Cyborg Assault ds-4

by Vaughn Heppner

  Octagon made more noise.

  “Quiet,” Marten said, using the butt of his needler to strike Octagon’s shin. That brought a groan. “If you insist on speech, I will have to use pain to modify your behavior.”

  Octagon remained quiet throughout the rest of the journey.

  A nervous technician waited by an open hatch, one marked as the entranceway to a pod. The man had stringy hair, bulging eyes and a crumpled gray uniform with grease stains on the left sleeve. He didn’t strike Marten as competent or efficient.

  “Well?” Marten asked.

  “What?” the technician asked.

  “You’re Yakov’s man, aren’t you?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Did you reconfigure the controls?”

  The technician bobbed his head.

  “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

  That brought the first spark of belligerence to the technician. “Commander, I am eighth ranked among the technical staff, a specialist Diamond Grade in communications and—”

  “Good enough,” Marten said. “Lead the way.”

  “Force-Leader Yakov ordered me to—”

  “I’m giving you new orders,” Marten said, as he waggled the needler. “Do I need to explain to you how shock troopers deal with disobedience?”

  The technician’s eyes widened with fright. “No, Commander. I obey.”

  Maybe Yakov was willing to lose a technician to trap a dubious ally in the pod with Octagon, but maybe not. Maybe Yakov meant everything he’d said. Marten hadn’t dealt long enough with Jovians to know.

  “Get shears or scissors and start cutting out the Arbiter,” Marten said.

  The technician moved as Marten stood guard by the hatch.

  Soon, the technician cut busily, starting at the feet as Marten had instructed. The shears made crunch-crunch noises, and the technician peeled away tape.

  Soon, Octagon’s arms were free. He shoved the technician away and peeled the black tape from his face. The various pieces floated in the pod’s control module.

  “You will rue this, barbarian,” Octagon hissed.

  Using his needler, Marten waved for the technician to come float near him by the hatch.

  The technician hurried to comply.

  “I will beg the authorities to give you into my care,” Octagon said. “Then you and I shall have long conversations concerning this barbaric display of ingratitude and indignity. The pain you shall receive—”

  “Will be nothing compared to the exalted feeling I’m receiving now,” Marten said.

  “You dare to use such a word? Strategist Tan is exalted. Her philosophic heights soar above your wormy existence that you profane the word by uttering it.”

  “Look at my bare neck, Arbiter. There’s no shock collar now. A free man dares whatever he wants.”

  “Your neck will wear a collar soon enough, rest assured.”

  “That’s how you like it, isn’t it? You’re not man enough to fight your own battles. You need the myrmidons to terrorize others. Then you sit in safety and press a button to hurt people. You’re a deranged sadist, Octagon. But I’ll tell you what this barbarian offers. You have a bitter fate waiting for you. Come at me if you desire, and we’ll fight.”

  “Fight like animals?” Octagon sneered.

  “Fight however you want to fight,” Marten said. “It doesn’t matter to me. Trade blows with me and kill me with your bare hands if you’re able. In turn, I’ll try to kill you barehanded. You won’t get a better bargain anywhere. It’s more than you offered me.”

  “So speaks the barbarian elevated only a little higher than the wild beasts. I spit at your offer to tussle like artisans or to wrestle like a myrmidon. I am a refined man, a philosopher.”

  “You’re a cowardly sadist and a hypocrite of the worst sort. But you’re still a man. I’ll give you that. This is your last offer.”

  “Bah!”

  Marten holstered his needler. “You’re headed for the damaged dreadnaught.”

  Shivering with hatred, Octagon glared at Marten. “You are a fool, barbarian.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” Marten pursed his lips. “It grates against me offering you advice. You shocked me, and I remember that too well. But you are a man and they’re cyborgs. If it looks like they’re going to capture you, space yourself.”

  “Suicide is against the Dictates.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just advice. You follow your philosophical conscience if you want. I’m just saying, if you want to avoid Osadar’s fate, you’ll let vacuum kill you fast. Good-bye, Arbiter.”

