Marten looked up.
They were in an outer corridor near a seldom-used docking bay. Several battered patrol boats were attached to the meteor-ship’s outer shell. One of the boats had used this emergency bay. Omi had climbed out of the boat and come down here to describe the latest field exercise to Marten. The space marines used thruster-packs to skim around the meteor-ship. Omi still wore his vacc-suit, although minus its helmet. Half the marines were still outside, and would spend another seventeen hours there. Marten wanted them accustomed to spending long hours in their suits, so they wouldn’t panic if it happened during combat.
Despite the loneliness of the location, Circe moved toward them. Usually, she remained within the inner ship, seldom venturing into the hollowed-out corridors composed of the asteroid-shell. She wore her sheer gown today, the gauzy one that left little to the imagination. Under the gown, she wore a belt, with a small gun attached to it. The belt accentuated the sway of her hips, which moved in a decidedly un-philosophic manner. Three myrmidons followed.
Marten frowned. Something seemed different about them today. Then he noticed their bloodshot eyes. The myrmidons looked tired, sullen maybe, and a little less aggressive. Once or twice, he thought to see them eye Circe, but it was hard to tell. They hunched their heads like turtles, and constantly glanced about everywhere as if hunting for trouble. Although what they could find in the nearly empty corridor baffled Marten.
“Strange gown for a Sub-Strategist to wear,” Marten whispered.
“Nice tight body, though,” Omi whispered. “She reminds me of a Sydney hooker, one of the better kind reserved for the hall leaders.”
“That sort of thought probably never enters her mind,” Marten whispered.
“The way she walks,” Omi whispered, “don’t count on it.”
“Force-Leader Kluge,” Circe called, “I would like a word with you.”
“Here I am,” said Marten.
“In private, if you please,” Circe said.
“Omi and I have been through Hell and back,” Marten said. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.”
“I’m sure your antiquated religious terms make sense to you,” Circe said. “But they beg the issue. I need your expertise on a matter and require privacy.”
“Sure,” said Marten. He’d never heard that before, that she needed help. Maybe he should try to bend a little. “Why don’t you order your myrmidons back to your chamber then?”
Circe raised plucked eyebrows, highlighting the black gem seemingly embedded in her forehead. “This is most interesting. My profile on you said barbarian chieftains never admit to fear. Yet now you’re exhibiting fright of my protectors.”
Marten snorted. “Lady, I’ve been more afraid than you can possibly imagine. I have no problem admitting it, either. Now if you wish to speak with me privately, then get rid of your myrmidons. I don’t like the way they’re eyeing me or how their hands keep straying to their knives.”
“You have a big gun strapped to your waist,” Circe said.
Marten gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve fought myrmidons before. Gun or not, they’re hard to kill.”
The lead myrmidon snarled, and took a lurching step toward Marten, passing Circe as he did so. The Sub-Strategist reacted with astonishing quickness and slapped his hand. The myrmidon cringed, backing away, and he whined in a beastly manner. The others glanced at Circe in fear.
“Go,” she told them. “Return to my chamber. Ready him for punishment by making him assume the manticora position.”
The offending myrmidon stood frozen, his bloodshot eyes widening as he stared at her. The other two grimaced uneasily.
Circe raised a hand.
The offending myrmidon whirled around, hurrying away. A half-second later, the other two set off after him.
Marten and Omi traded glances.
“There,” Circe said, as she smoothed her gown. “I have rendered myself defenseless before you. Either exhibit your barbarism upon me or send away your bodyguard so we may speak in private.”
“What do you want to speak about?” Marten asked.
“I have fulfilled your requirements for a private conversation,” Circe said. “Either keep your word or demonstrate your untrustworthiness.”
Marten rolled his eyes. “Go on,” he told Omi. “I’ll hear her out.”
Omi hesitated but finally nodded, and he went down the hall toward the engine section.
“Well?” Marten asked.
Circe waited.
“I thought you wanted to speak to me in private,” Marten said.
She nodded.
