Cyborg Assault ds-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  Marten followed, with the second myrmidon breathing against his back.

  They entered the first spacious room Marten had seen, although it was still confined compared to Highborn standards. A man in a white uniform with red buttons and shoulder-tabs sat behind a desk. There were screens behind him, various hanging vidshots of people and several pithy sayings.

  Marten read one: Temperance breeds happiness.

  It seemed innocuous enough, but it set Marten on edge. More than ever, the two myrmidons reminded him of Political Harmony Corps killers, but with the gene-warping of a Highborn. The white-uniformed man had the feel of a political officer or a hall leader like Quirn.

  The desk was big. It had a screen and controls built into it. There was a bronze statuette of a man in a flowing robe who looked outward with a serene gaze. The statuette’s arm was half-lifted and a finger pointed to nothing.

  The white-uniformed man lacked that serenity. He was short like all the other Jovians, hairless, thin and had sharp features. The thrust of his narrow face was a stern, downward turn, as if he disapproved of everything.

  “Sit,” the man said. He had a surprisingly deep voice, and he was obviously used to giving commands that others obeyed.

  There was one chair before the desk. Marten took it. He felt the two myrmidons settle into position behind him.

  “I am Arbiter Octagon,” the man said. “When speaking, you may refer to me as ‘Arbiter’ or as ‘Your Guidance’. Do you understand?”

  Marten nodded.

  Arbiter Octagon folded his hands on the desk. “We intercepted some of your transmissions. You claim to have arrived from Mars.”

  “I am from Mars. Are you aware that cyborgs have invaded the Jupiter System?”

  Octagon shook his head minutely as he spoke with quiet menace. “Do not query me. You are here for me to determine your status. I am the sole arbiter on the Descartes.”

  “I’m not trying to—”

  Octagon raised a finger.

  One of the myrmidons clapped a hand onto Marten’s shoulder. The myrmidon applied pressure, grinding Marten’s shoulder-bones together. He ceased abruptly, before Marten could cry out or try to squirm free.

  “Consider that as a crude demonstration,” Octagon said. “You are obviously an out-system barbarian, a creature given to direct stimuli. Therefore, failure to follow my directions will result in pain. Comply, and you will continue to sit here in relative comfort.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” Marten said.

  Octagon gave a sharp, humorous bark of laughter before he shook his head. “What do you call yourself?”

  “I’m Marten Kluge.”

  “Wipe that angry look from your face or you will experience more pain.”

  “You think this is my angry look?” Marten asked.

  Octagon sighed, throwing himself back against his chair. “Collar him,” he said.

  Marten began to twist around and tried to rise. Powerful hands gripped him. In seconds, one of the myrmidons snapped a metal collar around his neck. The click seemed ominous. As the myrmidons relaxed their grip, Marten grabbed the collar, intending to rip it off. A buzz sounded, and from the collar, volts sizzled through him.

  Marten went limp in the chair, releasing the collar as if it were on fire. The buzzing stopped and volts no longer charged through his flesh.

  “Yes, much better,” said Octagon, who smiled for the first time. It was a cruel and predatory expression. He leaned forward, holding a small box. “This is a pain meter. If I dial it low like this. You feel this.” Using a narrow thumb, Octagon pressed a red button.

  A mild shock caused Marten to clench his teeth. The pain ceased the moment the Arbiter lifted his thumb off the button.

  “However, if I dial it up to this—” Octagon twisted the switch and let his thumb hover over the button. He raised his eyebrows. “Shall I press the switch?”

  Marten licked his lips. He knew what Octagon wanted. He should speak meek words. But rage pounded in his skull. Marten lunged, catching them by surprise. He made it across the desk and slapped the pain meter out of Octagon’s hands. The Arbiter must have never expected that. Before Marten could strike the bastard, the two myrmidons grabbed him, wrenching his arms as they slammed him back against the chair.

  Octagon was white with fury as he snatched the pain meter from where it floated. There was something wild in his black eyes, something feral and twisted. His mouth moved, but no sounds issued.

  Marten would have tried to lunge again, but the myrmidons held him tight.

