Cyborg Assault ds-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  Octagon’s features blazed crimson. His pistol-hand quivered as tendons rose.

  “Must I summon ship-guardians?” asked Tan.

  With a hiss of expelled air, Octagon lowered his palm-pistol.

  Tan held out a tiny hand toward him.

  Octagon blinked at her. The flush left his cheeks, as he turned pale. He began to tremble.

  Inflexibly, Tan held out her hand.

  Octagon said hoarsely, “Exalted One, I crave your pardon. You…you speak truth that I have maintained my post too long. I have served here for two entire cycles. There is a reason for that, but I am reluctant to state it.”

  “Then don’t,” said Tan.

  “Except for me,” Octagon said, “none from Callisto serves aboard the ship.”

  Tan glanced at Yakov sitting in the command chair. “That has no bearing on your status,” Tan told Octagon.

  “That is understood,” said Octagon. “The guardian-soldiers of the Descartes—soldiers of Ganymede and Europa—are shining examples of duty. They guard with no ulterior loyalties. During my two cycles here, I have only discovered three instances of class overstep.”

  “Three?” asked Tan, betraying surprise, and again glancing at the stoic Yakov.

  “There might have been more oversteps,” Octagon said, “but I acted decisively to quash them. During each guardian’s off-duty period, I demanded a careful hour of study, periodic examination and my precise explanation of the Dictates.”

  “You have been zealous,” admitted Tan.

  “As you’ve implied, Exalted One, I have overworked myself. That is not sufficient reason for my… unwarranted display of moments ago. I dare not say more. Otherwise, I fear that my restraint will depart.”

  “Hm,” said Tan, as her outstretched hand lowered. “I appreciate that you’ve shackled your… display. Restraint is the watchword.”

  “It is the watchword,” echoed Octagon.

  “Yes,” said Tan, “this is an unusual situation. Although, it is in such situations that our philosophical approach must show itself superior to the untamed life.”

  “You expound truth,” Octagon said.

  Tan gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Clip the weapon onto your belt. Then silently recite to yourself axiom twelve of the Dictates.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marten had been watching the command-room personnel. Through subtle glances, a raised eyebrow, the slight twist of a lip or hunched shoulders, he thought to detect hostility toward Octagon and his myrmidons.

  “Representative Kluge,” said Tan. “Your account is fantastic. Cyborgs controlling a Jovian warship, an Aristotle-class dreadnaught, it’s inconceivable.”

  “I’m guessing there have been some strange happenings lately,” Marten said.

  Tan and Yakov exchanged a glance. It showed Marten he’d guessed correctly. Perhaps there had more than just a few odd occurrences.

  “What I’m about to suggest is conjecture on my part,” Marten said, trying to frame this in the Jovian manner. “But it seems the cyborgs want to gain control of all military vessels in this system. They likely have a limited capacity to alter humans into cyborgs. Gaining military control of space would be the most strategic use of their limited numbers.”

  “Given your premise,” said Tan, “your reasoning is sound.”

  “Might the greatest strategic asset be control of the War Council?” Yakov asked softly. “And after that, control of the Grand Chamber?”

  “I must protest your statement,” Octagon said, sharply.

  Tan waved him aside. “Not now, Arbiter. This is a crisis, one way or another. If you are a saboteur,” she told Marten, “we need to know for whom. And if your fantastic story is true—”

  “Please, Exalted One,” Octagon said, “permit me to interject a comment.”

  “Refrain,” said Tan.

  Octagon clutched his monitor-board, obviously struggling to maintain silence. His myrmidons threw savage glances everywhere.

  “May I ask you a command question?” Yakov asked Tan.

  Tan gave the Force-Leader a cool glance. “Permission granted,” she said slowly.

  “Why do you suppose Athena Station ordered us to immediately report to Fleet Headquarters?” Yakov asked.

  “I am to attend the emergency War Council meeting. You know that. If you would be so kind as to make your point, Force-Leader….”

  “Why has Athena Station ordered a different ship to the Rousseau’s last known location when we’re much closer to the stricken vessel?”

