Planet Wrecker

-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,” Marten 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.”