  “We shall meet again, barbarian. This I vow by the Dictates.”

  Marten had an impulse to shoot. He disliked leaving a hated enemy alive who promised vengeance. Maybe it had become too easy these past years killing people. Whatever the case, Marten suppressed his instinct, and he nodded at the technician to leave. The man hastened to exit. Marten glanced once more at the glaring Octagon. Then he, too, took his leave, closing the hatch behind him.

  -13-

  Marten floated into a small chamber connected to the pod hatchways.

  Yakov waited there together with five blue-uniformed guardians. Each had a drawn hammer-gun and wore hard expressions.

  “You freed the cyborg,” Yakov said. “You knew my wishes concerning that. Why did you do it anyway?”

  “I needed her help to capture Tan,” Marten said.

  “What?” asked a ship-guardian, an angry man with flat features and a chin-beard. “What have you done to the Strategist?”

  Yakov glanced at the angry man.

  “Answer me, barbarian. Where is Strategist Tan?”

  “Restrain yourself, Anshan,” Yakov said.

  “He harmed the Strategist,” Anshan said.

  “I’m sure she is well.”

  Anshan squinted suspiciously at Yakov. “Was that your doing, Force-Leader?”

  “You will refrain from questioning me.”

  Anshan reddened, and he tightened the grip on his hammer-gun. “You’re avoiding answering me.”

  “Enough of this,” Yakov said. “You must tell me now. Where does your ultimate allegiance lie, with them or us?”

  Anshan blinked three times. Lines appeared on his forehead the first time and deepened with each blink. “No!” he shouted. “The barbarian must possess mind-altering powers to have convinced you to harm a strategist, a philosophically pure governor.”

  “You swore on the Manumission Decree,” Yakov told the man.

  Anshan violently shook his head. “You’re breaking Article Four of the Dictates.”

  “He is under a compulsion,” another ship-guardian whispered. “They tampered with his mind.”

  Anshan raised his hammer-gun at Marten. “You have defied the Dictates, barbarian.” As the others watched in amazement, Anshan pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Anshan’s eyes widened so the whites seemed to drown his pupils. He twisted around, aiming the gun at Yakov. “You are party to secession! That is mutiny, which I am sworn to forestall!”

  Marten fast-drew. There were crackling sounds as heavy needles broke the sound barrier. Anshan sagged as shock crossed his flat features. Then he slumped down.

  The other ship-guardians pushed away from Anshan. One was open-mouthed. Another trembled. A third whispered, “They had a deep plant among us. We’re compromised.”

  The ship-guardians glanced uneasily at one another and then suspiciously eyed Marten.

  “I just saved your life,” Marten told Yakov.

  By a visible effort, Yakov spoke. “Anshan was from Europa. The arbiters are known to use compulsions there. He must have slipped past our auditors, or his compulsion was coded to selected actions.”

  “We must log this death with Arbiter Station,” a ship-guardian said, the tight-faced woman from earlier. She had thin nostrils and a line of a mouth covered with black lipstick. Marten had heard someone call her Pelias earlier. The ring of her
gun-hand looked sharp, making it seem as if she enjoyed giving pain.

  Yakov made a harsh sound, startling the others. “Each of you took an oath on the Manumission Decree. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “Has the call been broadcast?” Pelias asked. “Are we seceding?”

  “You’ve seen the Mars videos,” Yakov said. “The cyborgs are deadly creatures—murderous aliens of inhuman effectiveness. Those creatures have come to our system and likely infiltrated Guardian Fleet warships. Tell me, Pelias Will you trust your life to a philosopher or do you wish for a realist, a man of action like me, to handle the situation?”

  Pelias squinted at Marten. “The barbarian released a cyborg.”

  “That one is deprogrammed,” Yakov said. “But you’re missing the point. You swore on the Decree.”

  The fingers of her gun-handed whitened. “Are we seceding?” Pelias asked stubbornly.

  Yakov stared at her. “I am taking control of the Descartes.”

