The Mote in God's Eye (51 page)

“Why kill off the Doctors?”

“To keep the population down, you idiot! Of course it didn’t work. Some Masters kept secret stables, and after the next collapse they—”

“—were worth their weight in iridium.”

“It’s thought that they actually became the foundation of commerce. Like cattle on Tabletop.”

The city fell behind at last, and the plane moved over oceans dark beneath the red light of Murcheson’s Eye. The red star was setting, glowing balefully near the horizon, and other stars rose in the east below the inky edge of the Coal Sack.

“If they’re going to shoot us down, this is the place,” Staley said. “Where the crash won’t hit anything. Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

Whitbread’s Motie shrugged. “To King Peter’s jurisdiction. If we can get there.” She looked back at Potter. The midshipman was curled into his seat, his mouth slightly open, gently snoring. The lights in the plane were dim and everything was peaceful, the only jarring note the rocket launcher that Staley clutched across his lap. “You ought to get some sleep too.”

“Yeah.” Horst leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His hands never relaxed their tight grip on the weapon.

“He even sleeps at attention,” Whitbread said. “Or tries to. I guess Horst is as scared as we are.”

“I keep wondering if any of this does any good,” the alien said. “We’re damned close to falling apart anyway. You missed a couple of other things in that zoo, you know. Like the food beast. A Motie variant, almost armless, unable to defend itself against us but pretty good at surviving. Another of our relatives, bred for meat in a shameful age, a long time ago.”

“My God.” Whitbread took a deep breath. “But you wouldn’t do anything like that now.”

“Oh, no.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“A mere statistical matter, a coincidence you may find interesting. There isn’t a zoo on the planet that doesn’t have breeding stock of Meats. And the herds are getting larger...”

“God’s teeth! Don’t you ever stop thinking about the next collapse?”

“No.”

Murcheson’s Eye had long since vanished. Now the east was blood-red in a sunrise that still startled Whitbread. Red sunrises were rare on inhabitable worlds. They passed over a chain of islands. Ahead to the west lights glowed where it was still dark. There was a cityscape like a thousand Spartas set edge to edge, crisscrossed everywhere by dark strips of cultivated land. On man’s worlds they would be parks. Here they were forbidden territory, guarded by twisted demons.

Whitbread yawned and looked at the alien beside him. “I think I called you brother, some time last night.”

“I know. You meant sister. Gender is important to us, too. A matter of life and death.”

“I’m not sure I mean that either. I meant friend,” Whitbread said with some awkwardness.

“Fyunch(click) is a closer relationship. But I am glad to be your friend,” said the Motie. “I wouldn’t have given up the experience of knowing you.”

The silence was embarrassing. “I better wake up the others,” Whitbread said softly.

The plane banked sharply and turned northwards. Whitbread’s Motie looked out at the city below, across to the other side to be sure of the location of the sun, then down again. She got up and went forward into the pilot’s compartment, and twittered. Charlie answered and they twittered again.

“Horst,” Whitbread said. “Mr. Staley. Wake up.”

Horst Staley had forced himself to sleep. He was still as rigid as a statue, the rocket launcher across his lap, his hands gripping it tightly.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know. We changed course, and now—listen,” Whitbread said. The Moties were still chattering. Their voices grew louder.

Whitbread’s Motie came back to her seat. “It’s started,” she said. She didn’t sound like Whitbread now. She sounded like an alien. “War.”

“Who?” Staley demanded.

“My Master and King Peter. The others haven’t joined in yet, but they will.”

“War over us?” Whitbread asked incredulously. He was ready to cry. The transformation in his Fyunch(click) was too much to bear.

“Over jurisdiction over you,” the Motie corrected. She shivered, relaxed, and suddenly Whitbread’s voice spoke to them from the half-smiling alien lips. “It’s not too bad yet. Just Warriors, and raids. Each one wants to show the other what she
could
do, without destroying anything really valuable. There’ll be a lot of pressure from the other decision makers to keep it that way. They don’t want to be in a fallout pattern.”

“God’s teeth,” said Whitbread. He gulped. “But—welcome back, brother.”

“Where does that leave us?” Staley demanded. “Where do we go now?”

“A neutral place. The Castle.”

“Castle?” Horst shouted. “That’s your Master’s territory!” His hand was very near his pistol again.