  “Release him,” Octagon whispered.

  Gingerly, the powerful hands let go.

  “That was a mistake, barbarian. It shows—” The thumb stabbed onto the red button.

  Agony lanced through Marten. It was impossible to move. Numbing jolts flashed through him. He couldn’t even croak in pain. Finally, it stopped.

  Marten panted in his chair as sweat trickled down his back. His mouth tasted dry and it was difficult to focus. He wanted to kill Arbiter Octagon. But he couldn’t attempt it now. He needed to hide as his parents had once hidden in the Ring-Works Factory. He couldn’t hide physically. No. He would have to resort to the trickery of his Highborn days. He would have to eat dust until Octagon relaxed his guard.

  “I am the sole arbiter aboard the Descartes,” Octagon murmured. “I ensure obedience to the Dictates. I determine rank, grade and sometimes lower the undeserving in class. You are outside the stratum of the enlightened. You are a barbarian, living in the ignorance of an unexamined life. That is why I put a training collar on you.”

  Octagon adjusted the pain dial as he sat back in his chair. He examined Marten as if examining some untrustworthy piece of equipment.

  “Barbarians are akin to animals even though they hold the guise of humans.” Octagon pursed his lips. “Even humans trained in the Dictates at times fail to maintain their temperance. Hence, a need for arbiters arises. I am highly advanced in the Dictates. I have examined my life under the Dictates’ fulfilling philosophies. I use reason instead of relying upon passion such as a brute as yourself practices. I am of the eleventh rank! I understand that is meaningless to an out-system barbarian. Therefore, let me say that eleventh rank meant years of toil, years of study and self-examination. I understand myself. And now, I understand the human condition. It is a squalid affair filled with a bewildering set of inner mandates of spurious use. ‘Fill the belly.’ ‘Lay at ease.’ ‘Rut with a female.’ It is chaotic, leading to debauchery and a disintegration of spirit.”

  Marten was finally breathing normally again. He sat straighter. He was highly aware of the two myrmidons behind him. He also noticed the position of Octagon’s right thumb on the pain meter. Marten dipped his head.

  “Might I say a word, Arbiter Octagon?” Marten asked.

  Octagon gave another of his humorless barks of laughter. “How quickly the barbarian heels, eh? But I know that you think to trick me, to distract me from the truth. In reality, this shows me that you have a cunning mind. Therefore, you are dangerous.” With his left hand, Octagon pressed a switch in his desk. He leaned forward, scanning a screen.

  “Caught in a damaged pod of the Rousseau,” Octagon said, as if reading information. “I wonder what fanciful tale you shall spin for me, hm?”

  Marten touched the collar. “This device leads me to realize that lies are useless.”

  “Oh, you are a clever barbarian,” Octagon said. “You think that I’m a fool. Fortunately for you, I follow the Dictates, I have learned to control my passions. Your attempted cleverness might anger a lesser man than me, one much lower than eleventh rank. I have harnessed my passions. Reason alone guides me. Thus, barbarian, you will feel pain now not because you’ve angered me but because my rationality tells me that you need further training.”

  The thumb stabbed down.

  Marten squirmed as pain flooded. His mouth sagged. Then the thumb lifted and the pain ended.

  Octagon leaned forward
with a hungry look. “Yes, I’m beginning to detect fear in you, barbarian. I see it as a gleam in your eyes. You are trying hard to maintain your pose of toughness. Let me assure you that I shall root out every vestige of cleverness in you. The Dictates demand honesty. If nothing else, I will make you an honest brute.”

  A blue light blinked on the desk. Annoyance flickered across Octagon’s features. “Hold him,” he snapped.

  Powerful hands gripped Marten’s shoulders.

  Octagon set down the pain meter. He composed his face so the cruel smile disappeared. He let serenity spread across his face until his features resembled those of the statuette.

  Marten was reminded of Hall Leader Quirn, another philosophical fraud.

  Octagon pressed a switch. “Yes, Strategist,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Has the interloper explained his presence aboard the pod?” a female asked from a desk-speaker.