  Pelias studied Marten more closely. “Why didn’t Anshan’s gun work against the barbarian?”

  Yakov turned to Marten. “The shock trooper has obviously purloined a nullifier.”

  “From Strategist Tan or the Arbiter?” Pelias asked.

  “Those from Callisto have become our enemies,” Yakov said slowly. “Therefore, you shouldn’t sound dismayed at their loss of status. Taking a nullifier, it was a tactical move on his part. Notice, he has made no attempt to elevate his status.”

  “Is that true?” Pelias asked. “It was a tactical move?”

  Marten nodded.

  Pelias scowled even as she holstered her hammer-gun.

  “Go back to your stations,” Yakov said. “Await further orders and be ready to act in accord with the Manumission Decree.”

  Pelias hesitated.

  “On this ship,” Yakov said, staring at her, “we have seceded.”

  Pelias’s scowl smoothed away. She motioned to the others. They took Anshan’s corpse, floating out of the chamber.

  After they left, Yakov put his forehead against a bulkhead, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes and faced Marten, he said, “I owe you my life.”

  “You saved ours before by rescuing us from the pod.”

  Yakov moved away from floating blood globules. He seemed more composed again, more like the Force-Leader in the command room. “You have purloined a nullifier, a cagy move. You have thereby proven yourself even more mentally dexterous and dangerous than I’d expected. That compounds my anxiety regarding you.”

  “It should make you feel better,” Marten said. “We’re on the same side, and you need competent help. If more of your crew mutinies, you have soldiers willing to gun them down to bring the others back into line.”

  “That should ease my anxiety about you?”

  “Who else can I turn to but you?” Marten asked. “That ensures my loyalty, which is what you’re really worried about.”

  Yakov pondered that. “Where is the cyborg?”

  “In Octagon’s former chamber.”

  “Former?”

  “I’m commandeering it,” Marten said.

  “And no doubt familiarizing yourself with his devices.”

  “Force-Leader, you strike me as the deadliest Jovian I’ve met, the one most likely to defeat the cyborgs. I kidnapped the Strategist for you, slew the myrmidons and put the Arbiter aboard the altered pod like you asked. What more can I do to make you trust me?”

  “Return the cyborg to the holding cell.”

  Marten shook his head. “You’re going to need Osadar before this is through, especially if cyborgs storm your ship.”

  Yakov studied the blood globules. “Will you come with me to the command room?”

  “By all means,” Marten said.

  * * *

  Upon entering the command room, Yakov signaled a woman at a module. She climbed out and left the room.

  Marten floated to the empty module. It was built for a Jovian person’s frame. Aboard the Mayflower, everything had been too big, here everything was too small. Marten squeezed into the module and familiarized himself with the vidscreen and controls.

  And then, like everyone else, Marten was surprised. The ship gave a noticeable lurch as a large drone detached from it. Around the room, voices said.

  “Force-Leader?” someone asked Yakov.

  “We’re taking precautionary measures, Primary Gunner.”

  “I must log an objection,” the Primary Gunner said. Her name was Rhea.

  Rhea spoke from a module across the room from Marten. She had short brunette curls, and her black uniform stretched tightly across her curvaceous figure. A blue medal dangling from a choker around her neck only heightened her loveliness. The choker reminded Marten of Molly and the day he’d gone to see Hall Leader Quirn. He wondered if Rhea kissed as well as Molly had. The Jovian exuded a similar sort of worry. He could hear it in her voice.

  “Since the Arbiter has strangely decided to hurry to the Rousseau,” Rhea said, “the Strategist should be here. We need her authorization to detach any active drones.”

  “I am logging your objection and your reasoning,” Yakov said, who played with the controls on his chair. “Do you have any further clarifications?”

  Rhea licked her lips, glanced around the room and dropped her gaze as she noticed Marten staring at her.

  “No, Force-Leader,” she said.

  Yakov nodded in his calm way and went back to studying the main screen.

  Marten tore his gaze from her and adjusted his vidscreen. He could now see from cameras on the meteor-ship.

