“You intuited his emotionalism?” Tan asked, with a faint hint of amusement.
Octagon’s mouth opened. He shut it with a click of his teeth.
“How interesting,” she murmured.
“You are sixty-ninth and I am eleventh,” Octagon said hurriedly. He was silent for a moment. “My word choices have failed me.”
“It is of little matter,” Tan said. “We shall proceed to my second query. And for the sake of argument, I will grant you his emotionalism. Even given that, why collar him?”
“Barbarians react within strict parameters to pain. I apply the stimuli and can easily interpret the reasoning behind his responses. That helps me gauge the truth.”
“His reasoning?” asked Tan.
“Emotions stem from pseudo-reasoning.”
“Hm,” said Tan. “You are the ship’s arbiter. I have no desire to step onto your prerogatives. However, I feel that events have crossed into abnormality. The cyborg in the ship’s holding cell is the obvious proof. These fugitives arrived in the Rousseau’s pod, a badly damaged pod, possibly indicating a battle. Yes… I am intruding into your area of expertise. But not lightly, Arbiter Octagon. I wish to assure you of that.”
“I lack the philosophic height to judge your actions, Exalted One. But I must—”
“Well said. For the duration then, I insist that you keep your hand off the pain meter. I have a different methodology than yours, and will now apply it to the barbarian.”
“If I could just—” Octagon tried to say.
“Please,” said Tan, flicking one of her tiny hands at him, “desist.”
Octagon bowed his head.
“In fact,” said Tan. “Move back and make your myrmidons heel.”
Octagon hesitated. It was barely perceptible. Then he snapped his fingers. The myrmidons left Marten, following the Arbiter. Octagon went to a raised monitor several feet behind the command chair. Octagon pressed several toggles there and began to scan the personnel in the modules. A few sat straighter or seemed more absorbed in their vidscreens.
“Did you understand our dialogue?” Tan asked Marten.
“Yes.”
“You realize that we find your presence in the dreadnaught’s pod… highly unusual?”
“I’m from Mars,” Marten said. “We just arrived in your system—”
Tan held up her hand.
Marten ignored it as he kept on talking, “When the Rousseau hailed us—” Marten groaned, doubling over as the shock collar buzzed. Pain flooded through his body. He heard Tan speak sternly. The pain ceased and Marten heard Tan scold Octagon.
“In fact,” Tan added, “remove the collar.”
Exalted One—” Octagon tried to say.
“Silence,” she said. “Now remove the collar as ordered.”
There was a click from the collar. Marten tore it off, and he nearly hurled it at Octagon. He became aware of the others watching him. Most seemed fascinated, as if witnessing a strange beast. The myrmidons seemed ready to fly at him. Controlling his urge, Marten managed a harsh grin. He held out the collar for someone to take.
“There,” Tan said. “My methodology is already proved correct.”
“Please, Exalted One—”
“Arbiter,” she said, “I detect strain in your voice. I begin to wonder if extended duty has worn down your…razor’s edge of rationality. Now take the collar and observe.”
Octagon whispered to a myrmidon. The gene-warped Jovian hurried to Marten, snatching the collar, clicking it to his belt and hurrying back to Octagon.
“We shall begin anew,” Tan told Marten.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his throat.
She gave an airy wave. “Your presence in the pod is strange, and you were in the company of a cyborg. That implies you belong to Social Unity.”
Marten waited, deciding to follow their ways.
“Ah, you show decorum,” Tan said. “I find that interesting. Do you belong to Social Unity?”
“No.”
“Are you from Neptune?”
“I am not.”
“I notice a barcode tattoo on your forearm. That indicates a Highborn soldier.”
“They inducted me on Earth, yes.”
“So you are Earthborn and originally belonged to Social Unity.”
“I was born in the Sun-Works Factory. My parents were Unionists.”
“Meaning what?” asked Tan.
“Political Harmony Corps hunted us,” Marten said, “butchering many and torturing the rest. My parents escaped into the vast Sun-Works Factory. The majority of the habitat is automated, which means that hundreds of kilometers are devoid of humans.”