  “We are exploring the matter,” Octagon said gravely. “He is proving troublesome, however.”

  “I hope you have refrained from any harsh tactics.”

  Octagon gently cleared his throat. “The interloper’s barbarian instincts are deeply imbedded, as I’m sure you already would know, Strategist Tan.”

  “Please, Arbiter, none of your didactic word-essays. This is a possible emergency.”

  Octagon leaned back from the screen and glanced at a wall. Gentleness and calm returned to his face. He bent over the screen.

  “I will employ emergency—”

  “You will not,” Tan said. “You will question him another five minutes at the most. Then you will escort him to the command center. Force-Leader Yakov is eager to hear his explanation.”

  “I hear you, Strategist, but I feel that I must protest.”

  “I am the philosophic guidance aboard the Descartes, Arbiter. I have been elevated to the governors. I am sixty-ninth ranked. You do understand what that means, yes?”

  “Your radiance suffuses us with enlightenment,” Octagon said.

  “Enough of that,” Tan said. “Maintain decorum throughout your questioning. You have less than five minutes left. Do you desire further clarification?”

  Octagon moistened his lips. “As always, you are succinct. I am bidden by the Dictates and your own flawless reasoning to comply with your wishes.”

  “I have given orders, Arbiter.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand. Thank you for your precision.”

  The blue light flashed, perhaps signaling an end to the conversation.

  Octagon leaned back in his chair. He picked up the pain meter. He scowled at it and then he glared at Marten.

  By struggling with himself, Marten kept his features bland.

  “I am the sole arbiter aboard the Descartes,” Octagon said. “The Strategist—” His mouth tightened as he twisted the dial first in one direction and then in the other. He watched Marten as he did so.

  “If you would like my story,” Marten said, “I can tell you now.”

  “I detect smugness in your words,” Octagon hissed. His thumb stabbed down.

  Marten clenched his teeth as the jolts roared through him. It was one gigantic sensation. He felt himself twisting in the chair. Hatred filled him. He would have glared at Octagon, but his eyes were painfully screwed shut.

  Abruptly, the pain ceased.

  Marten sagged. His jaw muscles ached. But he stirred, and he whispered, “Did that little jolt come because of your emotions, Arbiter, or was there a reason for it?”

  “Impertinence,” Octagon whispered. “That implies future malice.”

  “Your system has been invaded.”

  “Bah! You cling to the absurd notion that cyborgs have entered the Jovian Confederation. It is another of your base lies.”

  “Look in your holding cell, at the cyborg there.”

  “A creature of your own devising,” Octagon said.

  “I’ve seen other cyborgs.”

  “Lunacy,” said Octagon, “sheer fabrication of an unfettered, emotional mind. I wonder if you were sent here by Social Unity to spread discord among us. Believe me, you shall fail in the attempt.”

  “How did I come to be in the dreadnaught’s pod?”

  “I am querying you, barbarian, not you me.”

  “No. You’ve been telling me many things, but asking very little. Why is that, Your Guidance?”

  The dark eyes seemed to shine as Octagon’s features froze. Carefully, he slotted the pain meter on his belt. “You are a fool, filled with false illusions. Strategist Tan uses our ship as a taxi. Soon, she shall depart. Then all governance decisions revert to me. You and I shall have long discussions concerning questions, answers, emotional states and rational understanding of the Dictates. It is the human heart laid bare to our superior understanding. We have examined man’s nature and we know it thoroughly. Here, we act with reason, without malice or subterfuge.”

  The blue light flashed on the desk. “Arbiter Octagon,” said the Strategist, “we await the interloper in the command center. Report on the double.”

  Octagon bared his teeth as the blue light flashed again, cutting the connection. He rose, and he signaled the two myrmidons.

  “Bring him,” Octagon said. He stared at Marten as the predatory smile made a faint reappearance. Then Octagon Velcro-walked toward the door.

  -7-

  In his worn silver jumpsuit and old boots, Marten marched between the myrmidons. Octagon brought up the rear. They continued to use boot-pads because weightlessness reigned. That told Marten the meteor-ship was still near the hijacked pod.

