Vaughn Heppner: Cyborg Assault

There was a loud buzz from the technician’s device. Several motes glimmered from the glassy barbs. The prisoner made a horribly deep groan as every muscle went rigid.

“What occurs?” Octagon demanded.

“No, no,” the technician said, his fingers flying across the keypad.

The prisoner sighed, and the rigidity left her muscles. She relaxed and then went limp.

“Talk!” shouted Octagon. “Tell me the operative’s name.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook, which caused cables to jiggle.

The prisoner’s mouth sagged and more drool slid down her chin.

With his thumb, Octagon peeled back an eyelid. It was like peering into an animal’s eye, a brute beast.

“How long will she remain in this state?” Octagon asked.

The technician had grown paler. His small fingers moved listlessly over the keypad.

“I asked you a question,” Octagon said, releasing the prisoner, straightening and then adjusting his uniform.

“Something odd occurred,” the technician whispered. “I must perform an autopsy. Maybe they implanted a mote into her cortex.”

Octagon frowned. “Explain yourself,” he said.

“Arbiter, I can’t explain it. I attempted a braintap. I followed the standard procedures. But by what I’m seeing, a brain-burn has occurred.”

“She’s become an imbecile?”

The technician shook his head. “The memories are there, but the connectives were irretrievable burned. We should eliminate her body as a last mercy.”

Octagon walked stiffly backward. His gaze kept flickering from the prisoner to the technician.

“I did my best, Your Guidance. But her memories are beyond us now. Perhaps—”

Octagon pressed a stud on his belt. The door to the operating chamber swished open. A squat man with long, dangling arms, heavily-muscular arms entered. He was a myrmidon, a gene-warped creature.

“Take him to my quarters,” Octagon said.

“Arbiter!” the technician cried. “I tried my best. You must believe me.”

The myrmidon moved fast, and his large hands proved irresistible. The technician cried out a second time, his arms twisted behind his back. Shoved by the myrmidon, the technician stumbled for the door.

“Please!” the small technician sobbed. “I tried.”

“Hm,” said Octagon. “We shall see. We shall see.”

The technician and myrmidon exited the operating chamber. The door slid shut.

Octagon regarded the inert prisoner. This was infuriating. He’d had a lead into a Secessionist triad, one aboard a military vessel. The prisoner could have opened up everything for him. Octagon snarled in frustration, and he drew his palm-pistol. He should remain calm. He was an Arbiter after all. He lived by the Dictates and with decorum.

He aimed, squeezed the trigger and shot the drooling prisoner. Sight of the smoking hole in her forehead helped compose his features. He clipped the pistol back onto his belt. He must display serenity for the good of the crew. First, however, he was going to have a small chat with the technician. They would chat after he attached a shock collar to the bungler’s neck. The thought brought a tingle of pleasure to Octagon’s lower abdomen.

As the fusion engine pulsed, as the bulkheads around him shivered, Octagon headed for the door. Nothing must stand in the way of the continued implementation of the Dictates, the most perfected life-system devised by men. Certainly, this crew wasn’t going to defeat him. By Plato’s Bones, he was going to crack this nest of intriguers if he had to brain-burn the lot of them. Even Yakov might end up on the obedience frame. The thought brought a grin to Octagon’s lips. Then he exited the operating chamber, hurrying through a narrow corridor to his quarters.

In 2351, the Jupiter System thrived as one of the richest in resources. The population there swelled and their wealth grew, despite the intense radiation belts and the heavy gravity-well. The reason was the gas giant itself. Like Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, Jupiter’s upper atmosphere contained massive quantities of deuterium and helium-3. These plentiful fuels drove the system’s fusion economy.

Automated factories floating in Jupiter’s upper atmosphere collected the deuterium and the more important helium-3, an isotope of helium. At scheduled intervals, heavy boosters lifted the fuels to the nearest moons, the Inner group, where vast storage facilities stood. In historical terms, the gas giants were like the Solar System’s Persian Gulf, in the days when oil ran the Earth’s economy.

Plentiful fusion power had allowed the first Deuterium Barons to turn the otherwise inhospitable moons into vast industrial basins. That in turn had enticed more colonists seeking escape from the nascent Social Unity Party. The vast exodus of wealthy, intellectual and daring people had been the driving force behind the increasingly harsh Anti-Emigration Laws of Inner Planets.

The growing wealthy class of the Jupiter System had turned toward intellectual pursuits. This held truest for the rich on Callisto, the fourth Galilean Moon. Many there had become absorbed with philosophy, and became particularly concerned with the examined life. This had inspired the Dictates, a codex of axioms that governed a neo-Socratic lifestyle.

Backed by fusion-powered heavy industry, the lords of Callisto had created the Guardian Fleet. For over one hundred years, the Fleet grew in political power until it ruled the system. Serving as a velvet-covered platinum fist, the Fleet had ensured Callisto’s dominance over the rest of Jupiter’s sixty-two moons.

If Social Unity propaganda was the measure, the Guardian Fleet was one of the strongest in the Solar System. Many claimed it was the reason for building the Doom Stars. Others said the lust to gain access to the deuterium and helium-3 rich gas giants was the real reason. Whatever the case, in 2351, the Jupiter System was awash in wealth, ships and inhabited moons.

“I’m not receiving any video, Rousseau ,” Marten said.

Marten sat at the controls of his shuttle, the Mayflower . He glanced at a note taped to the board: Double-check everything . The shuttle had originally been designed to transport eighty Highborn in comfort. With its modifications, the shuttle had proven roomy enough for Marten, Omi and Osadar.

As Marten waited for an answer, he leaned back and stared out of the polarized window. Visible through it was the vast gas giant, the largest planet in the Solar System. Its mass was two point five times as great as the rest of the planets combined. Presently, the Great Red Spot on Jupiter seethed with movement.

The Mayflower was in a medium orbit and outside of the worst of Jupiter’s radioactive magnetosphere.

The gas giant’s magnetic field was ten times as strong as Earth’s field. The sun-side of the magnetosphere acted as a buffer that deflected the solar wind around Jupiter. The magnetic tail reached almost as far as Saturn’s orbital path.

Marten pressed more buttons, running a diagnostic, seeing if any high-intensity radio bursts might be interfering with the video-feed. The gas giant often gave off radio bursts at ten-meter wavelengths. Jupiter’s violent upper atmosphere also created super-bolts of lighting. Those bolts gave off a million times more energy than a lightning bolt on Earth and often interfered with ship-to-ship transmissions. Marten detected only minimal interference. What was causing the video blackout then?

His frowning highlighted Marten’s angular cheeks and his intense blue eyes as he watched the blank vidscreen. His blond buzz-cut matched his lean build. Because of the long trip, his worn silver suit was badly faded at the elbows and knees.