He recited appropriate maxims and thought about the Dictates. Calm, calm, he needed serenity. He closed his eyes. He needed to think, to engage his reason.
Yakov was in on the conspiracy. That explained the Descartes’ sudden acceleration, the acceleration that had hurled him at one of the walls. The blow had rendered him unconscious. Yes, Yakov had allied with the barbarians. The Secessionist Plot had finally erupted into action. Oh, for months now, he had tried to ferret out their secrets. He had known that Yakov was untrustworthy. No one else had believed him. Even Tan had been fooled. She had wronged him, disarming an arbiter of his palm-pistol in the presence of an enemy barbarian.
Could Tan be in on the plot?
Octagon shook his head. Tan had lived on Callisto most of her life. It was inconceivable the Strategist had thrown in her lot with those of Ganymede. No. It was impossible.
Octagon swiveled back to the control panel. The Gs pressed him into the cushions. His lips were a tight line. He would not let them see him emote. They would witness perfect control. Perhaps he had smote the panel a single time with his fist, but that’s all he would give them.
With serenity, he moved toggles and observed their uselessness. Was there some secret way he could reroute the controls and regain use of the pod? A mechanic or a technician would know the answer. He had never sullied himself with such base endeavors before. Trust a barbarian to send him on a flight without any proper crew to accompany him. Why, the barbarian had wanted a display of fisticuffs between them. Marten Kluge had reveled in the degrading offer, as if it proved his manhood. What it had shown instead was the shocking lack of decorum among barbarians. But that wasn’t the issue now.
Cyborgs—
Octagon frowned. The barbarian possessed a cyborg. Could the Rousseau have cyborgs among its crew? That was such a fantastic proposal that it was laughable.
Hm. Why would Marten Kluge continue in his bizarre deception? Once he reached the dreadnaught—
Octagon’s jaw dropped. A bomb! The barbarian had surely planted a bomb in the pod. Or maybe Yakov had inserted one. They were using him as a pawn. They would blow up his pod when it reached the dreadnaught and declare Octagon a casualty of an enemy attack. That would unleash the last restraints on the meteor-ship’s crew and possibly on other warships with crews from Ganymede and Europa.
In desperation, Octagon stared at the control panel. He tried the toggles again, and then once more, moving them faster. The cruelly cunning barbarian—Marten Kluge was an animal. Octagon wanted to weep with rage, with fear.
He hated this feeling of helplessness. Oh, if ever he escaped this fate, he would dedicate his life to capturing Marten Kluge and practicing a thousand degradations upon him.
* * *
CR37, the chief cyborg of the crippled Rousseau, watched the mass detector. He floated on the emergency bridge, wearing a vacc-suit and helmet. Red lights washed the circular chamber, and the green-glowing detector showed that a pod had broken through the gel-cloud and approached the ship.
An unconditioned human monitored the dreadnaught’s board. She was the last of the deception crew, operators used to lure human-controlled warships into docking with ships infested with cyborgs. She had last spoken with a human calling itself Force-Leader Yakov.
The female wore a black uniform, and she had been chosen for her features, which Jovian males considered compelling. She had a pale face, with overlarge eyes and lips thicker than average. She lacked a vacc-suit. Thus, if this chamber were breached, she would die.
CR37 had once been the Force-Leader of the old Rousseau. Behind his darkened visor, his features were now like that of any other cyborg. He was inhuman in appearance and reminiscent of a zombie from the horror vids. Like others of his kind, he had been personality-scrubbed and given graphite-bones, motorized strength and cybernetic interfaces.
The ramming shuttle several days ago had been devastatingly effective. It had also alerted special AI routines in him. The AI had detected a spark of personality and run a deep diagnostic. The probe had uncovered a hidden truth. CR37 had unconsciously retained a hint of Jovian System sympathy. It had been a tiny thing, something he’d unconsciously implemented by rerouting certain warship safeguards.
