The Web-Mind froze the scene. It caused OD12’s dark visor to turn clear. Within the helmet, the solid black, metallic-seeming eyes stared with infinite sadness as tears streamed down the plastic cheeks.
Why are you crying?
OD12 answered with a blunt profanity.
This time, the Web-Mind issued level seven pain sensations.
OD12 thrashed in the eerily dark battle pod. Beside her lay the perfectly motionless cyborgs, each mentally engaged in combat simulations. None of the other cyborgs had experienced more than one tenth of one percent anomalies.
Cyborgs do not cry. You were crying. Explain what caused emotions to override your programming.
“…I remembered how we tried to escape the alien.”
The answered confused the Web-Mind for two seconds. Then it understood OD12 meant Toll Seven.
“We wanted to live.”
You are alive.
“Live, not just breathe.”
Computer.
The computer in OD12 awaited further instructions.
You will monitor your host’s emotions. If category two emotions are employed, you will initiate immediate shutdown procedures and pulse me a report of the situation.
The computer logged the order in its command override logic core.
You must suppress these emotive anomalies, OD12, if you wish to continue functioning. Noncompliance will result in your termination.
“I want to function.”
Then proceed within the guidelines.
“Affirmative.”
The Web-Mind wasn’t certain. It thought it might have detected sarcasm. It was impossible, however, for a slaved cyborg to exhibit sarcasm at a deeper level than the emotion sensors could detect. So, it marked the observation and sent a lightguide message to the Master Web-Mind in the Neptune System. Then it proceeded to link with Toll Seven as they continued to refine the subterfuge plan of the conquest of Inner Planets.
-7-
In the Mayflower, Marten and Omi braked hard for Deimos, Mars’ smallest and most distant moon. The radio crackled with strident messages from the Planetary Union Space Force. The messages had been ongoing for the past five hours. Red Mars had grown before them until the planet dominated the heavily polarized window.
“We are now targeting your shuttle with Laser Port Seven,” the radio crackled. There was a ping-ping from the controls as it alerted them of a radar lock-on.
Marten licked his lips, scooted forward and reached up, pressing the comm button. “Mars Union, this is the free ship Mayflower requesting permission to dock.”
“Why haven’t you answered until now, Mayflower?”
“We’ve noticed the military situation and feared a missile attack from either you or Social Unity, depending on who we answered. So we waited until we were too close to you for Social Unity to fire without causing an incident.”
“…mayflower, your code registers as a Highborn vessel. Are you Highborn?”
“Negative, Mars Union. We are the free ship Mayflower.”
“Are you a Social Unity vessel, Mayflower?”
Marten glanced at Omi before he said, “Negative, we’re a free ship, requesting permission to dock, to buy fuel and then to be on our way.”
“What is your ultimate destination, Mayflower?”
Marten hesitated before he said, “The Jupiter Confederation.”
“…where did you originate, Mayflower?”
“We request permission to dock and speak with the commanding officer of the Deimos Moon Station,” Marten said.
The radio fell silent.
Omi said, “We should have told them we were Highborn and demanded the fuel.”
“It would never have worked.”
“Mayflower,” the radio crackled. “You have permission to dock. Follow these coordinates…”
Marten slowly eased the shuttle against a docking module and then shut off the fusion engine. He soon heard the clank from a docking tube attaching to the outer airlock.
“Now it gets tricky,” Marten said. “Do you remember what to do?”
Omi nodded and he slapped the sidearm attached to his belt.
Marten formerly shook hands with Omi before entering the airlock. The inner hatch swished shut behind him. Marten recalled the struggled he’d had with Training Master Lycon in this very airlock. He recalled the reflection of Lycon’s eyes as they bulged, and the disbelieving look as Lycon shot into space.
Eager to be out of the airlock, Marten squeezed through the outer hatch as it swished open. Because Deimos was smaller than many asteroids, it had a negligible mass. It was hardly different from weightlessness as Marten float-walked through the docking tube.
His skin tingled from his shower a half-hour ago. His clothes smelled clean and nervousness boiled in his gut. He was about to face the big question. Omi and he had escaped Social Unity and they had escaped the Highborn. Now he had to interact with people again, this time with the Martian Rebels. Would the Martians try to steal his shuttle? If so, he had to outwit the Deimos commander. Marten heaved a deep sigh. He had to keep his wits about him and he had to be ready to act decisively.
In all the Inner Planets, there was probably no one in his situation. Three governments struggled for existence. Everyone had to belong to one side or another. Now he and Omi were their own side, free agents who were much more common in the Outer Planets. He had to get fuel. He had to purchase warfare pods if he could. He had to keep the Mayflower out of the hands of desperate people.
Marten reached the hatch that led into the docking bay. The door open and Marten glided out of the tube to see three thin soldiers with drawn weapons aimed at his chest. The pitted gun-barrels pointed at him looked dark and deadly, but the soldiers holding them seemed too slender to be military men. The fourth person was a woman, an officer by her shoulder boards. She was as thin as the others.
“I’m sorry for the guns, Mr. Kluge. But you must give us your weapon and then come with us.”
Marten nodded curtly. He’d expected this. It’s why Omi had remained onboard. He’d expected this, but he’d hoped for something better. He had reentered the struggle for life.
“This way, Mr. Kluge,” the officer said.
A Martian Unionist with pinched features glared at Marten. The man was tall and slender, with a beak of a nose. He was also pale and had oiled his dark hair into ringlets. Marten judged the man to be in his mid-forties.
The female officer remained in the office. It overlooked a hanger stacked with metal boxes, a shuttle under repair and arc-welders flashing their blue glows as men fixed a multitude of articles. The office itself seemed more like a shed, with masses of equipment shoved into the corners and piled on top of each other. There was a vacuum pump, a magnetic lifter and a wrist communicator with a tiny, flashing red light lying on the desk.
The Chief Unionist at the desk stood behind a vidscreen. He hadn’t offered Marten a chair, but in this almost nonexistent gravity, it didn’t matter.
“I demand that you declare who you’re spying for,” the Unionist said. “I would assume Social Unity. But you have a Highborn shuttle. This leaves me wondering.”
“How can you tell it’s a Highborn shuttle?” Marten asked.
The Chief Unionist drew himself straighter, which had seemed impossible. “You could have simply painted the Highborn symbols onto it. I understand. Why would a PHC officer do that, however?”