The Mote in God's Eye

The space inside 3 Battery was thick with dead miniatures and filthy with bones. Skeletons of rats, bits of electronic gear, old boots—and dead Brownies.

“They kept a herd of rats in there,” Cargill shouted. “Then they must have outgrown the herd and eaten them all. They’ve been eating each other—”

“And the other batteries?” Sinclair said in wonder. “We’d best be hasty.”

There was a scream from the corridor outside. The Navy rating who’d been displaced from his post fell to the deck. A bright red stain appeared at his hip. “In the ventilator,” he shouted.

A Marine corporal tore at the grating. Smoke flashed from his battle armor and he jumped back. “Nipped me, by God!” He stared incredulously at a neat hole in his shoulder as three other Marines fired hand lasers at a rapidly vanishing shape. Somewhere else in the ship an alarm sounded.

Cargill grabbed an intercom. “Skipper—”

“I know,” Blaine said quickly. “Whatever you did has them stirred up all over the ship. There are a dozen fire fights going on right now.”

“My God, sir, what do we do?”

“Send your troops to Number 2 Battery to clean that out,” Blaine ordered. “Then get to damage control.” He turned to another screen. “Any other instructions, Admiral?”

The bridge was alive with activity. One of the armored helmsmen jumped from his seat and whirled rapidly.

“Over there!” he shouted. A Marine sentry pointed his Brownie-altered weapon helplessly.

“You are not in control of your vessel,” Kutuzov said flatly.

“No, sir.” It was the hardest thing Blaine had ever had to say.

“CASUALTIES IN CORRIDOR TWENTY,” the bridge talker announced.

“Scientist country,” Rod said. “Get all available Marines into that area and have them assist the civilians into pressure suits. Maybe we can gas the whole ship—”

“Captain Blaine. Our first task is to return to Empire with maximum information.”

“Yes, sir—”

“Which means civilians aboard your vessel are more important than a battle cruiser.” Kutuzov was calm, but his lips were tight with distaste. “Of second priority are Motie artifacts not yet transferred to Lenin. Captain, you will therefore order all civilians off your vessel. I will have Lenin’s boats outside our protective field. You will have two reliable officers accompany civilians. You will then secure any Motie artifacts you think important for shipment to Lenin. You may attempt to regain control of your vessel in so far as that is consistent with these orders—but you will also act swiftly, Captain, because at first sign of any transmission from your vessel other than through secure circuit direct to me, I will blast MacArthur out of space.”

Blaine nodded coldly. “Aye aye, sir.”

“We understand each other, then.” The Admiral’s expression didn’t change at all. “And Godspeed, Captain Blaine.”

“What about my cutter?” Rod asked. “Sir, I have to talk to the cutter.”

“I will alert the cutter personnel, Captain. No. There will be no transmission from your ship.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Rod looked around his bridge. Everyone was staring wildly about. The Marines’ weapons were drawn, and one of the quartermasters was fussing over a fallen companion.

Jesus, can I trust the intercom? Rod wondered. He shouted orders to a runner and waved three Marines to accompany the man.

“Signal from Mr. Renner, sir,” the bridge talker announced.

“Don’t acknowledge,” Blaine growled.

“Aye aye, sir. Do not acknowledge.”

The battle for MacArthur raged on.

30. Nightmare

There were a dozen humans and two Brown-and-whites aboard the cutter. The other ground party Moties had reported directly to the embassy ship, but Whitbread’s and Sally’s Fyunch(click)s had stayed aboard. “No point,” said Whitbread’s Motie. “We’ve been seeing the decision maker every day.” Perhaps there was a point. The cutter was crowded, and the taxi to MacArthur had not arrived.

“What’s holding them up?” Renner said. “Lafferty, put in a call.” Lafferty, the cutter’s pilot, was largely unemployed these days. He used the communications beam.

“No answer, sir,” he said. He sounded puzzled.

“You’re sure the set’s working?”

“It was an hour ago,” Lafferty said. “Uh—there’s a signal. It’s from Lenin, sir.”

Captain Mikhailov’s face appeared on the screen. “You will please request aliens to leave this vessel,” he said.

Somehow the Moties conveyed amusement, surprise, and a slightly hurt look all at once. They left with a backward look and a signaled query. Whitbread shrugged. Staley didn’t. When the Moties were in the air-lock bridge, Staley closed the door behind them.

Kutuzov appeared. “Mr. Renner, you will send all personnel aboard to Lenin. They will wear pressure suits, and one of my boats will arrive to get them. Civilians will cross on a line and will then obey orders of my boat’s pilot. They must carry sufficient air for one hour in space. Meanwhile, you will make no attempt to communicate with MacArthur. Is this understood?”

Renner gulped. “Aye aye, sir.”

“You will not admit aliens until further notice.”