Even though it was a sector capital, Athens was in worse shape than New Baghdad. Level after level, the buildings looked old and rundown. Their lift groaned and lurched and the air tasted stale. Too many sunlamps were missing in the ceilings, sometimes creating dark or shadowed zones. Potholes abounded, and garbage lay in heaps, sometimes worked upon by grungy men with rakes and wheelbarrows. Police with drawn guns watched them. Old women swept the streets and the children—they were skinny like Martians.
It was a little better on the Governmental Level, with more lights, less garbage and a battalion of street- sweepers in their mid-twenties. There were too many red-suited peacekeepers. Instead of machine pistols, however, the police wore shock-rods, although the higher-ranked had needlers.
Marten and Commissar Cleon moved at a brisk pace along the sidewalks. There were a number of official people about, most in hall leader uniforms or maroon, sector-bureaucrat colors.
“There,” Cleon said. With his chinstrap, the commissar pointed at the seven-story Director’s Building. It stood above the smaller buildings around it and the park on the other side. The building was octagonal in shape with several armored cars parked in front. A knot of peacekeepers stood near the glass entrances. The majority of them wore regular police body-armor.
Once again, Cleon showed his pass. A guard joined them, keeping his needler aimed at Marten’s back. They entered the building, and the guard turned them over to black-suited gunmen.
For the seventh time today, the commissar showed his ID card and the guards checked their slates.
Instead of one guard, three black-suited gunmen joined them. They rode up an armored lift to the fourth floor. More gunmen lined the halls.
“There been a lot of trouble lately?” Marten asked.
Hostile glances were his answers.
Finally, they marched into a large gray room. Marten and Cleon sat for several minutes. Then new black-suited gunmen appeared. They ushered the two into an even larger room. A red carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, a Parthenon replica six feet high and deep couches decorated it. There was a large glass window on the far side of the room. The window showed gardens and promenades down below, with other governmental buildings beyond.
An older woman with gray hair sat behind a desk. She had an alert expression, with dark eyes and a wide mouth.
“Force-Leader Marten Kluge,” she said.
“Director Delos?” he asked.
“Commissar, you may return to the cargo ship,” she told Cleon. “You will await my orders to shoot the cyborg and the woman.”
Marten stiffened. The gunmen noticed, all of them drawing their weapons.
“Alexander,” Delos said, who ignored her gunmen’s reaction. “Your men may sit down.”
Commissar Cleon opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something.
Director Delos raised an eyebrow. “You’re still here?” she asked.
Cleon must have thought better about speaking. He turned smartly and marched out the door. The gunmen moved to nearby couches, sitting down. They each placed their gun on their lap as they stared at Marten.
“Please, have a seat,” Delos said, indicating a single chair before her desk.
“That woman you’re speaking about is my wife,” Marten said. “She’s innocent of any wrongdoing and is not deserving of death.”
Delos sat back in her chair. “I doubt that, Mr. Kluge. She is in your company. That is crime enough.”
Marten silently counted to five before he asked, “Have you spoken with Security Specialist Cone?”
“I’ve done even better than that. I’ve watched a rare video of a fool and a madman.”
Marten frowned.
Delos sat up and turned a computer screen on her desk. It showed an evil scene with several large glass tubes, surrounded by medical devices and medical personnel. In the nearest giant tube was a naked and obviously exhausted Marten Kluge, pumping a handle up and down as blue water gushed onto his head.
With an oath, Marten lurched toward the screen. That caused several gunmen to leap up, training their weapons at him. Marten was unaware of their reaction. His gut tightened as he stared at the video. A snarl curled his lips.
“I’ve been watching the clip,” Delos said, as she motioned her gunman to relax. “You pumped an amazing number of hours. All you had to do to end your suffering was speak.”
“I didn’t speak,” Marten whispered.
“And yet, here you sit before me.”
“Where did you get that?”
Delos frowned. It put wrinkle lines in her face. She was an old woman. “You are not here to ask me questions, Mr. Kluge. I am asking the questions. It appears that you were a poorly-behaved citizen and a malcontent.”
He stared into her eyes, and he shrugged.
That deepened her frown. “You are not a diplomatic man.”
“Have you seen cyborgs fight?” Marten asked. “I have, many times, and yet I am here, as you say.”
The lines in Delos’s face deepened. “How is it that you have a cyborg on your ship?”
“Her name is Osadar Di. She used to be a Jovian. Long ago, she fled to Neptune. There the cyborgs—”
“Spare me the history, as I don’t care enough to listen. Your warning to Cleon…it made me curious. I’ve glanced at your file before. I did it last month while studying the Supreme Commander’s latest advisors. I wonder what he saw in you.”
“That I was a fighter, one who has faced the great enemy and survived,” Marten said.
“Hmm. There you were,” Delos said, indicating the screen where Marten still pumped. “And here you are: the Jovian Representative to Earth. You fought in the Jovian System?”
“And helped them defeat the cyborgs.”
“Always fighting, are you, Mr. Kluge.”
“It’s better than surrendering.”
“Why are you here in Athens? I want the real reason?”
“To collect my space marines,” Marten said.
Delos pressed a button. A speaker blared into life. The voices belonged to Marten and Cone, and it replayed their conversation a few hours ago.
“Promise me grain, eh?” Delos asked, after the conversation ended.
Marten closed his eyes. He thought of Nadia, of Commissar Cleon putting a pistol to her head and blowing out her brains. It made him clench his teeth with growing frustration. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
“I despise Social Unity,” Marten said in a low voice. “All my life, the thugs of Social Unity have been trying to tell me how to think. They killed my parents and made my early life hell. They told me God didn’t exist and then they tried to take His place. I spit on Social Unity.”
“Is Jupiter so much better?”
“No!” Marten said. “They have a different form of tyranny, one based on supposed philosophic splendor. But that has changed, or it did while I was there.”
“You are a born rebel, Mr. Kluge. You are a complainer instead of a builder.”
“I’m in love with freedom, yes, that’s true. I want to think for myself, to decide without being punished for my thoughts. As long as I don’t interfere with my neighbor, I want to do as I please and think as I please.”
“I have heard of your species of malcontent before: a libertarian. It is an old word, and it means: chaotic instability throughout society.”
Marten scowled. “I hate Social Unity and I despise the Dictates. I refuse to knuckle under either system. Yet I will join hands with SU soldiers and Jovian guardians to fight the living death that are the cyborgs. I have a cyborg in my company. She used to be human. They tore her down to her component parts and then rebuilt her into a meld of machine and flesh. They programed her brain, using mini-computers to enslave her soul. When cyborgs win, when Web-Minds take over, they capture humans and put them into converters. They manufacture more cyborgs. I never thought it was possible, but out there I found something worse than Social Unity.”
“Very stirring, I’m sure,” Director Delos said in a bored voice.
“You believe yourself immune, is that it? Look at those thugs sitting on your couch. Look at their snappy black uniforms. They’ll stop the cyborgs for you?”