One of those tiny but critical things had occurred with the lowered particle shield and the open bay door. There had been others things like improperly sealed bulkheads, downed firewalls and missing emergency routes. When the enemy shuttle had turned into a fireball, it had created more damage than its attack should have warranted. Within the dreadnaught, point-defense ammunition had ignited, multiplying the damage.
Now, the Rousseau was a shell of its former self. Despite the damage, the ship was still a dreadnaught, meaning it was more powerful than a meteor-ship. It possessed heavy particle shielding, unlike smaller vessels. Much of that shielding was still in place. Unfortunately, the hull behind the shielding had been ruptured in a hundred places. The missile tubes were worthless. The last, operational laser was under repairs, and the magnetic guns were hopelessly mangled. The dreadnaught had point-defense cannons, however, many of them. And it would soon have minimal motive power. Several complements of cyborgs had survived the devastating explosions, and they affected repairs.
CR37 studied the approaching pod. Incoming information from Athena Station confirmed that the pod originated from the Descartes. The meteor-ship had sent the pod in direct contradiction to the logged Guardian Fleet orders. Logic dictated that the crew of the meteor-ship was aware of the cyborg infiltration.
As CR37 studied the mass detector and the approaching pod, he calculated possible responses. If the meteor-ship had received the shuttle’s survivors, they would know about the cyborg strike against Jupiter, or they would have been able to deduce it. Why otherwise had the meteor-ship’s Force-Leader flaunted direct orders from Guardian Fleet headquarters?
With this conclusion reached, CR37 opened a com-link with point-defense control.
“You are receiving incoming target information,” CR37 said.
“I have received the data.”
“Query,” said CR37. “At what range can you assure the pod’s destruction with a ninety-five percent probability?”
“Computing. In eight point three-seven minutes.”
CR37 considered the possibilities as he computed range. The pod might contain nuclear material with x-ray pumping. He reopened the com-link.
“Begin pod destruct in two point three minutes.”
“I have received.”
CR37 closed the com-link and continued to watch the passive mass detector. There might be other surprises. He needed to launch probes beyond the gel-cloud in order to cover a broader spectrum of space. The probability of other enemies was high, but at the moment, there was little he could do about it.
* * *
Tears of fear and frustration leaked from Octagon’s eyes. Despite the pressing Gs, he’d crawled out of the main compartment and to the tiny hatch. Reason dictated a bomb aboard the pod. The barbarian and Yakov needed him dead. Preferably, in the most graphic manner possible.
He must frustrate them. Since he couldn’t regain manual control, he must escape and warn others. He shuddered. Escaping the pod entailed frightful risk.
With the greatest difficulty, Octagon donned a vacc-suit. He’d only worn such a suit once during his space training. Sealing the helmet took several tries. At last, he heard the magnetic seals click together.
The air in his vacc-suit rapidly became stale. Before he faded into unconscious, he engaged his tanks. How could he have forgotten to do that? The rush of cool, breathable air—he inhaled deeply and splotches no longer interfered with his vision.
Octagon slapped a button and blew the hatch. As if hurled from a magnetic gun, he shot out of the pod. He flew past the thruster, almost burned by the exhaust. Then he began to tumble end over end. He was in space, alone, with many hours of air and utterly helpless. Terror gripped him. The hopelessness of his position caused him to howl
in anguish.
Fortunately for his sanity, he wondered if the others could be recording his suit. They would mock him if they heard these howls. He fought for self-control, and nearly failed. Searing hatred came to his rescue.
“Marten Kluge,” he whispered. All-encompassing hatred stilled his screams. He began to pray, even though beseeching nonexistent divine beings was against the Dictates. In this instance, primordial instinct overrode Jovian logic. He prayed for survival and a chance to exact fierce retribution. He prayed, broadening the scope of his whispers to include any entity, good or evil, who might grant him his desire. Whatever the cost could be to exact his revenge, he told any listening entity that he would gladly pay it.
-15-
Shocked silence reigned in the Descartes’ command center. On the main screen, Marten, Yakov and others saw Octagon flee the pod and begin to tumble in space and quickly dwindle from view.
It brought a pang to Marten, as he remembered shock troopers tumbling away from the particle shields of the Bangladesh. He almost felt sorry for Octagon.