“No. Think the others would give my Master that much control over you? The Mediators you met were all part of my clan, but the Castle itself belongs to a sterile decision maker. A Keeper.”

Staley looked distrustful. “What do we do once we’re there?”

The Motie shrugged. “Wait and see who wins. If King Peter wins he’s going to send you back to
Lenin
. Maybe this war will convince the Empire that it’s better to leave us alone. Maybe you can even help us.” The Motie gestured disgustedly. “Help us. He’s Crazy Eddie too. There’ll never be an end to the Cycles.”

“Wait?” Staley muttered. “Not me, damn it. Where is this Master of yours?”

“
No!
” the Motie shouted. “Horst, I
can’t
help you with something like that. Besides, you’d never get past the Warriors. They’re
good
, Horst, better than your Marines; and what are you? Three junior officers with damn little experience and some weapons you got from an old museum.”

Staley looked below. Castle City was ahead. He saw the space port, an open space among many, but gray, not green. Beyond it was the Castle, a spire circled by a balcony. Small as it was, it stood out among the industrial ugliness of the endless cityscape.

There was communications gear in their baggage. When Renner and the others came up, the Sailing Master had left everything but their notes and records in the Castle. He hadn’t said why, but now they knew: he wanted the Moties to think they would return.

There might even be enough to build a good transmitter. Something that would reach
Lenin
. “Can we land in the street?” Staley asked.

“In the street?” The Motie blinked. “Why not? If Charlie agrees. This is her aircraft.” Whitbread’s Motie trilled. There were answering hums and clicks from the cockpit.

“You’re sure the Castle is safe?” Staley asked. “Whitbread, do you trust the Moties?”

“I trust this one. But I may be a little prejudiced, Hor—Mr. Staley. You’ll have to make your own judgment.”

“Charlie says the Castle is empty, and the ban on Warriors in Castle City still holds,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “She also says King Peter’s winning, but she’s only hearing reports from her side.”

“Will she land near to the Castle?” Staley asked.

“Why not? We have to buzz the street first, to warn the Browns to look up.” The Motie trilled again.

The grumble of motors died to a whisper. Wings spread again, and the plane dipped lower, falling almost straight down to pull level with a swoop. It whizzed past the Castle, giving them a view of its balconies. Traffic moved below, and Staley saw a White on the pedestrian walkway across from the Castle. The Master ducked quickly into a building.

“No demons,” Staley said. “Anybody see Warriors?”

“No.” “Nae.” “Me neither.”

The plane banked sharply and fell again. Whitbread stared wide-eyed at the hard concrete sides of skyscrapers whipping past. They watched for Whites—and Warriors—but saw neither.

The plane slowed and leveled off two meters above the ground. They glided toward the Castle like a gull above waters. Staley braced himself at the windows and waited. Cars came at them and swerved around.

They were going to
hit
the Castle, he realized. Was the Brown trying to ram their way through like the cutter into
MacArthur
? The plane dropped joltingly and surged against brakes and thrust reverses. They were just beneath the Castle wall.

“Here, trade with me, Potter.” Staley took the x-ray laser. “Now move out.” The door wouldn’t work for him and he waved at the Motie.

She threw the door wide. There was a two-meter space between wingtip and wall, making twenty-five meters in all. That wing of the aircraft had folded somehow. The Motie leaped into the street.

The humans dashed after her, with Whitbread carrying the magic sword in his left hand. The door might be locked, but it would never stand up to
that
.

The door was locked. Whitbread hefted the sword to hew through it, but his Motie waved him back. She examined a pair of dials set in the door, took one in each of the right hands, and as she twirled them turned a lever with her left arm. The door opened smoothly. “Meant to keep humans out,” she said.

The entryway was empty. “Any way to barricade that damn door?” Staley asked. His voice sounded hollow, and he saw that the furnishings were gone from the room.

When there was no answer, Staley handed Potter the x-ray laser. “Keep guard here. You’ll need the Moties to tell if someone coming through is an enemy. Come on, Whitbread.” He turned and ran for the stairs.

Whitbread followed reluctantly. Horst climbed rapidly, leaving Whitbread out of breath when they reached the floor where their rooms were. “You got something against elevators?” Whitbread demanded. “Sir?”

Staley didn’t answer. The door to Renner’s room stood open, and Horst dashed inside. “God damn!”

“What’s the matter?” Whitbread panted. He went through the door.