“I’m familiar with the Mercury Factory. There is no need to elaborate.”
Marten nodded. “I grew up longing to reach the Jupiter Confederation.”
Tan made a soft sound, with a twitching smile.
Marten liked her smile, and he found her smallness stimulating. In fact, her beauty stirred him. “Maybe you think I’m making that up to try to please you,” he said. “Back then, Social Unity controlled all four Inner Planets. The Jupiter Confederation was the first free system.”
“Free?” Tan asked.
“Free of Social Unity.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Continue.”
“We almost had fuel for a secret spaceship we’d constructed. It had taken us three years of hiding like rats to piece it together, to write the software—” Marten shrugged. “PHC found us. They killed my mother and father. I escaped to Earth.”
“So you have lived under Social Unity?”
“Rather say that I survived in the stifling world of thought control,” Marten said.
Tan’s eyes narrowed. “Do you seek to teach me dialectics?”
Marten glanced around. Octagon watched him avidly. The personnel in the modules looked aghast. Only the black-uniformed man in the command chair seemed unfazed. Marten had made a blunder, but he wasn’t sure what.
“I don’t know your ways,” he said. “If I’ve offended you, it wasn’t intentional.”
“He is a clever barbarian,” Octagon said. “That much I’ve determined.”
“A barbarian,” Tan murmured. “Yes… thank you, Arbiter, for reminding me of his out-system status. He cannot know our ways, nor is he enlightened. He is an ignoramus, straining through life with half-knowledge at the very best. We should pity him, not collar him. Nor should I take quick offense at his unintentionally degrading comment.”
“The Rousseau has gone off-line,” the black-uniformed man in the command chair said.
Tan regarded the man coldly. “We have our orders concerning the dreadnaught.”
The man made no response, nor did he betray any emotion or quirk.
“Still,” said Tan, “events rush forward. You have a point.” She studied Marten. “Do you have a name?”
Marten told her, and he said, “I’ve been a soldier. I’ve learned that sometimes events rush forward with blinding speed.”
Tan seemed amused. “Continue.”
“I was at Mars during the battle. I fought there. Surely you’ve received broadcasts concerning it.”
Octagon made an angry sound.
Tan lofted her eyebrows, waiting. When nothing further occurred from Octagon, she told Marten, “We have received many broadcasts from Mars. But I’m now changing the topic. The Force-Leader just made an excellent point. Your history is quaint, and likely unusual for a barbarian. But none of that explains how you came to be trapped in a Guardian Fleet pod.”
Here it was. Marten had been wondering the best way to tell them he attacked one of their warships. He recalled something Osadar had told him about Jovians—their attachment to form, to rank. Listening to them, observing them, Marten realized Osadar was right. He had something in his zipped pocket that might alter his status with them. As a barbarian—he was beginning to hate the title—he was almost an animal to them.
“He hesitates,” Octagon said, as if m
aking a telling point.
“You must tell us the truth,” Tan told Marten. “Although I am loath to tell you this, we have methods for determining liars. It is unpleasant, as I’m sure you can understand after visiting the Arbiter.”
“I’ve waited before revealing myself,” Marten said.
Tan lifted an eyebrow.
Marten began to unzip a flap on his thigh.
Octagon spoke sharply. It alerted Marten as the myrmidons leapt, propelling themselves with fantastic speed. Weightless, they were able to fly at him in a single bound. But Marten had been waiting for something like that. He flattened onto the deckplates. The two myrmidons flew above him. One, reaching down, managed to grab Marten’s arm. Marten struck the wrist, dislodging the hold.
By that time, Tan said, “Arbiter! End this outrage and restrain your myrmidons.”
Octagon called out.
The two myrmidons had struck modules or bulkheads, halting themselves there. Smoothly, like weightless high-divers, they pushed off and sailed back to their position beside Octagon. The one Marten had struck glared at him, but they hunched their heads in obedience beside the Arbiter.
