“What happened to you?” Blackstone asked.
Fromm’s hand shot away from the bandage as if it was suddenly hot.
“Ah…”
“Is it a deep injury?” Blackstone asked.
“I jabbed myself,” Fromm said.
Blackstone could really care less. He did note that Fromm spoke in an odd manner and Blackstone decided it must be the stress of battle. “Is it healing?” he asked, wishing he’d never brought up the injury.
“Yes,” Fromm said. “It’s healing very well, sir. Perfectly.”
Blackstone indifferently waved his hand. “Yes, take care of the interrogations. But be sure to notify Commissar Kursk about it.” He frowned. “Why did Toll Seven ask you? The more I think about it—you realize that interrogations are the commissar’s prerogative?”
Fromm stiffened, and he saluted. Then he opened his mouth as if to explain, but said nothing.
Blackstone wondered if Supreme Commander Hawthorne had become a martinet concerning military protocol. Is that why Fromm acted so oddly? Had Fromm gained these strange mannerisms during his time on Hawthorne’s staff?
“Perhaps the cyborg realizes the commissar is overworked,” Blackstone said, answering his own question. He showed his teeth in a feral grin. “If Toll Seven had asked for the prisoners to interrogate, I’d have said no.”
General Fromm cocked his head and his eyes became glassy before he asked, “Is there a reason why you would have refused Toll Seven?”
Blackstone laughed without mirth. “I don’t trust the cyborgs. I hope you don’t either.”
“No, no,” Fromm said, “not at all.”
“Say, whatever happened to that aide of yours?” Blackstone asked. “She used to dog your heels. Now I never see her.”
“The clone?”
“That’s right. The Aster clone.”
Fromm blinked several times. “She’s hard at work monitoring the cyborgs.”
“The Supreme Commander asked about her in his last lightguide message,” Blackstone said. “If she discovers anything unusual, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Fromm said.
Blackstone drummed his fingers on his desk. “Was there anything else?”
“No, sir,” Fromm said. “With your permission, sir, I shall communicate your decision to Toll Seven.”
Blackstone waved him away, and he switched the tactical display back to a still-shot of his ex-wife. He was hardly aware as the door closed and as General Fromm took his leave.
Nine minutes later, Fromm secured the door to his cubicle. He double-checked it. Then he sat down on a chair and peeled the thick, flesh-colored bandage from his neck. A deep jack was embedded there.
Stout General Fromm licked his lips, feeling an odd sense of sexual arousal as he uncoiled a warm, flexible tube. It was synthi-flesh. He wormed the tube into the jack in his neck. He shivered with delight as the pseudo-nerve endings linked with nerves in his neck. It always began as pleasure sensations as the insert sent pulses to the needed brain centers. Drool trickled from his slack mouth. He moaned in pleasure and shifted in short, sudden movements.
Then, the deeper functions occurred. Mentally, he entered Web-Mind, the unit of the Neptune whole that resided in Toll Seven’s command pod. The general reported directly to Web-Mind about his talk with Commodore Blackstone. With his Web-heightened memories, he relayed the conversation perfectly.
Afterward, Web-Mind took General Fromm’s consciousness into his favorite simulation. During the episode, Web-Mind continued reprogramming the chaotic mass of the general’s neurons, gaining yet another level of control over the bio-form’s thoughts.
The unpleasant task of beginning the conversion process fell to OD12 and three other cyborgs. The Phobos prisoners were a mix of male and female bio-forms.
Twenty-seven naked humanoids drifted toward the far wall of the storage room as OD12 and three other cyborgs entered. The prisoners were male and female bio-forms. The cyborgs had already shaved off every hair on their bodies. The prisoners had bruises and scabs, but each was now as hairless as a newborn.
The bio-forms babbled frightened questions. And they stared at OD12 with wide-eyed horror.
That troubled her. And what troubled OD12 even more was that her internal computer didn’t notice her unease. During the battle for Phobos, a bullet or a shard from an explosion had struck her armored chest with terrific force. Adrenalin had already flown through her system. That adrenalin had accelerated many bio-functions in her, but for too long a period without rest. At the time, OD12 hadn’t noticed either problem. Replaying it later in her computer memories, she’d noticed that a glitch or an electronic burn had surged through her internal computer several microseconds after the impact. Certain data had been lost. OD12 suspected now that the censor program had been damaged. Her computer had repeatedly given her a message to report the incident to Web-Mind. She ignored it, and the computer ignored her disobedience.
Because of that, OD12 pushed aside the override controls over her emotions. She had done so with a sustained effort of will.
She now studied the horror on the faces of the naked prisoners. They babbled questions concerning their fate. Some wept. Some begged for mercy. Two of them scowled horribly.
OD12 shrugged. She heard servos whine and knew two of the other cyborgs had noticed the shrug. Would their internal computers consider that an anomaly: something foreign to proper cyborg behavior? In that instant, OD12 realized she would have to hide her freedom of thought. She must mimic the others perfectly or she would return to Toll Seven’s pod for repairs.
No thank you, she told herself. I like my damage just fine.
In another life, she would have chuckled. She knew, however, that if she chuckled, the other cyborgs might destroy her.
“That one,” AZ9 said. His voice box was scratchy due to battle damage.
OD12 swallowed down a sigh. With mechanical detachment, she strode at the chosen bio-form. The male screamed, and he tried to struggle, using a wrestling hold against her arms.
By using magnetic footing to walk upright and anchor herself, OD12 plucked him out of the herd. His wrestling grapples only minimally interfered with her task. She moved away from the protesting bio-forms. She twisted him around as if he were a baby. His hysterical strength was useless against her cyborg muscles. She bent his arms behind him and clicked handcuffs over his wrists. Next, she cuffed his ankles, turned on magnetic power and attached him to the metal floor. She put a neural inhibitor on his neck and all his struggles ceased as if he’d become catatonic. Lastly, she brought up a jack-gun. It was a heavy, bulky piece of equipment. She placed it at the base of his neck, and the jack-gun began to vibrate.
OD12 looked up and noticed that the herd of bio-forms watched her in fascinated horror. A few babbled whispered questions.
After three minutes, the unit made a loud noise. OD12 removed the jack-gun from the male’s neck. He now possessed a gleaming jack in his neck, ready to receive a plug into Web-Mind. But that was for later.
AZ9 pointed out the next bio-form.
Dutifully, OD12 went into the herd to get the female. Now all the bio-forms tried to fight. It didn’t matter. They were naked, lacked gravity and possessed minimal strength. Still, it was an ugly process. It wounded OD12 to hear their whispered words concerning what they thought she was.
She wanted to tell them she used to be just like them. She would have told them their screams didn’t matter. They would become cyborgs or Webbies and the memories of their horror would be overridden. It might not be for the best, but it was inevitable, as escape was impossible.
OD12 understood that, because life was rigged. The only freedom was what she possessed now: a little self-awareness. It saddened her to realize the self-awareness wouldn’t last. It meant.… It meant she had to figure out a way to enjoy it as much as she could while it did last.