“If I am a barbarian,” Marten said, “know that I fought hard to defeat the cyborgs.”
“Your prowess in such matters has been noted,” Circe said. “Perhaps that is the reason why the Chief Strategist employs you in such an important mission.”
Marten glanced at Osadar.
Osadar never turned to face him. The cyborg had changed outwardly. She wore a senso-mask now, giving her the illusion of a human face. A beret covered her head, and she wore a heavy spylo-jacket and gloves. Everything helped maintain the human illusion, except for her manner of speech and the occasional electronic whines of her limbs when she moved or shifted.
“You don’t approve of my…uh…Force-Leader status?” Marten asked, trying to talk like a Jovian.
“My approval was not sought,” Circe said.
“I’m surprised,” Marten said. “If we’re to work together—”
“A moment,” Circe said, raising a slender hand.
The myrmidons as a group grew tense. Their knotted hands dropped to their knives, some slipped fingers into knuckle-mounts.
Marten felt their hostility and the intensity of their eyes. He leaned back until his shoulders bumped against the wall behind him. The wardroom was much too small for this table. His hand dropped onto the butt of his holstered slugthrower. Maybe it was time to use a short-barreled weapon. He hardly had room to draw his .38 long-barrel.
“We will not work together, as you put it,” said Circe. “I am now the ranking member of the expedition. I am the Jovian voice. Your task is to maintain ship discipline and to ensure our arrival in the Martian System.”
“I thought we were headed for Earth.”
“I’m sure I was clear,” Circe said. “There has been a new directive.”
“Can you tell me what changed Tan’s mind?” Marten asked.
“Force-Leader Kluge, I have already spoken to you concerning the use of the Chief Strategist’s name. Because of the present lack of arbiters, I will soon instruct my myrmidons to instill discipline in you if you cannot control your tongue. From this moment on, you will refrain from using the Chief Strategist’s name.”
“What arbiters?” Marten asked.
Circe looked away, and she clicked her fingernails on the table. “I am unused to barbarians, even tamed ones such as you. Your endless barrage of queries wearies me. I insist that you compose yourself to receive orders.”
She was irritating him, even if the body under that sheer gown was nearly perfect. The idea of spending months on the same ship with this Ur-philosopher….
“The Solar System beyond Jupiter is filled with barbarians,” Marten said. “If you can’t handle talking to me, how will you handle negotiations with Martians and Earthlings?”
“I am of the Third Rank. I—” Circe’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at Osadar and then focused on Marten. “I’m beginning to see. Yes, the Chief Strategist holds the highest rank for rational reasons. You and I shall speak throughout the trip. That communication will accustom me to barbarian crudeness. The Chief Strategist was wise to let you keep what is for you an exalted station.”
Marten thrust forward until his elbows rested on the table. “What’s really going on, eh? What game are you playing? The Dictates died with Callisto. Now…the Chief Strategist is trying to pull this?”
Circe glanced at the Thaliana’s captain. The captain lifted the palms of her hands in a Jovian shrug.
“To begin with,” Circe said, “your questions lack precision.”
“Yeah?” asked Marten. “Then let me put it like this: I was in charge of the mission until you showed up. Now suddenly Tan—oh, pardon me, the Chief Strategist—ships you out here. You’re given nominal control of the warship—”
“I will have full control,” Circe said.
“Sure. You have six myrmidons, a new set of orders—”
“More are coming, Force-Leader.”
“More orders or more myrmidons?” asked Marten.
“Your tone has become insulting. Alter it at once or my myrmidons shall take matters in hand. You will not enjoy the consequences.”
“Maybe you’d better alter your tone,” Marten said, glancing at Osadar. “She is a cyborg, which trumps your pack of myrmidons.”
“How dare you threaten my person,” Circe whispered.
“Now it’s you who lack precision,” Marten said. “I didn’t say anything about you, but your myrmidons.”
“The creatures belong to my suite. They represent—”
“Listen,” Marten said. “The Chief Strategist has filled my ship with former dissenters, with those who hated Callisto’s dictatorial rule. The Chief Strategist obviously wants them out of the Jovian System. Now she thinks you can reinstall the Dictates by waving a new directive?”
“These conjectures are far beyond your scope,” said Circe. “Your behavior here, I suspect you are presuming greater leeway for yourself because of your valorous act.”
“You mean killing the cyborg or surviving Athena Station?”
Circe shook her head. “I will not tolerate this. I will not subject myself to continuous queries or listen to your barbaric tones. I hold a directive from the Chief Strategist. It shall be implemented and you shall learn to comport yourself properly in my presence.”
Marten struggled to hold his tongue, barely winning in the effort. Maybe he should try a different tactic.
“It’s obvious I lack your grace,” he said. “Seeing as I’m a barbarian, I lack your training in the Dictates. What I understand is fighting.”
“Just like a myrmidon,” Circe murmured.
“Yeah, I’m a fighting animal.”
“Do not let emotionalism taint your thinking,” said Circe. “As a barbarian, you are far above an animal.”
“Thank you…I think.”
Circe inclined her head.
Marten kept himself from glancing at Osadar. Ur-philosophers seemed to lack a sense of humor. He’d have to remember that.
“What has transpired to change the mission?” Marten asked.
“The mission remains identical to its original parameters. We attempt to forge an alliance with the Planetary Union and with Social Unity. As a particle of our good will, we are sending a warship to help against the Highborn.”
This time, Marten glanced at Osadar.
“If we’re to help against the Highborn,” Osadar said, “that implies we’ve already reached a decision with Social Unity.”
Several of the myrmidons made low-throated growls at Osadar.
“Such matters are beyond your jurisdiction,” Circe said coldly.
Marten decided on a change of tack. “Yes,” he said.
“Excuse me?” asked Circe, who looked confused for the first time.
“Tell the Chief Strategist we will follow the new mandate to the letter,” Marten said.
“That was taken as a given,” said Circe. “Therefore, I will need to tell her nothing.”
“Was there anything else you wished to tell me?” Marten asked.
“Indeed,” said Circe. She revealed a scroll-pad. “Item two on the agenda is….”
-16-
Several hours later, Circe entered her quarters on the Thaliana. It was a spacious room, decorated with silk and works of Jovian art. She instructed the pack-leader of her myrmidons to allow no entry into her chamber until further notice. Then she retreated to her communication’s net, attempting a laser lightguide link with the Chief Strategist. After a brief delay, a link was established. Circe thereupon put on a neural-helmet and reclined in her com-bed.
***
CIRCE: The barbarian is clever and less direct than I had anticipated. He swallowed his anger and attempted subterfuge.
TAN: Kluge is quick-witted. Do not underestimate him.
CIRCE: He has defeated cyborgs on more than two occasions. That implies fighting prowess of an unusual degree. I view him as a killer virus.
TAN: That is an apt analogy. The virus in his instance is not direct, but rather the ideas he propagates.