  “That is for Fleet Headquarters to decide,” Tan said stiffly, “not for flag officers of guardian status to question.”

  “Under regular conditions, I agree,” Yakov said. “My question has a subtler twist.”

  Octagon’s head snapped up as he stared at the Force-Leader.

  “Proceed,” Tan said slowly.

  “Suppose Representative Kluge has spoken accurately,” Yakov said. “Cyborgs control the Rousseau. Suppose one takes it a step further, and cyborgs control Athena Station.”

  “That is a preposterous premise,” Tan said.

  “Exalted One,” Yakov said, “I retreat before your superior virtue.”

  Tan studied the silver-haired Force-Leader.

  The personnel in the modules busily studied their screens or monitors. Octagon wore a hungry expression, anticipatory. He clicked several toggles on his board.

  Marten noticed a black bulb in the ceiling. Was that a camera? Did Octagon record the events here?

  “You’ve aroused my curiosity,” Tan said at last. “A guardian with a subtle point. Very well, proceed with your line of reasoning.”

  “As you wish, Exalted One,” Yakov said.

  Marten now noticed that Yakov’s right hand had gently slid open a small panel on his chair’s armrest. The Force-Leader’s fingers hovered over a set of black buttons.

  “If in some insidious manner Athena Station was controlled by cyborgs,” Yakov said, “that would give them an advantage, allowing the infiltration of other warships.”

  “An obvious conclusion,” Tan said.

  “It would also explain why we weren’t sent to help the stricken dreadnaught, but a ship many more days away was.”

  “Given this absurd premise,” said Tan, “you’re right.”

  Yakov’s features tightened. To Marten, it seemed the Force-Leader’s right hand stiffened, as if getting ready to press buttons.

  Tan must have noticed something. She said, “You have an unorthodox comment to make. Please, grace us with your wisdom.”

  Yakov nodded as his right hand inched away from the armrest buttons. “If Athena Station is cyborg-controlled, that would mean the War Council has ceased to exist.”

  “Continue,” said Tan.

  “If that is true, you and any delayed strategists would constitute the new War Council. Possibly, you are the new Chief Strategist.”

  “Mutiny,” Octagon whispered. His hand dropped to his belted palm-pistol.

  Yakov swiveled around. “I have appealed to the highest authority aboard the Descartes, Arbiter. Mutiny occurs when the lower-ranked seeks to strip his or her superior of authority.”

  “Athena Station logged a direct order to the Descartes,” Octagon said. “You seek to contravene that order. That is mutiny.”

  “Strategist Tan supercedes military command,” Yakov said.

  “She does not supercede the War Council. It has logged a direct order for her.” Octagon dipped his head toward Tan. “You shine in authority, Exalted One. But the War Council—”

  “Is not here,” said Tan. “It might well be infested with cyborgs as the Force-Leader suggests.”

  “Surely you do not accept the barbarian’s outlandish story,” Octagon said.

  “Have a care, Arbiter,” Tan warned.

  “Exalted One,” Octagon said, straightening behind his monitor-board. “I fear I must protest. While I hold your authority in supreme—”

  “No more,” s
aid Tan. She drew a shiny rod from her jacket, aiming it at Octagon. “You will leave your palm-pistol on the monitor and take your myrmidons to their chamber. There you shall await my word.”

  Octagon blinked. Then he scowled. “I wish to state article five of the governing—”

  “If you continue flaunting my authority,” Tan said, “I shall terminate you. Either obey me or die. The choice is yours.”

  With a jerky motion, Octagon unclipped his palm-pistol and hooked it to the monitor-board. Without glancing right or left and with his chin high, Octagon marched out of the command center, with the two myrmidons trailing him, growling to each other.

  After the Arbiter had left, Tan glanced at Yakov. The Force-Leader dropped his gaze. Frowning, the elfin Strategist sheathed her shiny rod.

  The seconds passed. Finally, she asked, “What do you propose?”

  “I wish to test Representative Kluge’s assertion,” Yakov said.

