Planet Wrecker

-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.

Marten frowned. Something seemed different about them today. Then he noticed their bloodshot eyes. The myrmidons looked tired, sullen maybe, and a little less aggressive. Once or twice, he thought to see them eye Circe, but it was hard to tell. They hunched their heads like turtles, and constantly glanced about everywhere as if hunting for trouble. Although what they could find in the nearly empty corridor baffled Marten.

“Strange gown for a Sub-Strategist to wear,” Marten whispered.

“Nice tight body, though,” Omi whispered. “She reminds me of a Sydney hooker, one of the better kind reserved for the hall leaders.”

“That sort of thought probably never enters her mind,” Marten whispered.

“The way she walks,” Omi whispered, “don’t count on it.”

“Force-Leader Kluge,” Circe called, “I would like a word with you.”

“Here I am,” said Marten.

“In private, if you please,” Circe said.

“Omi and I have been through Hell and back,” Marten said. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.”

“I’m sure your antiquated religious terms make sense to you,” Circe said. “But they beg the issue. I need your expertise on a matter and require privacy.”

“Sure,” said Marten. He’d never heard that before, that she needed help. Maybe he should try to bend a little. “Why don’t you order your myrmidons back to your chamber then?”

Circe raised plucked eyebrows, highlighting the black gem seemingly embedded in her forehead. “This is most interesting. My profile on you said barbarian chieftains never admit to fear. Yet now you’re exhibiting fright of my protectors.”

Marten snorted. “Lady, I’ve been more afraid than you can possibly imagine. I have no problem admitting it, either. Now if you wish to speak with me privately, then get rid of your myrmidons. I don’t like the way they’re eyeing me or how their hands keep straying to their knives.”

“You have a big gun strapped to your waist,” Circe said.

Marten gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve fought myrmidons before. Gun or not, they’re hard to kill.”

The lead myrmidon snarled, and took a lurching step toward Marten, passing Circe as he did so. The Sub-Strategist reacted with astonishing quickness and slapped his hand. The myrmidon cringed, backing away, and he whined in a beastly manner. The others glanced at Circe in fear.

“Go,” she told them. “Return to my chamber. Ready him for punishment by making him assume the manticora position.”

The offending myrmidon stood frozen, his bloodshot eyes widening as he stared at her. The other two grimaced uneasily.

Circe raised a hand.

The offending myrmidon whirled around, hurrying away. A half-second later, the other two set off after him.

Marten and Omi traded glances.

“There,” Circe said, as she smoothed her gown. “I have rendered myself defenseless before you. Either exhibit your barbarism upon me or send away your bodyguard so we may speak in private.”

“What do you want to speak about?” Marten asked.

“I have fulfilled your requirements for a private conversation,” Circe said. “Either keep your word or demonstrate your untrustworthiness.”

Marten rolled his eyes. “Go on,” he told Omi. “I’ll hear her out.”

Omi hesitated but finally nodded, and he went down the hall toward the engine section.

“Well?” Marten asked.

Circe waited.

“I thought you wanted to speak to me in private,” Marten said.

She nodded.

“Look, if you’re worried that Omi is coming back….” said Marten.

Circe took several steps closer, and she smiled. “You are unlike Jovian males,” she whispered. “You are so strong, so militant and dominant. Do you know that your authority is strangely compelling? I have tried to resist the impulse, but you excite me on some primitive level. It begins here,” she said, touching her stomach. “And it wells upward,” she said, sliding her hand up between her breasts. “Why does this occur, Force-Leader?”

Marten’s mouth opened as he stared at her. He’d never expected such words. She took two small steps toward him. Her eyes, her throat, breasts, the flat belly, her thighs….

“I am deeply attracted to your masculinity,” she whispered.

“Wait,” Marten said, backing up. “I-I’m married. I have a wife. You shouldn’t say these things to me.”

“Such a powerful barbarian as you must be capable of multiple engagements,” she said. “Surely you can dominate females with…simian ease.” Her hand reached toward him.

