As Marten and the remnants of his commando team skimmed for Olympus Mons, the SU Battlefleet already braked to match orbits with Phobos, Deimos and the edge of the Martian atmosphere.
Commodore Blackstone sat in his wardroom, staring at a still-shot of his ex-wife. The vidscreen showed a young woman with long auburn hair and in a three-piece bathing suit. Through bio-sculpture, she had maintained her youthful looks. Through vigorous exercise, she had maintained her shape. To realize now that she hadn’t done it for him, but in order to keep catching new lovers drove Blackstone near despair.
There was a soft knock at his door.
Blackstone’s hand shot out as he pressed his keyboard, switching the screen to a tactical display of the Mars System.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened and stout General Fromm stepped in and saluted.
“No need for that,” Blackstone said quietly. “We’re not on the bridge.”
General Fromm nodded stiffly and then managed an odd smile.
“Is there something troubling you?” Blackstone asked.
Fromm cocked his head, blinking at him. The general seemed distant as if he’d lost his train of thought.
“If you could make it brief, General,” Blackstone said. “I’m rather busy.” He gestured at his vidscreen. “I’m planning the next maneuver.”
“Ah…” Fromm said. “Yes. That’s why I’m here, sir.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about the prisoners on Phobos.”
“There are prisoners?” Blackstone asked. This was the first he’d heard about them.
“Strange, I know,” Fromm said. “The cyborgs are so rigorous that it would seem they’d kill everyone. Apparently, they are keen to digest every iota of intelligence they can from the enemy. Toll Seven wishes for my people to interrogate the prisoners.”
Blackstone frowned. Wasn’t that Commissar Kursk’s task? “It surprises me the cyborg doesn’t want to do it himself.”
“My thinking exactly,” Fromm said. He touched his neck and rubbed a heavy bandage there.
Blackstone was surprised he hadn’t noticed the bandage before now. It was flesh colored. He wanted Fromm out of here so he could decide whether to send his ex-wife a message regarding his possible return to Earth. Although Blackstone found it irksome, he forced himself to show interest in the general and his request.
“What happened to you?” Blackstone asked.
Fromm’s hand shot away from the bandage as if it was suddenly hot.
“Ah…”
“Is it a deep injury?” Blackstone asked.
“I jabbed myself,” Fromm said.
Blackstone could really care less. He did note that Fromm spoke in an odd manner and Blackstone decided it must be the stress of battle. “Is it healing?” he asked, wishing he’d never brought up the injury.
“Yes,” Fromm said. “It’s healing very well, sir. Perfectly.”
Blackstone indifferently waved his hand. “Yes, take care of the interrogations. But be sure to notify Commissar Kursk about it.” He frowned. “Why did Toll Seven ask you? The more I think about it—you realize that interrogations are the commissar’s prerogative?”
Fromm stiffened, and he saluted. Then he opened his mouth as if to explain, but said nothing.
Blackstone wondered if Supreme Commander Hawthorne had become a martinet concerning military protocol. Is that why Fromm acted so oddly? Had Fromm gained these strange mannerisms during his time on Hawthorne’s staff?
“Perhaps the cyborg realizes the commissar is overworked,” Blackstone said, answering his own question. He showed his teeth in a feral grin. “If Toll Seven had asked for the prisoners to interrogate, I’d have said no.”
General Fromm cocked his head and his eyes became glassy before he asked, “Is there a reason why you would have refused Toll Seven?”
Blackstone laughed without mirth. “I don’t trust the cyborgs. I hope you don’t either.”
“No, no,” Fromm said, “not at all.”
“Say, whatever happened to that aide of yours?” Blackstone asked. “She used to dog your heels. Now I never see her.”
“The clone?”
“That’s right. The Aster clone.”
Fromm blinked several times. “She’s hard at work monitoring the cyborgs.”
“The Supreme Commander asked about her in his last lightguide message,” Blackstone said. “If she discovers anything unusual, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Fromm said.
Blackstone drummed his fingers on his desk. “Was there anything else?”
“No, sir,” Fromm said. “With your permission, sir, I shall communicate your decision to Toll Seven.”
Blackstone waved him away, and he switched the tactical display back to a still-shot of his ex-wife. He was hardly aware as the door closed and as General Fromm took his leave.
Nine minutes later, Fromm secured the door to his cubicle. He double-checked it. Then he sat down on a chair and peeled the thick, flesh-colored bandage from his neck. A deep jack was embedded there.
Stout General Fromm licked his lips, feeling an odd sense of sexual arousal as he uncoiled a warm, flexible tube. It was synthi-flesh. He wormed the tube into the jack in his neck. He shivered with delight as the pseudo- nerve endings linked with nerves in his neck. It always began as pleasure sensations as the insert sent pulses to the needed brain centers. Drool trickled from his slack mouth. He moaned in pleasure and shifted in short, sudden movements.
Then, the deeper functions occurred. Mentally, he entered Web-Mind, the unit of the Neptune whole that resided in Toll Seven’s command pod. The general reported directly to Web-Mind about his talk with Commodore Blackstone. With his Web-heightened memories, he relayed the conversation perfectly.
Afterward, Web-Mind took General Fromm’s consciousness into his favorite simulation. During the episode, Web-Mind continued reprogramming the chaotic mass of the general’s neurons, gaining yet another level of control over the bio-form’s thoughts.
The unpleasant task of beginning the conversion process fell to OD12 and three other cyborgs. The Phobos prisoners were a mix of male and female bio-forms.
Twenty-seven naked humanoids drifted toward the far wall of the storage room as OD12 and three other cyborgs entered. The prisoners were male and female bio-forms. The cyborgs had already shaved off every hair on their bodies. The prisoners had bruises and scabs, but each was now as hairless as a newborn.
The bio-forms babbled frightened questions. And they stared at OD12 with wide-eyed horror.
That troubled her. And what troubled OD12 even more was that her internal computer didn’t notice her unease. During the battle for Phobos, a bullet or a shard from an explosion had struck her armored chest with terrific force. Adrenalin had already flown through her system. That adrenalin had accelerated many bio-functions in her, but for too long a period without rest. At the time, OD12 hadn’t noticed either problem. Replaying it later in her computer memories, she’d noticed that a glitch or an electronic burn had surged through her internal computer several microseconds after the impact. Certain data had been lost. OD12 suspected now that the censor program had been damaged. Her computer had repeatedly given her a message to report the incident to Web- Mind. She ignored it, and the computer ignored her disobedience.
Because of that, OD12 pushed aside the override controls over her emotions. She had done so with a sustained effort of will.
She now studied the horror on the faces of the naked prisoners. They babbled questions concerning their fate.