“Look, if you’re worried that Omi is coming back….” said Marten.
Circe took several steps closer, and she smiled. “You are unlike Jovian males,” she whispered. “You are so strong, so militant and dominant. Do you know that your authority is strangely compelling? I have tried to resist the impulse, but you excite me on some primitive level. It begins here,” she said, touching her stomach. “And it wells upward,” she said, sliding her hand up between her breasts. “Why does this occur, Force-Leader?”
Marten’s mouth opened as he stared at her. He’d never expected such words. She took two small steps toward him. Her eyes, her throat, breasts, the flat belly, her thighs….
“I am deeply attracted to your masculinity,” she whispered.
“Wait,” Marten said, backing up. “I-I’m married. I have a wife. You shouldn’t say these things to me.”
“Such a powerful barbarian as you must be capable of multiple engagements,” she said. “Surely you can dominate females with…simian ease.” Her hand reached toward him.
Then Marten felt a momentary sting on the top of his hand. Jerking his hand back, he saw a tiny mark there. Something seemed to flush up through his arm then, hitting his chest and exploding outward through his body. It particularly struck his groin, seeming to make it swell.
“Ah, Marten Kluge,” whispered Circe. Her smile seemed wicked, full of sexual promise.
“You drugged me,” Marten said.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Feel what true ecstasy is like.” Her other hand darted toward him.
At the last moment, he caught her wrist. Her skin seemed to burn like fire. As his groin throbbed, he wanted to yank her near and shower kisses upon her. That gown, the charms beneath—yes, he’d rip off her gown and here in the corridor he’d do her.
“You drugged me,” he slurred. He couldn’t seem to let that go.
“I can do so much more,” she said, and she used her free hand, touching him so he groaned with pleasure. “I can bring you sweet release,” she whispered.
While still gripping her wrist, Marten shook his head. Feeling her grope him—suddenly he wanted to use her, to lay with her and have her. But he was married to Nadia. He wasn’t supposed to cheat. That was the whole point of marriage.
“Force-Leader,” Circe whispered, and she pressed her yearning body against him.
“Drugged,” said Marten.
“I’ve wanted you from the beginning,” Circe said.
Marten grinned. Her body, her face—his grip around the trapped wrist tightened as something elemental surged within him. She’d drugged him. Now she sought to use him, to control him in some Callisto fashion. With a savage twist, he bent her wrist around so her clenched palm faced toward the ceiling.
“Oh!” she cried.
He gripped even more fiercely, and her hand opened. There on her ring was a tiny spike. No doubt, she’d meant to stab him with the spike and pump him with even more powerful drugs.
“Let me touch you,” she whispered. “Learn what it means to love me.”
“Snake,” Marten said.
“Embrace me.”
Instead, Marten twisted her arm harder. She was so small, so helpless against his strength. He slapped her open hand against her other arm so the tiny spike pricked her flesh.
“No!” she wailed. “What have you done?”
�
�That’s what I want to know,” Marten slurred.
This time Circe screamed as Marten twisted her arm. Now with her arm behind her back, Marten forced her down the corridor.
“No, no,” she said. There was panic in her voice. “You must inject me with the antidote. I will become an animal soon. This is horrible, a crime against purity, against one of the highest orders of thought.”
“We’ll see,” Marten said. It was hard to think anymore. He wanted to rip off her gown and madly couple with her. Instead, while keeping her hand high against her back, he pulled out a com-unit. He pressed a switch.
“…Yes?” asked Nadia.
“Hurry,” Marten said. “I need help. Bring Osadar.”
“The antidote!” screamed Circe. “I must have it before you turn me into a creature.”
“What’s going on?” Nadia asked over the com-unit.
“The Sub-Strategist tried to poison me,” Marten said. “Please, Nadia, you must hurry. I need your help more than I ever have.”
“I’m coming,” Nadia said. “Keep your link open so I can follow the signal.”
“Send for the antidote!” Circe wailed. “This can’t happen to me.”