Then Marten felt a momentary sting on the top of his hand. Jerking his hand back, he saw a tiny mark there. Something seemed to flush up through his arm then, hitting his chest and exploding outward through his body. It particularly struck his groin, seeming to make it swell.

“Ah, Marten Kluge,” whispered Circe. Her smile seemed wicked, full of sexual promise.

“You drugged me,” Marten said.

“Kiss me,” she said. “Feel what true ecstasy is like.” Her other hand darted toward him.

At the last moment, he caught her wrist. Her skin seemed to burn like fire. As his groin throbbed, he wanted to yank her near and shower kisses upon her. That gown, the charms beneath—yes, he’d rip off her gown and here in the corridor he’d do her.

“You drugged me,” he slurred. He couldn’t seem to let that go.

“I can do so much more,” she said, and she used her free hand, touching him so he groaned with pleasure. “I can bring you sweet release,” she whispered.

While still gripping her wrist, Marten shook his head. Feeling her grope him—suddenly he wanted to use her, to lay with her and have her. But he was married to Nadia. He wasn’t supposed to cheat. That was the whole point of marriage.

“Force-Leader,” Circe whispered, and she pressed her yearning body against him.

“Drugged,” said Marten.

“I’ve wanted you from the beginning,” Circe said.

Marten grinned. Her body, her face—his grip around the trapped wrist tightened as something elemental surged within him. She’d drugged him. Now she sought to use him, to control him in some Callisto fashion. With a savage twist, he bent her wrist around so her clenched palm faced toward the ceiling.

“Oh!” she cried.

He gripped even more fiercely, and her hand opened. There on her ring was a tiny spike. No doubt, she’d meant to stab him with the spike and pump him with even more powerful drugs.

“Let me touch you,” she whispered. “Learn what it means to love me.”

“Snake,” Marten said.

“Embrace me.”

Instead, Marten twisted her arm harder. She was so small, so helpless against his strength. He slapped her open hand against her other arm so the tiny spike pricked her flesh.

“No!” she wailed. “What have you done?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Marten slurred.

This time Circe screamed as Marten twisted her arm. Now with her arm behind her back, Marten forced her down the corridor.

“No, no,” she said. There was panic in her voice. “You must inject me with the antidote. I will become an animal soon. This is horrible, a crime against purity, against one of the highest orders of thought.”

“We’ll see,” Marten said. It was hard to think anymore. He wanted to rip off her gown and madly couple with her. Instead, while keeping her hand high against her back, he pulled out a com-unit. He pressed a switch.

“…Yes?” asked Nadia.

“Hurry,” Marten said. “I need help. Bring Osadar.”

“The antidote!” screamed Circe. “I must have it before you turn me into a creature.”

“What’s going on?” Nadia asked over the com-unit.

“The Sub-Strategist tried to poison me,” Marten said. “Please, Nadia, you must hurry. I need your help more than I ever have.”

“I’m coming,” Nadia said. “Keep your link open so I can follow the signal.”

“Send for the antidote!” Circe wailed. “This can’t happen to me.”

“You wanted it to happen to me,” Marten told her. And he found that he enjoyed holding her wrist like this. Reaching around, he grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing hard.

Circe moaned in pleasure, and she writhed against his hand.

With an oath, Marten snatched his hand back. What was he doing? He was married. “You viper,” he said. “You drugged me.”

“You’re only a barbarian, but such a vital and—oh, touch me again. I beg you. I’ll do anything for you, Marten Kluge. I must have you. You must take me and do whatever you desire.”

Steeling himself, Marten kept marching Circe forward. He had to keep going. If he stopped, there was no telling what would happen.

“…The antidote,” Circe whispered.

“What was in your ring?”

“Don’t you understand?” she moaned. “The dosage was set for you. I’m so much lighter. This is unprecedented. You mustn’t let this happen to me. Please, give me the antidote.”

“Keep walking” Marten said.