  “How so?”

  “In the most direct manner possible. We will head to the damaged dreadnaught and see what sort of survivors we find.”

  “Which is dire mutiny,” Tan said, “as it is in direct disobedience against logged Athena Station orders.”

  “Perhaps you could give me new orders,” Yakov said softly.

  “You heard the Arbiter. The War Council has given me its orders.”

  “Exalted One,” Yakov said, “you’ve already pointed out that the War Council might no longer exist. Given such a possibility….”

  “Speak your thoughts,” Tan said.

  “If cyborgs control the War Council, shouldn’t we resist rather than meekly accept defeat?”

  Tan studied the screen showing the drifting pod. Finally, she faced Marten.

  The force of her eyes, Marten found himself drawn to them. Green eyes, exotic features, a tiny but feminine body. What would it be like to hold her?

  “You are evidence of some unknown peculiarity,” Tan said. “It is slim evidence for your outlandish statements. But the possibility of cyborgs, the consequent loss of Jupiter and our superior way of life—I have new orders for you, Force-Leader.”

  “I await them,” said Yakov.

  “Let us establish the fate of the Rousseau.”

  -9-

  Marten, Omi and Osadar endured the ship’s acceleration in the closet-sized holding cell.

  Marten had asked that his friends be released, but the distrust of Osadar ran high. Not wanting to leave them in a cell alone, he’d asked to share their confinement. He wished to assure his friends that events moved in their favor, or so he’d told Tan.

  Thankfully, the pressing Gs were of short duration, and weightlessness returned. According to Yakov, they were several days from the dreadnaught. The Rousseau’s velocity had taken the damaged vessel away from the location of the attack and the pod had traveled away in the opposite direction for many days.

  While in the holding cell, both Marten and Osadar agreed that some cyborgs would have survived the Mayflower’s detonation. The rugged dreadnaught design, the voice signals earlier and cyborg durability all suggested it.

  In low tones, Marten told them what had occurred in the Arbiter’s quarters and in the command room. Then he asked Osadar what point Octagon had been making by saying he was the only one from Callisto.

  “Those of Callisto follow the Dictates closer than anyone else in the system,” Osadar said. “Governors, arbiters and almost all force-leaders are from there. They distrust the others for good reason and code weapons on that basis.”

  “Meaning what?” Marten asked.

  “Hammer-guns will not fire when aimed at myrmidons, arbiters or governors. The palm-pistol you spoke about would not fire against the Strategist. Also, the palm-pistol is likely imprinted to Octagon’s pattern. Only he could shoot it. The Strategist’s rod operates on similar principles.”

  “Knives would work against them,” Omi said.

  Osadar shook her head. “I could defeat the myrmidons barehanded. No one else aboard ship, including you two, would have a chance against them. They are incredibly strong, fast, well-trained and genetically superior to men.”

  “It seems such gene-warping would go against the Dictates,” Marten said.

  “The opposite is true.”

  “So what are these Dictates?”

  “There are many gradations concerning them.” Osadar shook her head. “None of that matters now. It would be more useful for you to learn the nature of the ranks. Highest are the philosophers: the rulers, governors and probationary agents such as arbiters. They have the greatest experience, the most virtue—”

  “What does that mean?” Marten asked. “The most virtue? Does that mean someone like Tan never has sex?”

  Osadar regarded him with her nearly expressionless gaze. “Ruling is politics. According to the Dictates, it is an art. Just as few have the skills or aptitude to become surgeons, so only a few can make good rulers. A surgeon is trained for many years. He must have a steady hand and the correct equipment. A ruler must have the right aptitude, a good education and then he must have virtue: honesty, integrity and a rational mind. A ruler by necessity must have been steeped in the tenets of the examined life.”

  “Does Yakov captain the ship?” Marten asked.

  “He is a guardian, a soldier, a man of action or spirit.”

  “What’s that mean? Spirit?”