“Communications, can you raise any audio?” Yakov asked for the third time today.
The com-officer frantically worked her board. She had nimble fingers as various beeps and clicks emanated from the equipment. Finally, she glanced helplessly at Yakov.
“I still can’t understand it, sir,” she said. “Why has the Arbiter continued to maintain radio silence? And why now has he rushed out of the pod?”
“His actions seem deranged,” Yakov said quietly, as if speaking to himself.
Marten thought Yakov a splendid actor, having maintained the ruse in front of his crew for two long days.
Yakov glanced at his command staff. Something about the way he eased forward seemed to suggest an insight had occurred. “Perhaps the Arbiter received signals we’ve been unable to hear or see?”
“From where?” asked Rhea, the Primary Gunner.
Marten had attempted a conversation with her yesterday in the nourishment chamber. She had taken her concentrates and hurried away. He’d watched her leave, deciding that she moved with exquisite femininity.
“Representative Kluge,” said Yakov. “You claimed several days ago that the dreadnaught possessed cyborgs. In your estimation, would these cyborgs try to communicate with the Arbiter and force him to surrender?”
Marten blinked several times before he realized the words had been addressed to him. “Yes,” he said. “Something badly frightened your Arbiter.”
“Force-Leader, look!” Rhea shouted, pointing at the main screen.
The screen was linked to Octagon’s pod, to the cameras outside its hull. The pod had passed through the gel-cloud. Now the teleoptic sights zoomed onto the battered remains of the Rousseau. A fog of microdebris hung around the roughly spherical warship. Blue lights shined in areas. In other places, orange flares burned, subsided and then burned brighter. A discharging arc writhed in space, emanating from the engines. There might have been movement among the debris, possibly crewmembers in zero-G worksuits. There appeared among them the signature hydrogen-spray of thruster-packs.
“The dreadnaught has taken heavy damage,” someone said.
“There’s a sensor lock-on to the pod!” Rhea shouted. “It’s a weapon’s lock-on. Force-Leader, why would they want to fire at our pod?”
Bright stabs of light fired by the battered dreadnaught indicated defensive cannons.
“I have audio, Force-Leader.”
There were garbled words for two seconds. Then, on the main screen, sight of the battered dreadnaught vanished.
Once more, shocked silence ruled in the Descartes’ command center.
“They destroyed a Guardian Fleet pod,” Rhea said in disbelief. “I don’t understand it.”
Yakov rubbed the top button of his uniform, a prearranged signal for Marten.
Marten cleared his throat, and he noticed Rhea staring at him. “I’ve told you that cyborgs have invaded your system. They took control of the dreadnaught. After I learned that, I barely escaped with my life. Unless you destroy every infestation, the cyborgs will continue to grow in numbers until they overwhelm you. I know that’s what they attempted at Mars.”
“The Arbiter must have recognized the danger,” Yakov said slowly. “It’s why he fled his pod.” Yakov sat straighter. “We are duty-bound to rescue Arbiter Octagon.”
“That means nearing the Rousseau,” Rhea said. “Will they fire on us?”
“We must assume that Representative Kluge’s report is accurate,” Yakov said. “We shall therefore act accordingly.”
Rhea swept a curl from her eyes. “We can’t fire on a Guardian Fleet warship.”
“You are correct,” Yakov said. “Unfortunately for us, the Rousseau no longer belongs to the Guardian Fleet.”
Rhea turned pale. “Force-Leader, you cannot believe—”
“Rhea Merton,” Yakov said. “We belong to the Guardian Fleet. We are guardians, each one of us, selected from tens of thousands of applicants and rigorously trained to do our duty. In this horrible moment, we find ourselves without an Arbiter and without a Strategist or any official of philosopher class. We must therefore apply what reason we can to the situation.”
“I know we’re practicing a war-drill,” Rhea said. “But we can no longer continue radio silence. We must report this to Athena Station and ask for clarification.”