  A large Zeno drone had detached from the ship and floated away from them. The drone was long with a bulbous head. Cursive Jovian script decorated the sides. As Marten examined it, the drone fired its chemical engine. With a stabbing orange flame, the drone accelerated away from them and toward the last known location of the Rousseau. After a five-minute burn, the Zeno’s engine shut-off. The drone had already been a tiny orange dot. Now it winked off and disappeared from the ship’s teleoptic sights as it coasted.

  There was a critical advantage in space combat with a chemical engine versus a fusion engine. In order to operate a fusion engine had to maintain a continuous reaction. Thus, fusion engines always gave off a faint heat signature and spewed neutrinos. The chemically-fuelled drone could remain cold until needed and thus aided its ability to remain hidden until it ignited again.

  Despite its size, the drone was small in stellar scale, hidden by the immensity of space, even the space of the Jupiter System. Interferometer sweeps, a hunt for thermal signatures and electromagnetic pulses would now likely search in vain for it. Radiation from Jupiter and Io’s ionized sulfur spewing from its volcanoes only made things more difficult.

  In ancient Twentieth Century terms, space combat was often like a submarine captain and his detection crew, with radar, sonar and other technicians grouped together around their highly sensitive equipment. It was often a matter of endless listening and searching, seeking to find the enemy lurking under a cold layer of ocean current. For a variety of reasons, finding hidden drones often proved an order of magnitude more difficult in space than finding torpedoes or submarines in the old days.

  There was another lurch to the warship. Yakov must have released another Zeno.

  “I am ordering a practice drill,” Yakov announced. “We will take this opportunity to engage the Rousseau in a war-game maneuver.”

  “Force-Leader,” Rhea said. “I must object and point—”

  “For the duration of the drill,” Yakov said, “we will assume battle-status. You will therefore refrain from further outbursts, Primary Gunner.”

  Rhea shifted uneasily, highlighting her figure.

  Marten realized he was staring at her again. He forced himself to glance at Yakov.

  The Force-Leader studied the main screen. He looked up, and said, “Engine room, be ready to engage the fusion core.”

  Rhea stared out of her module a
t Yakov. Her lovely features showed that she was in an agony of spirit. Perhaps she had similar feelings as Anshan. As her shoulders slumped, she turned back to her control board.

  Marten wondered if he should attempt to speak with her later. Whatever happened with Octagon and the drones would take days to occur. That was the reality of space combat and the distances such combat entailed.

  -14-

  Two days passed as Arbiter Octagon glided through the void, seething with indignation. Once again, he inspected his white uniform and the black marks all over it from the tape the barbarians had used on him. Rubbing the marks hadn’t helped, but only spread the blackness deeper into the fabric.

  Octagon glared at the starry void. How he longed to make Marten Kluge pay. How he longed to hear a shock collar click shut as a myrmidon placed it around the barbarian’s neck. By Plato’s Bones, he would shock him many times. He would make Marten writhe on the floor. He would ask questions, appear mollified, and then the shocks would begin anew. Marten would howl for mercy. Yes, yes, he would even appear to grant it. Then he would use special myrmidons to perform degrading acts on the barbarian. That would break the man’s stubborn will. He would permanently remove the smirk from the Earthman’s lips.

  Octagon scowled as thrusters rotated his pod. That was new and unexpected. Now Jupiter appeared in the corner of his single polarized window. Once more, as he had for days, he clicked toggles and attempted to regain control of the craft. His efforts had no effect on the thrusters, which increased their power. The acceleration pushed him deeper into the cushioned chair.

  Despite the Gs, Octagon reached out and struck the panel. He’d finally reached his breaking point. He swiveled around in the pilot’s chair. Now his chest strained against the straps. While choking against the straps, adrenalin gripped him. His thoughts sped up. He wondered as he had before if the others monitored his actions. Were they observing him even now, mocking his display of anger? Were they recording it, to damn him later before the Philosopher’s Board on Callisto? He must control himself. He must continue to mask his emotions.