The Mote in God's Eye

“King Peter’s territory. It’s a thousand kilometers, but that’s the only place you could get equipment to send a message that couldn’t be detected. Even that might not do it, but there’s certainly nowhere else.”

“And we can’t go by plane—OK. Where’s the subway? We’ll have to set up an ambush.”

“Ambush?” The Motie nodded agreement. “Of course. Horst, I’m not good at tactics. Mediators don’t fight. I’m just trying to get you to Charlie’s Master. You’ll have to worry about them trying to kill us on the way. How good are your weapons?”

“Just hand weapons. Not very powerful.”

“There are others in the museum. It’s part of what museums are for. I don’t know which ones still work.”

“It’s worth a try. Whitbread. Potter. Get to looking for weapons. Now where’s that subway?”

The Moties looked around. Charlie evidently understood what was said, although she attempted no word of Anglic. They twittered for a moment, and Whitbread’s Motie pointed. “In there.” She indicated the cathedral-like building. Then she pointed at the statues of “demons” along the cornices. “Anything you see is harmless except those. They’re the Warrior class, soldiers, bodyguards, police. They’re killers, and they’re good at it. If you see anything like that, run.”

“Run, hell,” Staley muttered. He clutched his pistol. “See you below,” he called to the others. “Now what about your Brown?”

“I’ll call her,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She trilled.

The Brown came inside carrying several somethings, which she handed to Charlie. The Moties inspected them for a moment, and Whitbread’s Motie said, “You’ll want these. Air filters. You can take off the helmets and wear these masks.”

“Our radios—” Horst protested.

“Carry them. The Brown can work on the radios later, too. Do you really want your ears inside those damn helmets? The air bottles and filters can’t last anyway.”

“Thanks,” Horst said. He took the filter and strapped it on. A soft cup covered his nose, and a tube led to a small cannister that attached to his belt. It was a relief to get the helmet off, but he didn’t know what to do with it. Finally he tied it to his belt, where it bobbled along uncomfortably. “OK, let’s get moving.” It was easier to speak without the helmet, but he’d have to remember not to breathe through his mouth.

The ramp was a spiral leading down. Far down. Nothing big moved in the shadowless lighting, but Staley pictured himself as a target to anyone below. He wished for grenades and a troop of Marines. Instead there was only himself and his two brother midshipmen. And the Moties. Mediators. “Mediators don’t fight,” Whitbread’s Motie had said. Have to remember that. She acted so like Jonathon Whitbread that he had to count arms to be sure whom he was talking to, but she didn’t fight. Browns didn’t fight either.

He moved cautiously, leading the aliens down the spiral ramp with his pistol drawn. The ramp ended at a doorway and he paused for a moment. There was silence beyond it. Hell with it, he thought and moved through.

He was alone in a wide cylindrical tunnel with tracks along the bottom and a smoothed ramp to one side. To his left the tunnel ended in a wall of rock. The other end seemed to stretch on forever into darkness. There were scars in the tunnel rock where ribs would have been in a giant whale.

The Motie came up behind him and saw where he was looking. “There was a linear accelerator here, before some rising civilization robbed it for metal.”

“I don’t see any cars. How do we get one?”

“I can call one. Any Mediator can.”

“Not you, Charlie,” Horst said. “Or do they know she’s in the conspiracy too?”

“Horst, if we wait for a car, it’ll be full of Warriors. The Keeper knows you opened his building. I don’t know why his people aren’t here yet. Probably a jurisdictional fight between him and my Master. Jurisdiction is a big thing with decision makers… and King Peter will be trying to keep things confused too.”

“We can’t escape by plane. We can’t walk across the fields. And we can’t call a car,” Staley said. “OK. Sketch a subway car for me.”

She drew it on Staley’s hand computer screen. It was a box on wheels, the universal space-filling shape of vehicles that must hold as many as possible and must be parked in limited space. “Motors here on the wheels. Controls may be automatic—”

“Not on a war car.”

“Controls here at the front, then. And the Browns and Warriors may have made all kinds of changes. They do that, you know…”

“Like armor. Armored glass and sides. Bow guns.” The three Moties stiffened and Horst listened. He heard nothing.

“Footsteps,” the Motie said, “Whitbread and Potter.”

“Maybe.” Staley moved catlike toward the entrance.

“Relax, Horst. I recognize the rhythms.”

They had found weapons. “This one’s the prize,” said Whitbread. He held up a tube with a lens in the business end and a butt clearly meant for Motie shoulders. “I don’t know how long the power lasts, but it cut a hole all the way through a thick stone wall. Invisible beam.”