“You have not considered the implications of the dreadnaught’s unwarranted assault.” Yakov solemnly glanced around the chamber. “It is my duty as Force-Leader to correlate all factors and make a logical deduction. Marten Kluge and his cyborg is item under one. The Arbiter’s seemingly insane flight from a perfectly functioning pod is another item and the Rousseau’s vicious attack is the third. Something strange has occurred aboard the dreadnaught. Given our information, the logical conclusion is that cyborgs have entered our system.”
“But—” Rhea tried to say.
“The Inner Planets war has shown us cyborgs,” Yakov said. “These cyborgs are said to originate from Neptune. Neptune is closer to Jupiter than it is to Mars. I say to you therefore that we are under attack.”
Marten watched officers nod, while Rhea appeared thoughtful.
“Given the truth of my statement,” Yakov said, “we must destroy the dreadnaught and gain cyborg samples to show and warn others.”
“Go against a dreadnaught?” Rhea whispered.
“A badly damaged dreadnaught,” Yakov said. “Communications, replay the image of the Rousseau. We must discover the best means of destroying it. Weapons, begin to warm the gun and missile tubes. Engine Control….”
Yakov continued to give orders as the Descartes assumed battle status, ready to engage the cyborg-infested dreadnaught.
-16-
On Athena Station, Cyborg Gharlane settled into a full-body interface. He grew rigid as electrical currents surged through him, connecting him with other cyborgs in the room. Occasionally, one of their eyelids flickered. Liquid computers gurgled nearly, and there was a faint odor of ozone among them and a nearly imperceptible hum.
It was a mass mind-link, adding to the Jupiter Web-Mind’s computing and analysis power.
The secondary cyborgs lost the last vestiges of their identity as they merged into mind-link. As the prime cyborg, Gharlane was unique in that he retained self-awareness and could individually communicate with the Web-Mind while interfaced.
Using Athena Station’s interferometers, mass detectors, thermal scanners, and broad-spectrum electromagnetic sensors, Gharlane studied the situation between the Descartes and the dreadnaught.
Soon, Gharlane told the Web-Mind his findings.
The Jupiter Web-Mind was a marvel of technology, the most advanced artificial intelligence in the Solar System except for the Prime Web-Mind itself.
The Web-Mind’s capsule was parked in a deep hanger on Athena Station. The capsule contained a biomass computer merged with metric tons of neural processors. Hundreds of bio-forms ha
d died to supply the Web-Mind with the needed brain mass. Each kilo of brain tissue had been personality-scrubbed and carefully rearranged on wafer-thin sheets surrounded by computing gel. Other machinery kept the core temperature at a perfect 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit. Tubes fed the tissues the needed nutrients. Sensors monitored bio-health. Sub-computers did a hundred other necessary chores to keep the Web-Mind functioning perfectly. The biomind could outthink any known entity and track many thousands of cyborgs. The Prime Web-Mind was supreme, but the Jupiter Web-Mind possessed override authority here. It could adjust the master plan to emergencies.
“Further—” Gharlane halted his summary of the situation. With the mass detector, he spotted an object hurtling much too fast toward Jupiter.
“Priority one scan,” Gharlane said.
He had permission to override the mind-link. Every scope, every mass meter and thermal sensor now strained at the selected point.
In the dim room, plugged cyborgs twitched and eyelids flickered faster. The ozone odor increased, as did the humming.
Gharlane sensed the Web-Mind turning more of its brain-mass to the new situation.
“The vessel’s specifications are similar to a Social Unity missile-ship,” Gharlane said.
Your analysis is false, the Web-Mind said.
“I mean without a missile-ship’s regular particle shielding.”
Explain your logic.
“I deducted the mass of particle shielding and compared the under-vessel to the basic, SU missile-ship design.”
What prompted such action?
“Firstly, the vessel appears to have stealth capabilities,” Gharlane said, “which would logically imply that any particle shielding would have been subtracted from its mass.”
That was insufficient reason for your comparative values.
“I recalled the analytical study of the Third Battle for Mars. The study indicated the presence of hidden missile-ships—Web-Mind, I request an immediate discontinuation of our stealth campaign.”
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