“You wanted it to happen to me,” Marten told her. And he found that he enjoyed holding her wrist like this. Reaching around, he grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing hard.
Circe moaned in pleasure, and she writhed against his hand.
With an oath, Marten snatched his hand back. What was he doing? He was married. “You viper,” he said. “You drugged me.”
“You’re only a barbarian, but such a vital and—oh, touch me again. I beg you. I’ll do anything for you, Marten Kluge. I must have you. You must take me and do whatever you desire.”
Steeling himself, Marten kept marching Circe forward. He had to keep going. If he stopped, there was no telling what would happen.
“…The antidote,” Circe whispered.
“What was in your ring?”
“Don’t you understand?” she moaned. “The dosage was set for you. I’m so much lighter. This is unprecedented. You mustn’t let this happen to me. Please, give me the antidote.”
“Keep walking” Marten said.
-25-
“Our situation is deteriorating,” Osadar said.
It was two days after Sub-Strategist Circe’s attempt to poison Marten. She was in medical, strapped down and heavily sedated. The doctor still ran tests, baffled at her inability or unwillingness to engage in communication.
“It’s as if an area of her brain has shut down,” the doctor had told Marten yesterday. “Or maybe another area is so highly motivated that it controls her thoughts.”
“Haven’t you learned anything?” Marten remembered asking.
“By accident, I have. When she heard your voice over the ship’s intercom, she became tense. Noticing that, I showed her a video shot of you. It induced extreme behavior.” The doctor had shaken his head. “I believe she has imprinted on you in a most sexual way. In a word, she desires you above all else. And I think she will do anything to achieve…ah…union with you. With your permission, I would like to run further tests while you’re present in the chamber.”
Marten had declined. He’d had a hard enough time explaining everything to Nadia.
He presently stood with Osadar outside the fusion core, near the formerly cracked shell. The engine’s thrum was heavy so the entire area vibrated. Touching his ribs, Marten could feel them shift. His voice sounded funny here. Dried construction-foam sealed the cracked shell. The foam was a dirty gray color, with intensely white pieces. Technicians with sprayers had poured the foam, which had hardened instantly. The technicians had been experts and had formed blocks, making the wall easier to build.
Osadar moved closer to the dried foam, taking out a Geiger-counter. The clicks sounded ominous, but Osadar declared it good.
“The core is sound then?” Marten asked.
“It is the only factor in our favor,” Osadar said.
“That’s too pessimistic,” Marten said. “The space marines didn’t balk.”
Yesterday, after too many hours without her, Circe’s myrmidons had demanded the return of their mistress. It had been odd speaking with the leader, and it had been a surprise to learn he could use a com-unit. The myrmidon’s voice had been so low-pitched and growl-like that Marten had barely understood the man’s words. The myrmidon had been a man. Even after the things Marten had seen in Circe’s quarters….
The leader had given an ultimatum concerning Circe. Not willing to see what six outraged myrmidons could do, Marten had reached a decision. With Omi and seven of the best space marines, he’d invaded Circe’s quarters. The myrmidons could have surrendered. He should have known they never would. One Jovian had died because Marten had insisted they first try to subdue the gene-warped warriors. As the man crumpled to the deckplates, Omi had killed the first myrmidon. The others had died seconds later in a blaze of gunfire. Marten swore his head still rang because of it.
Amid the blood and sprawled bodies, they’d first noticed the sex-statues, the shackles and other various implements.
“Who is the Sub-Strategist?” Marten had asked Omi.
“The sooner we leave Jupiter, the better,” had been the Korean’s answer.
“You cannot put off Chief Strategist Tan much longer,” Osadar said, as she put away her Geiger-counter.
Marten glanced at the tall cyborg. The heavy thrum of the core made her voice sound more normal. What a strange world. Cyborgs, Highborn, Jovian sex fiends pretending to be philosophers—he just wanted a regular life. He wanted a home.
“We can’t stay in this system,” Marten said.
“Neither can we leave it,” Osadar said.
“Why not?” asked Marten.
