward his fate in the
Gharlane knew a moment of disquiet then, and he realized that once again he’d known better. Through the Web-Mind’s wish for one more warship, the biomass brain had possibly lost their advantage of strategic surprise. There were indicators that many of the humans still didn’t understand the situation. But Gharlane doubted the data. The chaos-factor humans from Mars had revealed too much, and the chaos-factor Highborn had added to that knowledge.
Gharlane froze with a sudden thought, a new input. He wondered if he should continue to categorize the Highborn as human, or as a subset of Homo sapiens or as new species. Men and chimpanzees were a different species. The relative differences between Homo sapiens and Highborn were stark. Were Highborn as superior to Homo sapiens as men were to chimpanzees? It was an interesting question. The answer might help the campaign to eradicate both. Was it possible for two species to coordinate? Could men and chimpanzees cooperate as allies? It seemed doubtful. The Highborn might be so superior to Homo sapiens that it was impossible for them to achieve a true alliance. The arrangement under which the Homo sapiens fought for the Highborn pointed to a possible master-slave relationship, however.
The lift slowed and the door opened. Gharlane exited into a large lobby of motionless cyborgs, each hooked by cables into a generator. It was a new technique: hot-shotted cyborgs ramped with overloaded energy. The Web- Mind readied a beta unit of overloaded troops. One cyborg with its cable slotted in its chest jittered, causing its metallic feet to rattle against the floor. Gharlane wondered how long that had been occurring. Then the cyborg’s eyes snapped open.
Recognizing the danger signs, Gharlane drew a laser carbine from the back-sheath on his vacc-suit. A red beam stabbed through the dim lobby. The fatally damaged cyborg screeched as it tore the cable from its chest-slot. Then its neck-armor melted as the beam stabbed through. Expertly, Gharlane sliced upward. As the screeching cyborg attempted a bounding attack, the beam cut the head in two. Electric sparks and loud whining sounds accompanied the hot-shotted cyborg’s clattering death.
Gharlane observed the others. They remained in sleep mode, charging with power. Gharlane was aware of the Web-Mind’s observation and assessment of his action. In three seconds, the Web-Mind’s presence departed, no doubt realizing that Gharlane had acted correctly.
After exiting the lobby and resealing the chamber, Gharlane floated outside. Several kilometers away the bulk of the Voltaire Missiles waited. They were hidden from view by the curvature of the surface and by intervening buildings.
Gharlane expected no less than annihilating victory from this strike. Cyborgs had modified the giant missiles for weeks, as this day had long been anticipated. Some of the missiles remained as before. Most contained advanced
