“I suspect the Sub-Strategist,” Osadar said.
“What reason could she have?” Marten asked.
“Delay,” said Osadar.
“Why?” Marten asked, as he shook his head.
“Have you studied the manifest of the new personnel?” asked Osadar.
“Yeah,” said Marten. “Headquarters is sending an arbiter, more myrmidons and replacement technicians.”
“I managed to discover the point of origin of several of the new technicians,” Osadar said. “It is Callisto.”
Marten frowned. “Has Tan changed her mind about us?”
“Someone has,” said Osadar.
Taking the scroll-pad, staring at the names, Marten mulled over the implications.
“You dare not enter the Sub-Strategist’s chamber,” Osadar said.
“Why not?” asked Marten. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Given that she sabotaged the core-shell,” Osadar said, “shows that she willingly risked the deaths of at least eighteen people. You must ask yourself—after her arrogance toward you—why does she now wish a private meeting in her chamber? The answer is obvious to me. So she can stage an incident and order her myrmidons to kill you.”
“Why didn’t Tan have me killed when she had the chance?” Marten asked.
“We do not know all the realities of the Chief Strategist’s current political position,” Osadar said. “Clearly, she feared to have you murdered outright. Now, however, time has passed. A staged incident would allow her to remove you and place one of her people in charge of the warship.”
“I don’t know,” Marten said. “Tan seemed genuine. She also recognized the need for an alliance with everyone else against the cyborgs.”
“According to the reports,” Osadar said, “this alliance has been achieved. Before, you believed Tan wanted to use your unique experiences with the Highborn, Social Unity and the Martians. It may be that your expertise is no longer required. Therefore, she is free to kill you.”
“It’s possible,” Marten said thoughtfully, “and it might explain why she sent Circe in the first place.”
“Kill Circe and the myrmidons,” Omi said. “Then kill the new arbiter before he can board.”
“That seems harsh,” said Marten.
“So does sabotaging the fusion-shell and causing eighteen crewmembers to be poisoned with radiation,” Omi said.
Marten rubbed his forehead. The sonic-shield made his brain pound. If all this was true…. He looked up at the others.
“You have reached a solution,” Osadar said.
“Maybe,” said Marten. “Let me think about it first.”
“What about the meeting with Circe?” Omi said.
“Osadar might be right,” Marten said. “So I’ll let her stew. Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I’ll make the Sub- Strategist angry enough to come see me.”
-24-
Thirteen hours later in a lonely part of the ship, Omi muttered, “Here comes trouble.”
Marten looked up.
They were in an outer corridor near a seldom-used docking bay. Several battered patrol boats were attached to the meteor-ship’s outer shell. One of the boats had used this emergency bay. Omi had climbed out of the boat and come down here to describe the latest field exercise to Marten. The space marines used thruster-packs to skim around the meteor-ship. Omi still wore his vacc-suit, although minus its helmet. Half the marines were still outside, and would spend another seventeen hours there. Marten wanted them accustomed to spending long hours in their suits, so they wouldn’t panic if it happened during combat.
Despite the loneliness of the location, Circe moved toward them. Usually, she remained within the inner ship, seldom venturing into the hollowed-out corridors composed of the asteroid-shell. She wore her sheer gown today, the gauzy one that left little to the imagination. Under the gown, she wore a belt, with a small gun attached to it. The belt accentuated the sway of her hips, which moved in a decidedly un-philosophic manner. Three myrmidons followed.
Marten frowned. Something seemed different about them today. Then he noticed their bloodshot eyes. The myrmidons looked tired, sullen maybe, and a little less aggressive. Once or twice, he thought to see them eye Circe, but it was hard to tell. They hunched their heads like turtles, and constantly glanced about everywhere as if hunting for trouble. Although what they could find in the nearly empty corridor baffled Marten.
“Strange gown for a Sub-Strategist to wear,” Marten whispered.
“Nice tight body, though,” Omi whispered. “She reminds me of a Sydney hooker, one of the better kind reserved for the hall leaders.”
“That sort of thought probably never enters her mind,” Marten whispered.
“The way she walks,” Omi whispered, “don’t count on it.”
“Force-Leader Kluge,” Circe called, “I would like a word with you.”
“Here I am,” said Marten.
“In private, if you please,” Circe said.
“Omi and I have been through Hell and back,” Marten said. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.”
“I’m sure your antiquated religious terms make sense to you,” Circe said. “But they beg the issue. I need your expertise on a matter and require privacy.”
“Sure,” said Marten. He’d never heard that before, that she needed help. Maybe he should try to bend a little. “Why don’t you order your myrmidons back to your chamber then?”
Circe raised plucked eyebrows, highlighting the black gem seemingly embedded in her forehead. “This is most interesting. My profile on you said barbarian chieftains never admit to fear. Yet now you’re exhibiting fright of my protectors.”
Marten snorted. “Lady, I’ve been more afraid than you can possibly imagine. I have no problem admitting it, either. Now if you wish to speak with me privately, then get rid of your myrmidons. I don’t like the way they’re eyeing me or how their hands keep straying to their knives.”
“You have a big gun strapped to your waist,” Circe said.
Marten gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve fought myrmidons before. Gun or not, they’re hard to kill.”
The lead myrmidon snarled, and took a lurching step toward Marten, passing Circe as he did so. The Sub- Strategist reacted with astonishing quickness and slapped his hand. The myrmidon cringed, backing away, and he whined in a beastly manner. The others glanced at Circe in fear.
“Go,” she told them. “Return to my chamber. Ready him for punishment by making him assume the manticora position.”
The offending myrmidon stood frozen, his bloodshot eyes widening as he stared at her. The other two grimaced uneasily.
Circe raised a hand.
The offending myrmidon whirled around, hurrying away. A half-second later, the other two set off after him.
Marten and Omi traded glances.
“There,” Circe said, as she smoothed her gown. “I have rendered myself defenseless before you. Either exhibit your barbarism upon me or send away your bodyguard so we may speak in private.”
“What do you want to speak about?” Marten asked.
“I have fulfilled your requirements for a private conversation,” Circe said. “Either keep your word or demonstrate your untrustworthiness.”
Marten rolled his eyes. “Go on,” he told Omi. “I’ll hear her out.”