“We lack enough supplies for a sustained journey.”
Marten found it interesting that Osadar didn’t suggest they use one of the patrol boats. They’d crossed from Mars to Jupiter in the Mayflower. They could go back to Mars in a patrol boat, but it would be highly uncomfortable. No, Osadar’s words implied she wanted to remain aboard the meteor-ship. He felt likewise, and he still thought Tan’s idea was a good one.
“The rest of our ship’s supplies come in a day,” Marten said.
“Aboard a military vessel,” said Osadar.
“Wrong. It’s aboard a liner. You read the orders.”
“A conscripted liner full of Chief Strategist Tan’s people,” Osadar said. “Arbiter Neon and more myrmidons are among them. Without those supplies, our ship will not make it to Mars.”
“I’ve trained our space marines,” Marten said. “I’ve fought with them and understand their capabilities. Taking enemy ships is what I do.”
Osadar began to object.
“Remember,” said Marten, “I stormed onto the Bangladesh. Taking a Jovian liner—” He snapped his fingers.
“We would be branded outlaws for such an act,” said Osadar.
“Not if we play it right.”
“Chief Strategist Tan—”
“Sent Circe here to do Heaven knows what to me,” Marten said. “Okay. Tan made her play. Now it’s my turn.”
“She will be expecting something like this,” said Osadar.
“Tan is a brilliant strategist,” Marten agreed. “But she isn’t a god. She can’t have sent the Sub-Strategist, expecting her to fail. If we act fast and without hesitation, we can storm the liner, take our supplies and be out of the system before they can react.”
“I find two flaws with your reasoning,” said Osadar. “Tan can always order hunter-killer missiles after us. And our space marines will not commit terrorism against their own government.”
“I’ve heard enough defeatism,” Marten said. “Our space marines are from Europa and Ganymede. They have no love for Callisto or Tan’s desire to revive the Dictates. Once I show the men the evidence—”
“Dead myrmidons?” asked Osadar.
“Some worry is good,” M
arten said. “Too much is debilitating. We’re in a tight spot. Now we have to fight our way out.”
Osadar’s senso-mask showed thoughtfulness. “Perhaps that is so. Yes. We have little to lose now. If we die, we die.”
“Exactly,” said Marten. “Now come on. We have a lot of planning ahead of us.”
-26-
Twenty-nine and half hours later, three patrol boats lifted off the half-repaired meteor-ship. The best patrol boat was a battered craft that had survived Carme. Marten piloted it. Each boat had its own problems, and each needed further repairs.
They moved in a triangular formation toward the teardrop-shaped liner. This one was fifty percent larger than the Thaliana and it orbited closer to Callisto. New relay stations on the Galilean moon would give it quick contact with the Erasmus, which was on the other side of the planetoid. A good third of Marten’s people had fought with him aboard the Erasmus. No doubt, their positions had been filled with handpicked people beholden to the neo-Dictates.
The patrol boats approached the big liner. The ship’s com-officer asked why three boats. The orders had just called for one. Marten talked about his sick personnel. And he added that two of his boats had reactor problems that they couldn’t repair on his ship. It was a flimsy lie and the com-officer complained, but she finally gave them clearance.
The boats docked beside huge bays. Big tubes deployed, attaching to the emergency hatches of the boat. Marten and his space marines readied their gyrocs and slugthrowers. Circe’s myrmidons had taught him the foolishness of trying to play games. When you fought, you went in to kill and conquer. His instructions to the space marine sergeants had been simple. “Gun down anyone who resists.” He didn’t like to give that kind of order against a Jovian vessel, but he’d do what he had to.
They sealed their vacc-suits and entered the docking tube. Three space marines could march together at a time in this one.
Marten’s stomach seethed as he first climbed the rungs and then floated toward the airlock. He’d taken point. It wasn’t the right place for him. The commander was supposed to make decisions, not get in the first gunfights. But this was a commando operation. The first moves were often the critical ones. Smash and grab. He was afraid some of his Jovians might not be willing to smash fast enough.
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