The Mote in God's Eye

“No, sir. There are several theories. The most popular is that they’re related to the Moties the same way that monkeys are related to humanity.”

“That is interesting, Captain. And I suppose these theories explain why there are monkeys on asteroid mining ship? And why this miner brought two monkeys aboard your war vessel? I have not noticed that we carry monkeys, Captain Blaine.”

“No, sir.”

“The Motie probe arrives in three hours,” Kutuzov muttered. “And the miniatures escaped last night. This timing is interesting, Captain. I think those miniatures are spies.”

“Spies, sir?”

“Spies. You are told they are not intelligent. Perhaps true, but could they memorize? That does not seem to me impossible. You have told me of mechanical abilities of large alien. It ordered miniatures to return that Trader’s watch. Captain, under no circumstances may adult alien be allowed contact with miniatures which have escaped. Nor may any large alien do so. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want reason?” the Admiral demanded. “If there is any chance at all that those beasts could learn secrets of Drive and Field, Captain…”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“See that you do, Captain.”

Blaine sat for a moment staring at the blank screen, then glanced across at Cargill. “Jack, you shipped with the Admiral once, didn’t you? What’s he really like under all that legendary image?”

Cargill took a seat near Blaine’s command chair. “I was only a middie when he was Captain, Skipper. Not too close a relationship. One thing, we all respected him. He’s the toughest officer in the service and he doesn’t excuse anyone, especially not himself. But if there are battles to be fought, you’ve got a better chance of coming back alive with the Tsar in command.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s won more general fleet actions than any officer in the service, but Jesus, what a tough bastard.”

“Yes, sir.” Cargill studied his captain closely. They had been lieutenants together not long before, and it was easier to talk to Blaine than it would be with an older CO. “You’ve never been on St. Ekaterina, have you, Skipper?”

“No.”

“But we’ve got several crewmen from there. Lenin has more, of course. There’s an unholy high percentage of Katerinas in the Navy, Skipper. You know why?”

“Only vaguely.”

“They were settled by the Russian elements of the old CoDominium fleet,” Cargill said. “When the CD fleet pulled out of Sol System, the Russkis put their women and children on Ekaterina. In the Formation Wars they got hit bad. Then the Secession Wars started when Sauron hit St. Ekaterina without warning. It stayed loyal, but…”

“Like New Scotland,” Rod said.

Cargill nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. Imperial loyalist fanatics. With good reason, given their history. The only peace they’ve ever seen has been when the Empire’s strong.”

Rod nodded judiciously, then turned back to his screens. There was one way to make the Admiral happy. “Staley,” Blaine snapped. “Have Gunner Kelley order all Marines to search for the escaped Moties. They are to shoot on sight. Shoot to disable, if possible, but shoot. And have those ferrets turned loose in the galley area.”

21. The Ambassadors

As the Motie ship made its final approach, all details of its construction remained hidden by the flaring drive. MacArthur watched with screens up and charged. A hundred kilometers away, Lenin watched too.

“Battle stations, Mr. Staley,” Blaine ordered softly.

Staley grasped the large red handle which now pointed to Condition Two and moved it all the way clockwise. Alarms trilled, then a recorded trumpet sang “To Arms!,” rapid notes echoing through steel corridors.

“NOW HEAR THIS. NOW HEAR THIS. BATTLE STATIONS, BATTLE STATIONS. CONDITION RED ONE.”

Officers and crew rushed to action stations—gun crews, talkers, torpedomen, Marines. Shipfitters and cooks and storekeepers became damage-control men. Surgeon’s mates manned emergency aid stations throughout the ship—all quickly, all silently. Rod felt a burst of pride. Cziller had given him a taut ship, and by God they still were taut.

“COM ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE,” the bridge talker announced. The quartermaster’s mate third class said words given him by someone else, and all over the ship men rushed to obey, but he gave no orders of his own. He parroted words that would send MacArthur leaping across space, fire laser cannon and launch torpedoes, attack or withdraw, and he reported results that Blaine probably already knew from his screens and instruments. He took no initiative and never would, but through him the ship was commanded. He was an all-powerful mindless robot.

“GUNNERY STATIONS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE.”

“MARINE COMMANDER REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”

“Staley, have the Marines not on sentry duty continue the search for those missing aliens,” Blaine ordered.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“DAMAGE CONTROL REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”