Vaughn Heppner: Cyborg Assault

The cramped chamber reeked of disinfectants and other, more sinister chemicals. The walls were white, and they shivered from the ongoing pulse of the ship’s fusion engine.

The chamber contained three people: an arbiter, a technician and a wretched prisoner. The last was a naked woman strapped to an articulated frame. A dozen cables adhered to her bruised skin, some providing nutrients, other stimulants and the rest compelling obedience.

“She’s too stubborn,” the arbiter said. His name was Octagon. He wore a white uniform with red tabs on the shoulders and a double row of crimson buttons on the front of the jacket. He had narrow features and suspicious eyes, and like most Jovian men, he was bald.

“I suspect she’s undergone sphinx therapy,” the technician said. He was a small man in a blue gown and with a deferential manner.

Octagon scowled. “You know I detest technical jargon.”

The technician grew pale, and he spoke quickly. “They must have tampered with her brain, Your Guidance. It’s likely impossible for her to tell us what she knows.”

Octagon studied the woman. She was young and pretty, even with her shaved head, contorted muscles and sweaty skin. It had been a pleasure watching the foul Secessionist squirm. Octagon pursed his lips, giving a small headshake. No. Pleasure had nothing to do with this. He must maintain decorum and remember the tenth article of the Dictates. He had a ship to purge, and this was the first lead he gotten that might allow him to crack into the higher circles.

“It’s time for a braintap,” Octagon murmured.

The technician looked up in alarm. “Your Guidance, Yakov will not approve of—”

“I am the Arbiter,” Octagon snapped.

The technician nervously rubbed his hands, and he spoke with caution. “A braintap is a delicate operation.”

Octagon swiveled his head to gaze at the technician. “Tell me now if it is beyond your capabilities.”

“Rehabilitation is not always possible afterward, Your Guidance. Our… subject is pilot-rated, second-class, meaning—”

“I know what it means,” Octagon hissed.

The technician began to blink rapidly.

Octagon’s eyes narrowed. How deep was the Secessionist hold on ship personnel? Had they broken the technician’s loyalty?

Deftly, Octagon unclipped a spy-monitor from his belt. He adjusted the settings and swept it here and there. Then he aimed it at the medical equipment, searching for bugs.

“If I’ve angered you—”

“Silence,” Octagon said.

The technician wilted, backing up a step.

Octagon changed settings, carefully watching the monitor. Finally, he eyed the technician. “Your index is in the ninety-fourth percentile.”

“I am loyal to the Dictates,” the technician whispered.

“What is your moon of origin?”

“Ganymede, Your Guidance.”

“The same as Yakov’s,” Octagon said.

“I received my training on Callisto and had a first-class induction rating.”

“Your rapid speech indicates nervousness, which in turn implies guilt. What do you have to be guilty about, hm?”

“I serve the Dictates, Your Guidance.”

Octagon clipped the monitor back onto his belt beside his palm-pistol. “You will begin the braintap.”

“At once,” the technician said. He hurried to a trolley and pushed it beside the prisoner’s shaved head. In moments, a buzz emanated from a cranial saw. Like a barber, the technician ran it over her head, cutting away a portion of skull. Prying it free with core-pliers, he plopped the skull-bone into a green solution.

“We save the cut in case rehabilitation is required.”

“I’m more interested in unlocking her secrets,” Octagon said.

The technician nodded, and he began to work in earnest. Soon, a blue gel lay on the exposed part of the prisoner’s brain. There were yellow streaks in the gel, connected to a glassy black ball with tiny barbs dotted around it. The technician rolled a second trolley near the prisoner’s head. It held a bulky device with a screen. He turned it on so it hummed. That caused a tiny glimmer to begin emanating from the various barbs on the ball.

The prisoner twitched.

Octagon avidly watched the proceedings, although his gaze kept slipping down to the prisoner’s breasts, which were perfectly shaped. It was a pity to ruin such a prime specimen of womanhood. But then, she shouldn’t have joined the Secessionists. It was her own fault, and pity was a useless emotion.

“I’ve bypassed the first layer of conditioning,” the technician said, who closely watched the screen. He tapped keys, seemed to hesitate and then he tapped faster.

Shimmers played upon the glassy ball’s barbs.

Octagon moved closer, examining the prisoner’s brain. Lines of light moved through the yellow streaks in the gel. They sank into the gray matter underneath.

“I’ve reordered her synaptic connections,” the technician said. “As expected, this rerouting will expunge certain memories.”

“No! I must know her secrets.”

“This is understood,” the technician said, his deference no longer in evidence. “What we attempt, well, we attempt to foil sphinx therapy through new connectives. Naturally, this entails neuron loss. However, the core memories are stored in multiple areas and thus withstand the brainpurge to a greater degree than the sphinx-tampered connectives.”

“When can I question her?”

The technician glanced up and quickly returned his attention to the device. “If rehabilitation is required, we must proceed with delicacy.”

Octagon pursed his lips. “My primary need is knowledge.”

“If you would allow me to add a cautionary note?”

“Yes, yes, speak,” said Octagon.

The technician frowned. “The deeper the braintap, the more difficult it is to reconnect her synapses in the old order. Sometimes there is a brain-burn, bringing imbecility.”

“I’m willing to risk that,” Octagon said.

The technician hesitated before tapping keys. The prisoner groaned as her eyelids flickered.

“What’s happening?”

“This is strange,” the technician said.

“What?”

The prisoner’s eyes snapped open. They were blank. Then confusion filled her eyes. Her mouth hung slackly and drool dribbled down her chin.

“What did you do?” Octagon demanded.

A beep began to emit from the bulky device. The technician grew pale.

“You,” the prisoner whispered in a hoarse voice. She stared at Octagon.

He scowled and then leaned nearer. He had nothing to fear, as restraints held her. “You have deviated from the Dictates,” Octagon said. “You are a Secessionist.”

The prisoner groaned, and pain contorted her features.

Octagon looked up.

The technician wiped a sleeve across a suddenly moist forehead. He typed quickly on the keypad, and he kept biting his lower lip. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he whispered.

“Fix it!” Octagon said.

“I’m trying.”

Octagon put a hand on the articulated frame. Heat radiated from the prisoner’s skin. He asked, “Do you belong to a triad?”

She was staring at him again. Her lips moved, and words bubbled from her throat. “Yes,” she admitted.

Octagon’s eyes glittered. “Are you the liaison to a higher circle?”

Her lips twisted as if she tried to keep from speaking. But she said, “I am the liaison.”

Yes, it was as he suspected. Finally, he was going to break into a higher circle. “Who is your operative?” Octagon asked.