She lifted her rod and strode naked to the shackled myrmidons. Each stood at attention and grunted hungrily, eyeing her. She smiled, and she lifted a bottle of pheromones, beginning to spray the chemical throughout the room.
Each grunting myrmidon began to thump his hands against the wall, eager to be chosen. Each of them longed to pleasure her tonight.
Circe laughed, delighted at their antics. She’d never released one in this state. She’d never dared. Instead, she began to twirl for them, and dance erotically, driving them to drool and stare at her with glazed lust. Tonight, she would practice the Cleopatra grip on Marten Kluge. But she would leave nothing to chance, oh no.
She sprayed more pheromones as she danced. Then she strode from myrmidon to myrmidon as she buffed her body before them. They pawed for her, and they thrust their hips at her as they tore off their uniforms. She decided then to allow them to watch her couple with the barbarian. It would ignite hatred in each of her creatures for Marten Kluge. If ever the day came that Kluge attempted to free himself from her control, she would release her myrmidons upon him. They would tear him apart.
Twirling to her bed, she made further preparations. The most important was loading a spring-gun. It fired ice slivers that melted in the flesh. These slivers were not normal ice, they were frozen SX-16, a powerful aphrodisiac. Combined with the pheromones and her Aphrodite skills, the barbarian would easily succumb to her control.
Circe ran her small hands down her hips. Once she gained full mastery, she’d make Marten throttle his wife for her. The woman was a cow, a barbaric distraction. She especially hated Nadia’s hair. Afterward, Marten would do anything she commanded.
Circe checked her chronometer. Ah, in another hour the proceedings would begin. She shivered, looking forward to the challenge.
-23-
At the sound of a chime, Marten checked his watch. He was late for his meeting with the Sub-Strategist. Excusing himself from the group, he left the chief mechanic and his workers and hurried down the corridors.
The byways and corridors were narrow, a veritable maze throughout the meteor-ship. Recycled air pulsed everywhere, and clangs, thrums and low murmurs were constant. Marten passed technicians wiring panels and he said hello to his fire-control officer checking laser-coils. After climbing a ladder to a different level, Marten hurried around a corner. He adjusted his uniform and told himself he needed to control his temper better. Nadia was right. Circe was Tan’s representative. He needed to learn how to convince the Sub-Strategist, to look past her aloof attitude. There had to be some way to convince her to work together with him instead of battling him at every step.
“Marten—wait!”
Recognizing Omi’s voice, Marten halted. “I’m late for a meeting with Circe. I need to hurry.”
“You need to hear what I’ve found first.”
There was something troubling in Omi’s voice. Then Marten saw Osadar Di. The tall cyborg had trailed Omi. The frowning senso-mask startled him. Marten recalled something about the mask being able to sense its owner’s moods and adjust accordingly. How it could do that with a cyborg, he had no idea.
Marten glanced down the corridor toward Circe’s chamber. There were spy-sticks there.
“In here,” Marten said, indicating a storage chamber.
With the three of them among coils, auto-welders and construction-foam blowers, it made a tight fit. Osadar took out a sonic-shield, turning it on. The vibration hurt Marten’s ears. Listening to it too long would give him a headache.
“I’m late for a meeting with Circe,” Marten whispered.
“The crack in the fusion core’s outer shell wasn’t an accident,” Omi said.
“What’s that supposed mean?”
“Sabotage,” Omi said.
“Do you have proof?” asked Marten.
Osadar slid out a scroll-pad and showed him the evidence. After five minutes of tech-talk and Osadar explaining what she meant by it, Marten realized that they were right.
“The question is now,” Marten said, “who do you think did it?”
“I suspect the Sub-Strategist,” Osadar said.
“What reason could she have?” Marten asked.
“Delay,” said Osadar.
“Why?” Marten asked, as he shook his head.
“Have you studied the manifest of the new personnel?” asked Osadar.
“Yeah,” said Marten. “Headquarters is sending an arbiter, more myrmidons and replacement technicians.”
“I managed to discover the point of origin of several of the new technicians,” Osadar said. “It is Callisto.”
Marten frowned. “Has Tan changed her mind about us?”
“Someone has,” said Osadar.
Taking the scroll-pad, staring at the names, Marten mulled over the implications.
“You dare not enter the Sub-Strategist’s chamber,” Osadar said.
“Why not?” asked Marten. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Given that she sabotaged the core-shell,” Osadar said, “shows that she willingly risked the deaths of at least eighteen people. You must ask yourself—after her arrogance toward you—why does she now wish a private meeting in her chamber? The answer is obvious to me. So she can stage an incident and order her myrmidons to kill you.”
“Why didn’t Tan have me killed when she had the chance?” Marten asked.
“We do not know all the realities of the Chief Strategist’s current political position,” Osadar said. “Clearly, she feared to have you murdered outright. Now, however, time has passed. A staged incident would allow her to remove you and place one of her people in charge of the warship.”
“I don’t know,” Marten said. “Tan seemed genuine. She also recognized the need for an alliance with everyone else against the cyborgs.”
“According to the reports,” Osadar said, “this alliance has been achieved. Before, you believed Tan wanted to use your unique experiences with the Highborn, Social Unity and the Martians. It may be that your expertise is no longer required. Therefore, she is free to kill you.”
“It’s possible,” Marten said thoughtfully, “and it might explain why she sent Circe in the first place.”
“Kill Circe and the myrmidons,” Omi said. “Then kill the new arbiter before he can board.”
“That seems harsh,” said Marten.
“So does sabotaging the fusion-shell and causing eighteen crewmembers to be poisoned with radiation,” Omi said.
Marten rubbed his forehead. The sonic-shield made his brain pound. If all this was true…. He looked up at the others.
“You have reached a solution,” Osadar said.
“Maybe,” said Marten. “Let me think about it first.”
“What about the meeting with Circe?” Omi said.
“Osadar might be right,” Marten said. “So I’ll let her stew. Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I’ll make the Sub-Strategist angry enough to come see me.”
-24-
Thirteen hours later in a lonely part of the ship, Omi muttered, “Here comes trouble.”
Marten looked up.
They were in an outer corridor near a seldom-used docking bay. Several battered patrol boats were attached to the meteor-ship’s outer shell. One of the boats had used this emergency bay. Omi had climbed out of the boat and come down here to describe the latest field exercise to Marten. The space marines used thruster-packs to skim around the meteor-ship. Omi still wore his vacc-suit, although minus its helmet. Half the marines were still outside, and would spend another seventeen hours there. Marten wanted them accustomed to spending long hours in their suits, so they wouldn’t panic if it happened during combat.
Despite the loneliness of the location, Circe moved toward them. Usually, she remained within the inner ship, seldom venturing into the hollowed-out corridors composed of the asteroid-shell. She wore her sheer gown today, the gauzy one that left little to the imagination. Under the gown, she wore a belt, with a small gun attached to it. The belt accentuated the sway of her hips, which moved in a decidedly un-philosophic manner. Three myrmidons followed.