“If you are removing a weapon,” Tan said, “it is ill-advised.”
“I understand,” Marten said. “I am withdrawing my credentials.”
“Ah. By all means, continue.”
Marten removed the credentials given him almost a year ago by Secretary-General Chavez. Marten held out the booklet.
“That is what exactly?” Tan asked.
“This is from the Mars Planetary Union. If you’ll examine the signature, you’ll see it’s from Secretary-General Chavez himself.”
“Regrettably,” Tan said, “Chavez died in the aftermath of the Highborn Hellburner.”
“All the more reason you should look at this,” said Marten.
“Explain your statement.”
“The Highborn are at war with the Solar System. The Mars Planetary Union and the Jupiter Confederation were allies once. Maybe it’s time to ally again.”
“Against the Highborn?” asked Tan.
“And against Social Unity and the cyborgs,” Marten said.
“Mars lacks extra-planetary fighting capacity.”
“But it has willing soldiers,” Marten said. “I should know. I led some of them into successful battle.”
“Hm,” said Tan. “Let me see that.”
The seated, black-uniformed man pushed off from his chair, taking Marten’s credentials and bringing them to Tan.
She scanned the cover, opened the booklet and studied the contents. “The seals and documentation are in order, and I recognize the former Secretary-General’s signature. Hm. This puts a new light on the matter.” She snapped the booklet shut, returning it to the black-uniformed man.
He returned it to Marten, who put it away.
“I apologize for the Arbiter’s harsh methods earlier,” Tan said, with a new note in her voice.
Marten wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be a hint of promise in it. She was small, but the longer he spoke with her, the more beautiful she seemed.
All that proved too much for Octagon. “I must protest, Exalted One. Like a rogue virus, the interloper was bottled in the Rousseau’s—”
Tan lifted a small hand. Octagon’s words stopped. Without turning to regard him, she said, “He is an accredited representative of the Mars Planetary Union. That makes him part of the governing class. Perhaps… he has been unable to avail himself of a proper Jovian education. Still, the art of governing teaches even the unexamined soul certain critical facets of higher thought. You above all others should accord him the correct honor, Arbiter.”
“You teach me, Exalted One.”
“It is my duty to do so,” she said.
“As it is mine to learn from my superiors, Your Radiance,” Octagon said.
Marten was amazed. A piece of paper, no, a credentialed piece of paper, seals and an inked signature had dramatically shifted his status with these strange people. Osadar had said before that Jovians had a high regard for form. The reality of the situation was much stronger than what Osadar had explained. He’d have to remember that.
“Could you enlighten us regarding your presence in the pod’s pilot chamber?” Tan asked.
“Exalted One,” Marten began.
“Please,” Tan said, “let me… guide you concerning Jovian etiquette. In theory at least, you belong to Mars’ governing class. That makes us equals. As equals, I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you that I am not exalted compared to yourself. Despite the Arbiter’s truth earlier of an unexamined life, for only Jovians truly attempt to decipher the inner workings of the human heart. Even governing inferior humans infuses the governors with unavoidable realities. Those realities teach universal laws or axioms.”
The black-uniformed man gently cleared his throat.
Tan smiled indulgently. “Ah. I wax prolix at a time of crisis. It is an unfortunate habit of the enlightened to examine every angle. Sometimes, a sudden thrust of decisive nature is more suited to the situation.”
“May I?” asked the black-uniformed man.
Tan gave the barest of nods.
“I am Force-Leader Yakov of Ganymede,” the man told Marten. Yakov had a pelt of fine silver hair. And although small and round-headed like the others, he had lines around his mouth and bunched muscles at the hinges of his jaw. A feeling of deadliness emanated from him, the subtle hints of a trained soldier. “I lead the Descartes during hostilities. I wish to query you.”
Marten nodded.
“I have your permission then?” Yakov asked.
“Oh,” Marten said. “Sure.”
“First,” said Yakov, “who exactly is the cyborg that was trapped with you in the pod?”
