“What would be their purpose?” asked Su-Shan.
“Conquest, I should think. Solar System dominion.”
“You believe cyborgs have suborned Athena Station?”
“It is a possibility,” Tan said, “one worth considering.”
“What is your recommendation?”
“I may be the last Strategist of the War Council,” Tan said.
“If true, you would be the new Chief Strategist. Your words would have even greater weight, given that you were free to speak your mind.”
“While they do not overtly threaten me,” Tan said, “obviously, I am a prisoner.”
“I demand her immediate release,” Su-Shan told Marten.
“Under certain conditions,” Marten said, “I believe that Yakov would agree to that.”
“I cannot halt the bombardment,” Su-Shan said.
“Could you postpone it?” Marten asked.
“Possibly,” said Su-Shan, “depending on the timeframe.”
“Until the supply vessels from Athena Station reach a low-Callisto orbit,” Marten said.
“You believe the ‘vessels’ will turn into a cyborg strike,” Su-Shan said in reproof.
“Why does it matter what I believe?”
“Because it taints your good faith,” she said.
“If I’m right,” Marten said, “your postponement will have left more of the Jovian System intact. If I’m wrong, you can still send in your warships.”
“As the rebels gather reinforcements and send everyone in the Galileo Regio into the deep caverns,” Su-Shan said.
“If I’m wrong, you will have an over-powering fleet and easily be able to sweep aside whatever reinforcements the Secessionists have gathered.”
“So you’re saying it is to be total war?” Su-Shan asked.
Marten thought fast. “No,” he said. “Under those conditions, I would urge Force-Leader Yakov to surrender. And as the Mars Planetary Union Representative, I would be forced to recognize the ruling Jovian government.”
“You should recognize us immediately,” Su-Shan said. “I cannot understand why you don’t. As an accredited representative, it is your duty to recognize the lawful government.”
“Let us put that aside for the moment,” Marten said.”
“No,” Su-Shan said, “as a representative—”
“Chief Controller!” said Tan, giving her cousin a tiny shake of her head.
“Very well…” Su-Shan said. “I will agree to a temporary truce. You will give Strategist Tan a pod and she can set a course for Callisto.”
“I agreed,” said Marten. “Now, as to the details of the exchange….”
-6-
As Strategist Tan ejected from the Descartes and headed in a pod for a Guardian Fleet dreadnaught, millions of kilometers away Octagon gibbered for mercy.
He lay on a steel table, with his head strapped down and his torso, arms and legs secured by metal bands. He was stark naked, his manhood a shriveled lump that lay like a beaten dog on his hairless scrotum. Whenever he squirmed, punishment zaps sizzled across his skin. He quickly learned to lie perfectly still as the two cyborgs in the room continued their experiments.
Hypos, prods, needles and a strange, bulky instrument that looked like an oversized gun were attached to the nearest wall. A medical unit monitored his status, and its occasional sounds sent a shiver of terror through Octagon. He’d always hated doctors and dentists in particular. The taps, massages, drills, the needles and the cold scope on his chest, he had always hated them. Such ministrations had made him feel vulnerable again, as he had as an orphan in his youth.
He’d been reared in a harsh world of Platonic instructors, and Master Gensifer had been the worst of his teachers. Octagon could still feel the slaps against the back of his head, and the evil cheek-pinches by the man’s strong fingers. Worst of all, however, had been Master Gensifer’s acid tongue. Gensifer had used his tongue like a wire lash, and it had slashed Octagon’s young ego with brutal precision. It was strange, but over time, Octagon had come to admire Gensifer. He had seen the old man as a tower of strength. If he could become sharp-witted, if he could slap and pinch others, then he would be safe. He would be strong and secure. Maybe the savagery of his childhood had driven Octagon to excel. Maybe the need to defend himself had forced him to hurt others.
Octagon didn’t reason these things out on the steel table. Instead, he felt small again, vulnerable and weak. He loathed these sensations. They shriveled his gut. He was a hurt thing, and he would do anything to stop the hurting, anything to get off the table.
At the moment, Octagon remained rigid—the electrical discharges were too painful to resist. Only his eyes roamed free. A metal band circled his head, keeping his neck from moving. He strained his eyes to the left to see what the nearest cyborg detached from the wall. He peered to the right as the door opened. From the next room came an awful green glow. It implied horrors beyond imagination.
He was still aboard the pod, Octagon was certain of that. Where did they go? What did the cyborgs want with him, other than to convert him into one of them? The idea… is this why he had survived the vacuum of space? It was inconceivable. He had prayed. He had prayed to a myriad of deities.
A horrible thought occurred then. Which of the supernatural entities had heard him? Because he lay on this cold, steel table, the sickening conclusion was that an evil entity must have responded to his prayers. The entity probably laughed at a man’s attempt to wrest an ounce of joy from life.
Octagon wanted to whimper, and that made him cringe, fearing more shocks. Maybe whimpering offended cyborgs. However, no electrical discharges were released. Octagon strained to see what the awful beings were doing now.
A cyborg pulled the bulky, gun-like instrument from the wall. The metallic monster turned toward him, raising the barrel of the ‘gun’. The weapon showed a large opening, and something seemed to be in it. The cyborg floated nearer, both it and the bulky thing were weightless.
“What are you doing?” Octagon whispered. His voice was badly damaged from prolonged screaming. “I insist that you stop at once.”
Octagon writhed then, making horrible croaking sounds as the metal bands activated and zaps surged through him.
The second cyborg reached out to the medical board and clicked something. The shocks ceased, bringing blessed relief.
Octagon sagged as he blinked his watery eyes. Had the thing turned off the pain? Before he could think to ask why, the first cyborg pressed the bulky, gun-like thing against his neck.
“Wait,” Octagon whispered. “Tell me what you want.”
He tried to squirm away from the gun-thing, and this time no shocks tortured him. Octagon failed to rejoice, however. Spider-like claws emerged from the gun-thing and rigidly clasped his neck.
“If you’d just speak to me,” Octagon pleaded.
Then he screamed as knifing pain pierced the base of his neck. Hypos hissed against him as drugs entered his bloodstream. His neck numbed, but the cutting feeling horrified him. He tried to thrash away. Tears poured from his eyes and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He could feel the thing digging into him. It seemed the gun-thing deposited metal into his flesh. What was its purpose? Why did the universe hate him?
“Marten Kluge!” he hissed in a dry whisper of hate.
Before Octagon could elaborate on his hatred, his eyelids grew heavy and his bodily functions began to shut down. He did not know it, but the cyborg had inserted a Webbie-jack into him. They had modified him because they desired knowledge that only he possessed among their captives. Through careful tests, the two cyborgs had determined he possessed this knowledge.
As former Arbiter Octagon relaxed and entered sleep mode, the first cyborg removed the jack-gun. The second cyborg began to remove the metal bands. The restraints would no longer be necessary.