  “The Dictates divides humanity into three classes,” Osadar said. “It divides them according to their primary motivation. The lowest class is the man of appetites or base desires. To fill his belly, to have sex and other basic wants drive him more than any other need. Artisans make up the large majority of humanity, and they belong to this stratum. Aboard ship, those are the mechanics, engineers and technicians.

  “The second class is composed of men and women of spirit or courage. They are the fighters, the warriors. In the Jovian System, they join the Guardian Fleet and the various police agencies on the moons and asteroids. The smallest class is composed of those who are devoted to reason. They are the rulers, the governors and arbiters.”

  “So Yakov is a guardian, belonging to the second class?”

  “Yes, although the classes are graded more finely than that,” Osadar said.

  Marten considered these ranks. “Are arbiters like political officers?”

  “No. Arbiters ensure that people conform to the Dictates and that everyone lives a temperate life.”

  Marten couldn’t help but think about Tan’s eyes, her face and body, the way she moved. Was she temperate?

  I’ve been in space too long. I need a woman.

  There was a clang at the hatch then.

  Osadar put a titanium-reinforced hand on Marten’s wrist. It seemed much too skeletal. Hydraulics moved her knees, ankles, wrists and fingers. Many of her movements caused slight whirring noises.

  Osadar lowered her plasti-flesh lips near Marten’s ear. “The Arbiter and Strategist are both from Callisto. That is the key. Yakov and his crew are from Ganymede and Europa.”

  The hatch began to swing open.

  “Those of Ganymede yearn for the leadership, which has been denied them from the beginning. The highest of Callisto suppresses—”

  “You are to come with us, Representative Kluge.” The hatch was open and the stern-faced ship-guardian of earlier looked down at them. She held a hammer-gun beside her leg, not aiming it at them, but clearly ready to do so. Others were behind her, equally armed and wearing blue uniforms.

  “What about us?” Omi asked. “When do we get out?”

  “You will be allowed to exercise later,” the ship-guardian said. “For now, you must show restraint.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Marten asked. He floated upright in the cell.

  “Force-Leader Yakov would like to query you again.” Before Marten could answer, the ship-guardian grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the holding cell. The woman propelled him to the others. Then the ship-guardian slammed the hatch shut, spi
nning the wheel to lock it.

  Clearly, they feared Osadar. It was a healthy emotion. But it wasn’t going to help him get Osadar out of there.

  * * *

  The ship-guardians marched Marten through a narrow passageway. Slender doors flanked each other on both sides.

  “This is the officer’s quarters,” the ship-guardian said. She halted before the end cubbyhole and pressed a toggle. The door slid open.

  “Enter,” the ship-guardian said. She leaned near as Marten passed by. “Remember, we shall be outside, standing guard.”

  Marten entered a small room. Yakov sat behind a minuscule desk that nearly spanned the room’s width. A muscled statuette sat on a miniature rock, with his chin resting on his fist as he thought deeply.

  There was a stool before the desk. A few vidshots were on the walls showing a small woman and two children in various acts of play. The woman was pretty, the children a boy and girl with blond hair. One shot showed a young and intense Yakov with a hussade stick in his hands standing among a team of serious-eyed players. Those in front lofted a silver trophy.

  “Your wardroom?” asked Marten.

  Yakov sent down a computer stylus and examined Marten in his same stoic manner as earlier in the command center. “Time is our enemy, Representative. We will therefore forgo pleasantries and speak about realities.”

  Marten glanced at the hussade vidshot again. There was the essence of Yakov, he decided, before it had become hidden by age and responsibilities.

  “How many times have you faced these cyborgs?”

  Marten sketched his original meeting with Osadar and the raid later into Mons Olympus, the raid that had ended at the orbital fighter and his liftoff from the Red Planet.

  Yakov listened intently, occasionally jotting notes onto his computer screen. After Marten had finished, the Force-Leader asked, “You are a soldier, isn’t that what you said before?”

  “Highborn-trained.”

  “You were in the Free Earth Corps?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “We monitor Inner Planets news, yes.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Bangladesh?”

  “I have priority one concerning space-combat intelligence,” Yakov said.