“She is Osadar Di. In Neptune, the Prime Web-Mind converted her.”
“If you would,” Yakov said, “please explain what that means.”
“They have a process in Neptune by which a person is torn down and rebuilt into a cyborg. They program the cyborg. Osadar, however, broke her programming.”
Yakov’s manner tightened. “That could have been a ploy, allowing the Web-Mind to insert a spy into your ranks.”
“I’m sure that’s possible,” Marten said. “But Osadar saved our lives on Mars, killing other cyborgs. According to the Martian broadcasts, all the cyborgs were slain in the Mars System. Osadar did nothing to help save any of them. Finally, for nearly a year, she has traveled with Omi and me aboard the Mayflower.”
“If you will pardon my interruption,” Tan said. “Your statement lacks precision. You said all cyborgs died on Mars, but Osadar survived and she is a cyborg.”
“All programmed cyborgs died on Mars,” Marten said. “Look, I don’t think you people understand just how much danger you’re in. The cyborgs have come to Jupiter. They’re here and they’ve likely been converting Jovians.”
“Explain, please,” Yakov said.
Marten glanced from Yakov, to Tan, to angry Octagon. Before he could say another word, one of the technicians spoke up.
“I’m getting a voice signal from the last known location of the Rousseau. They’re requesting urgent evacuation.”
Force-Leader Yakov swiveled in his command chair to look at Tan.
Tan frowned, moodily staring at the largest screen. “I must attend the War Council.”
“I could give you a shuttle,” Yakov said.
“No…” Tan said. “The Chief Strategist was explicit. All military vessels of the Guardian Fleet are to rendezvous at Athena Station.”
“What are the coordinates of the voice signals?” Yakov asked the technician.
The technician read off a series of numbers that were meaningless to Marten. But they must have made sense to the Force-Leader.
“You could use the shuttle,” Yakov told Tan. “Then I could delay my arrival by first examining the distress call. Then I would—”
“The Rousseau was controlled by cyborgs,” Marten
blurted out. “That means a Web-Mind is probably already operating in your system. You have an emergency. If I were you, I’d tell your War Council—” Marten closed his mouth as a new possibility slammed into his thoughts. The possibility sickened him, and he wondered if it was already too late to save the Jovian System.
“Again he hesitates,” Octagon said. “The barbarian obviously hides pertinent information. We are reckless to take his credentials at face value. I suggest we hook him to the obedience frame.”
Marten laughed harshly, which made Octagon scowl.
“This War Council,” Marten asked, “where does it meet?”
“That is privileged information,” Tan said.
“If it’s near this Athena Station,” Marten said, “I would think twice about going. Before you ask me why, let me tell you what happened to the Rousseau. The sooner you know what’s going on, the better for everyone.”
As Tan, Yakov and Octagon listened, Marten told them about the harrowing ordeal Omi, Osadar and he had recently undergone against the dreadnaught.
-8-
With a strangled sound, Octagon drew a palm-pistol and aimed it at Marten. It was a neat little gun and had been strapped to his belt. It was oval, with handgrips like brass knuckles, and fit into Octagon’s slender palm.
The myrmidons crouched like beasts, ready to fling themselves at Marten.
“His entire fabrication of lies is a web meant to bewilder us into inactivity,” Octagon snarled. “Social Unity must have sent him as a saboteur or as a fragmentation agent. His single mote of truth is that he attacked the Rousseau. I await your word, Exalted One. I will terminate this enemy saboteur.”
“Put up your weapon,” said Tan.
“Your Visionary, I must—”
Small Strategist Tan turned toward Octagon. Her words came out cold and clipped, cutting him off. “You have served too long in isolation, I see. Maybe you’ve forgotten that you regulate temperance, not govern this ship.”
Octagon sputtered.
“Yes,” said Tan. “I note your red shoulder tabs and red bars and crescents, but you are a probationary authority. I am a governor. I am a strategist on the War Council. You will seek to teach me nothing, unless you wish me to relieve you of your station.”
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