  With an effort of will, Marten focused on that instead of the shock collar and myrmidons. He needed to use his wits, as he had little else now. Were ship personnel inspecting the pod?

  Octagon cleared his throat.

  The myrmidons halted. The one in front whirled around to face Marten.

  “Barbarian,” Octagon said softly.

  Marten scowled, and the myrmidon facing him made a low, growling sound. There was little intelligence in the myrmidon’s eyes, but eager readiness for battle. There was also something akin to the hatred of the neutraloids in him. The squat, black-helmeted myrmidon was bestial, made to enforce Octagon’s orders. And Octagon supposedly gave his orders through reason alone. The dichotomy between myrmidon and philosophic governance—what did that say about the Jovians?

  Marten smoothed away the scowl as he turned toward Octagon.

  “Remember, that you will remain with me long after Strategist Tan leaves the ship.”

  “Why do you care?” Marten asked.

  Octagon’s right hand dropped to the pain meter hooked to his belt. “I have certain theories regarding barbarians,” he said softly. “You couldn’t understand, however, even if I explained it to you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Enjoy your liberty of impertinence, barbarian, for it shall be your last. Now go, hurry.”

  They entered a narrow hall that led to a hatch. The first myrmidon darted through. Marten followed, walking past a man-sized statue. It was ivory-colored and showed a sparse intellectual in a toga. The statue had a serene smile, with an unfocused gaze. His hands were near his hips, the palms outward in an imploring gesture.

  The statue startled Marten, and it took him a moment to realize he’d entered the roomiest place he’d seen. Large screens showed the stars. Spacers in zero-G worksuits floated around the pod or magnetically walked across its surface. From time to time, white particles of hydrogen-spray propelled a work-suited spacer elsewhere.

  The room, or command center, had small modules along the walls, with black-uniformed personnel squeezed into each. The people in the modules wore ear-jacks and stared at vidscreens and other monitors. Marten recognized thermal scanners, broad-spectrum electromagnetic sensors and neutrino and mass detectors. Passive sensing systems allowed one to spot an enemy without giving oneself away. Active systems pinged a noticeable pulse off the enemy, who if alert would realize they were being scanned.
>
  Marten noticed the ceiling then. A golden triangle was inlaid there, with a silver, lidless eye peering out from the center.

  “Bring the barbarian here,” a woman said.

  Marten refocused as one of the myrmidons pushed him toward a tiny woman. She stood beside a seated man in the center of the command room.

  The tiny woman, surely no more than four feet tall, wore a stylish red jacket and slacks. She had hairless eyebrows, and she seemed older than the others. She also had smooth, fine-boned features—bio-sculpted features, Marten suspected. She was beautiful in an elfin way, exotic. She wore a tight red cap that hid any hair and she wore a shield-like emblem where her jacket’s front pocket should have been.

  “You have the honor of standing in the presence of Strategist Tan,” Octagon said. “If at any time she addresses you, you will respond in a mild tone and use the honorific of ‘Your Visionary’ or ‘Exalted One’.”

  “Exalted One?” Marten asked, bemused.

  Octagon stiffened, and his slender hand moved toward the pain meter.

  “Hold,” said Tan. She had a firm voice, full of assurance, adding to her strange beauty. “You applied a shock collar to him.”

  “Yes, Exalted One,” Octagon said.

  “The reason?” she asked.

  “Unbridled emotionalism.”

  “I would know your proof?”

  “The barbarian’s drawing a weapon against his rescuers,” Octagon said. “His attempt to take a mechanic hostage in our ship, thinking that would thwart us. His swift changes from rage, to pseudo-rationality and to actual aggression. His—”

  “Perhaps it is true that emotionalism stirred those actions,” Tan said. “However, they could have formulated from other sources.”

  Octagon’s head twitched minutely. “Exalted One, you are far too highly ranked for anyone present to assault your logic. Still, I feel compelled to point out that my advanced studies were and continue to be in Barbarian Psychology. While I would laugh at anyone who suggested that intuitive… hm… feelings could help clarify a situation, nevertheless—”