The room was empty. Even the bunks were removed.

There was no sign of the equipment Renner had left behind. “I was hoping to find something to talk to
Lenin
with,” Staley growled. “Help me look. Maybe they stored our stuff in here somewhere.”

They searched, but found nothing. On every floor it was the same: fixtures, beds, furniture, everything removed. The Castle was a hollow shell. They went back downstairs to the entryway.

“Are we alone?” Gavin Potter asked.

“Yeah,” Staley replied. “And we’ll starve pretty bloody quick if nothing worse. The place has been stripped.”

Both Moties shrugged. “I’m a little surprised,” Whitbread’s Motie said. The two Moties twittered for a moment. “She doesn’t know why either. It looks like the place won’t be used again—”

“Well, they damn well know where we are,” Staley growled. He took his helmet from his belt and connected the leads to his radio. Then he put the helmet on. “
Lenin
, this is Staley.
Lenin
,
Lenin
,
Lenin
, this is Midshipman Staley. Over.”

“Mr. Staley, where in hell are you?” It was Captain Blaine.

“Captain! Thank God! Captain, we’re holed up in— Wait one moment, sir.” The Moties were twittering to each other, Whitbread’s Motie tried to say something, but Staley didn’t hear it. What he heard was a Motie speaking with Whitbread’s voice— “Captain Blaine, sir. Where do you get your Irish Mist? Over.”

“Staley, cut the goddamn comedy and report! Over.”

“Sorry, sir, I really must know. You’ll understand why I ask. Where do you get your Irish Mist? Over.”

“Staley! I’m tired of the goddamn jokes!”

Horst took the helmet off. “It isn’t the Captain,” he said. “It’s a Motie with the Captain’s voice. One of yours?” he asked Whitbread’s Motie.

“Probably. It was a stupid trick. Your Fyunch(click) would have known better. Which means she’s not cooperating with my Master too well.”

“There’s no way to defend this place,” Staley said. He looked around the entryway. It was about ten meters by thirty, and there was no furniture at all. The hangings and pictures which adorned the walls were gone. “Upstairs,” Horst said. “We’ve got a better chance there.” He led them back up to the living quarters floor, and they took positions at the end of the hall where they could cover the stairwell and elevator.

“Now what?” Whitbread asked.

“Now we wait,” both Moties said in unison. A long hour passed.

The traffic sounds died away. It took them a minute to notice, then it was obvious. Nothing moved outside.

“I’ll have a look,” Staley said. He went to a room and peered carefully out the window, standing well inside so that he wouldn’t expose himself.

Demons moved on the street below. They came forward in a twisting, flickering quick run, then suddenly raised their weapons and fired down the street. Horst turned and saw another group melting for cover; they left a third of their number dead. Battle sounds filtered through the thick windows.

“What is it, Horst?” Whitbread called. “It sounds like shots.”

“It is shots. Two groups of Warriors in a battle. Over us?”

“Certainly,” Whitbread’s Motie answered. “You know what this means, don’t you?” She sounded very resigned.

When there was no answer she said, “It means the humans won’t be coming back. They’re gone.”

Staley cried, “I don’t believe it! The Admiral wouldn’t leave us! He’d take on the whole damn planet—”

“No, he wouldn’t, Horst,” Whitbread said. “You know his orders.”

Horst shook his head, but he knew Whitbread was right. He called, “Whitbread’s Motie! Come here and tell me which side is which.”

“No.”

Horst looked around. “What do you mean, no? I need to know who to shoot at!”

“I don’t want to get shot.”

Whitbread’s Motie was a coward! “I haven’t been shot, have I? Just don’t expose yourself.”

Whitbread’s voice said, “Horst, if you’ve exposed an eye, any Warrior could have shot it out. Nobody wants you dead now. They haven’t used artillery, have they? But they’d shoot
me
.”

“
All
right. Charlie! Come here and—”

“I will not.”

Horst didn’t even curse. Not cowards, but Brown-and-whites. Would his own Motie have come?

The demons had all found cover: cars parked or abandoned, doorways, the fluting along the sides of one building. They moved from cover to cover with the flickering speed of houseflies. Yet every time a Warrior fired, a Warrior died. There had not been all that much gunfire, yet two thirds of the Warriors in sight were dead. Whitbread’s Motie had been right about their marksmanship. It was inhumanly accurate.