“Sub-Strategist,” Marten said.
“This conversation has ended,” Circe said. “If you have complaints or requests to make, come to my quarters in three hours. Until then, I shall be otherwise engaged.” So saying, Circe turned with a swirl of her gown. She moved regally out of the command center, with her three myrmidons trailing her like dogs.
“What was that all about?” Marten asked. When Nadia didn’t answer, Marten turned toward her. She scowled after Circe. Then she turned sharply and stared at him.
“What’s wrong?” Marten asked.
Nadia shook her head before saying, “I don’t trust that woman.”
“Neither do I,” said Marten.
“Good,” Nadia said.
An officer entered then, asking for Marten’s help. There was still much to do to get the meteor-ship ready for the flight to Mars. Marten needed more hours in the workday and less interruptions.
-22-
Returning to her quarters, Circe readied herself for the coming meeting with the barbarian.
He was handsome in a crude way, and he exuded an intelligent ferocity. It was a strange combination, a mixture of myrmidon and Jovian cadet, brain and brawn. Her couplings with the myrmidons were always vigorous, but lacking in wit or grace. A union with a Jovian cadet was intellectually stimulating but left her limply unsatisfied. To experience both sensations at once—it excited her.
Circe removed her white gown.
The myrmidons grew tense, watching her. The dominant male grunted and began to unbuckle his breeches.
“No,” she said.
He growled irritably. The others became excited and began to jostle for position. Sometimes she let them wrestle over her, the winner allowed to approach her bed.
“Heel,” she said.
The six myrmidons froze, blinking at her.
“Obey,” she said, reaching for an obedience rod.
Reluctantly, the six creatures slunk to their shackles. She had trained them well by applying merciless punishment for the slightest infraction.
Using a small thumb, she clicked a button on the rod. Each of their neck-manacles on the wall opened. Each myrmidon in turn rested his neck in a shackle. Clicking the rod again caused the individual shackles to snap shut, locking the brutes in place.
Red silks swathed the room. There were six statues of aroused men and women. They surrounded a round bed with many cushions. Her favorite statue showed a man on his knees, clutching the thighs of a haughty-eyed woman. The male statue looked submissively up at the female, clearly ready to obey her every dictate. It was the essence of her training to be able to subdue any man, placing him in a state of abject worship.
Circe smiled to herself. Sight of these statues would bewilder Marten Kluge. Tonight, she would subdue him. She would give him pleasure such as few males had ever received. Then she would show him the lash and thus his place in her world. But first, she must prepare.
She lifted her rod and strode naked to the shackled myrmidons. Each stood at attention and grunted hungrily, eyeing her. She smiled, and she lifted a bottle of pheromones, beginning to spray the chemical throughout the room.
Each grunting myrmidon began to thump his hands against the wall, eager to be chosen. Each of them longed to pleasure her tonight.
Circe laughed, delighted at their antics. She’d never released one in this state. She’d never dared. Instead, she began to twirl for them, and dance erotically, driving them to drool and stare at her with glazed lust. Tonight, she would practice the Cleopatra grip on Marten Kluge. But she would leave nothing to chance, oh no.
She sprayed more pheromones as she danced. Then she strode from myrmidon to myrmidon as she buffed her body before them. They pawed for her, and they thrust their hips at her as they tore off their uniforms. She decided then to allow them to watch her couple with the barbarian. It would ignite hatred in each of her creatures for Marten Kluge. If ever the day came that Kluge attempted to free himself from her control, she would release her myrmidons upon him. They would tear him apart.
Twirling to her bed, she made further preparations. The most important was loading a spring-gun. It fired ice slivers that melted in the flesh. These slivers were not normal ice, they were frozen SX-16, a powerful aphrodisiac. Combined with the pheromones and her Aphrodite skills, the barbarian would easily succumb to her control.
Circe ran her small hands down her hips. Once she gained full mastery, she’d make Marten throttle his wife for her. The woman was a cow, a barbaric distraction. She especially hated Nadia’s hair. Afterward, Marten would do anything she commanded.
Circe checked her chronometer. Ah, in another hour the proceedings would begin. She shivered, looking forward to the challenge.
-23-
At the sound of a chime, Marten checked his watch. He was late for his meeting with the Sub-Strategist. Excusing himself from the group, he left the chief mechanic and his workers and hurried down the corridors.
The byways and corridors were narrow, a veritable maze throughout the meteor-ship. Recycled air pulsed everywhere, and clangs, thrums and low murmurs were constant. Marten passed technicians wiring panels and he said hello to his fire-control officer checking laser-coils. After climbing a ladder to a different level, Marten hurried around a corner. He adjusted his uniform and told himself he needed to control his temper better. Nadia was right. Circe was Tan’s representative. He needed to learn how to convince the Sub-Strategist, to look past her aloof attitude. There had to be some way to convince her to work together with him instead of battling him at every step.
“Marten—wait!”
Recognizing Omi’s voice, Marten halted. “I’m late for a meeting with Circe. I need to hurry.”
“You need to hear what I’ve found first.”
There was something troubling in Omi’s voice. Then Marten saw Osadar Di. The tall cyborg had trailed Omi. The frowning senso-mask startled him. Marten recalled something about the mask being able to sense its owner’s moods and adjust accordingly. How it could do that with a cyborg, he had no idea.
Marten glanced down the corridor toward Circe’s chamber. There were spy-sticks there.
“In here,” Marten said, indicating a storage chamber.
With the three of them among coils, auto-welders and construction-foam blowers, it made a tight fit. Osadar took out a sonic-shield, turning it on. The vibration hurt Marten’s ears. Listening to it too long would give him a headache.
“I’m late for a meeting with Circe,” Marten whispered.
“The crack in the fusion core’s outer shell wasn’t an accident,” Omi said.
“What’s that supposed mean?”
“Sabotage,” Omi said.
“Do you have proof?” asked Marten.
Osadar slid out a scroll-pad and showed him the evidence. After five minutes of tech-talk and Osadar explaining what she meant by it, Marten realized that they were right.
“The question is now,” Marten said, “who do you think did it?”
