“Take him to my quarters,” Octagon said.

  “Arbiter!” the technician cried. “I tried my best. You must believe me.”

  The myrmidon moved fast, and his large hands proved irresistible. The technician cried out a second time, his arms twisted behind his back. Shoved by the myrmidon, the technician stumbled for the door.

  “Please!” the small technician sobbed. “I tried.”

  “Hm,” said Octagon. “We shall see. We shall see.”

  The technician and myrmidon exited the operating chamber. The door slid shut.

  Octagon regarded the inert prisoner. This was infuriating. He’d had a lead into a Secessionist triad, one aboard a military vessel. The prisoner could have opened up everything for him. Octagon snarled in frustration, and he drew his palm-pistol. He should remain calm. He was an Arbiter after all. He lived by the Dictates and with decorum.

  He aimed, squeezed the trigger and shot the drooling prisoner. Sight of the smoking hole in her forehead helped compose his features. He clipped the pistol back onto his belt. He must display serenity for the good of the crew. First, however, he was going to have a small chat with the technician. They would chat after he attached a shock collar to the bungler’s neck. The thought brought a tingle of pleasure to Octagon’s lower abdomen.

  As the fusion engine pulsed, as the bulkheads around him shivered, Octagon headed for the door. Nothing must stand in the way of the continued implementation of the Dictates, the most perfected life-system devised by men. Certainly, this crew wasn’t going to defeat him. By Plato’s Bones, he was going to crack this nest of intriguers if he had to brain-burn the lot of them. Even Yakov might end up on the obedience frame. The thought brought a grin to Octagon’s lips. Then he exited the operating chamber, hurrying through a narrow corridor to his quarters.

 

 

  Vaughn Heppner, Battle Pod (Doom Star Book 3)

 

 

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