The Mote in God's Eye (47 page)

“That plane of yours was a fast one,” Staley said flatly.

“An emergency Mediator’s vehicle. Masters forbid each other to use them. Your coming to our system almost started a war over jurisdiction anyway, and putting Warriors in one of those could certainly do it...”

“Don’t your decision makers have any military planes at all?” Whitbread asked.

“Sure, but they’re slower. They might drive you to cover anyway. There’s a subway under this building—”

“Subway?” Staley said carefully. Everything was happening too fast. He was in command here, but he didn’t know what to do.

“Of course. People do visit museums sometimes. And it’ll take a while to get here by subway from the Castle. Who knows what the Keeper will be doing meantime? He might even forbid my Master’s invasion. But if he does, you can be
sure
he’ll kill you, to keep any other Masters from fighting here.”

“Find anything, Gavin?” Staley shouted.

Potter appeared at the doorway of one of the modernistic glass-and-steel pillars. “Nothing I can operate as a communicator. Nothing I can even be sure is one. And this is all the newer stuff, Horst. Anything in the older buildings may be rusted through.”

“Horst, we’ve got to get out of here!” Whitbread’s Motie insisted again. “There’s no time for talk—”

“Those Warriors could come in planes to the next station and then take the subway from there,” Whitbread reminded them. “We’d better do
something
, Horst.”

Staley nodded slowly. “All right. How do we leave? In your plane?”

“It won’t hold all of us,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “But we can send two with Charlie and I could—”

“No.” Staley’s tone was decisive. “We stay together. Can you call a larger plane?”

“I can’t even be sure that one would escape. You’re probably right. It would be better to stay together. Well, there’s nothing left but the subway.”

“Which might be full of enemies right now.” Staley thought for a moment. The dome was a bomb shelter and the mirror was a good defense against lasers. They could hole up here—but for how long? He began to feel the necessary paranoia of a soldier in enemy territory.

“Where do we have to go to get a message through to
Lenin
?” he demanded. That was obviously the first thing.

“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.”

Staley took it. “That’s what we need. Tell me about the others later. Now get into the doorway and stay there.” Staley positioned himself where the passenger ramp ended, just to one side of the tunnel entrance. Nothing would see him until it was coming out of that tunnel. He wondered how good Motie armor was. Would it stop an x-ray laser? There was no sound, and he waited, impatiently.

This is silly, he told himself. But what else is there? Suppose they come in planes and land outside the dome? Should have closed the door and left somebody. Not too late for that, either.

He started to turn toward the others behind him, but then he heard it; a low humming from far down the track. It actually relaxed him. There were no more choices to make. Horst moved cautiously and took a better grip on the unfamiliar weapon. The car was coming fast...

It was much smaller than Staley had expected: a toy of a streetcar, whistling past him. Its wind buffeted his face. The car stopped with a jerk, while Staley waved the gun like a magician’s wand, back and forth across it. Was anything coming out the other side? No. The gun was working properly. The beam was invisible, but crisscross lines of red-hot metal lined the vehicle. He swiped the beam across the windows, where nothing showed, and along the roof, then stepped quickly out into the tunnel and fired down its length.

There was another car there. Staley ducked back to cover most of his body but continued to fire, aiming the gun at the oncoming car. How the hell would he know when the battery—or whatever it used for power—quit? A museum piece, for God’s sake! The second car was past, and there were cherry-red lines across it. He swept the weapon along it, then stepped out to fire down the tunnel again. There was nothing there.

No third car. Good. Systematically he fired at the second car. Something had stopped it just behind the first—some kind of collision avoidance system? He couldn’t know. He ran toward the two cars. Whitbread and Potter came out to join him.

“I told you to stay put!”

Whitbread said, “Sorry, Horst.”

“This is a military situation, Mr. Whitbread. You can call me Horst when people aren’t shooting at us.”

“Yes, sir. I wish to point out that nobody has fired except you.”

There was a smell from the car: burning meat. The Moties came out from hiding. Staley carefully approached the cars and looked inside. “Demons,” he said.

They examined the bodies with interest. Except for statues they’d never seen the type before. Compared to the Mediators and Engineers they seemed wire-thin and agile, like greyhounds next to pugs. The right arms were long, with short thick fingers and only one thumb; the other edge of the right hand was smooth with callus. The left arm was longer, with fingers like sausages. There was something under the left arm.

The demons had teeth, long and sharp, like true monsters from childhood books and half-forgotten legends.

Charlie twittered to Whitbread’s Motie. When there was no answer she twittered again, more shrill, and waved at the Brown. The Engineer approached the door and began to examine it closely. Whitbread’s Motie stood petrified, staring at the dead Warriors.

“Look out for booby traps!” Staley yelled. The Brown paid no attention and began to feel cautiously at the door.

“Watch out!”

“They will have traps, but the Brown will see them,” Charlie said very slowly. “I will tell her to be careful.” The voice was precise and had no accent at all.

“You can talk,” Staley said.

“Not well. It is difficult to think in your language.”

“What’s wrong with my Fyunch(click)?” Whitbread demanded.

Instead of answering, Charlie twittered again. The tones rose sharply. Whitbread’s Motie seemed to jerk and turned toward them.

“Sorry,” she said. “Those are my Master’s Warriors. Damn, damn, what am I doing?”

“Let’s get in there,” Staley said nervously. He raised his gun to cut through the side of the car. The Brown was still inspecting the door, very carefully, as if afraid of it.

“Allow me, sir.” Whitbread must have been kidding. He was holding a thick-handled short sword. Horst watched him cut a square doorway in the metal side of the subway car with one continuous smooth, slow sweep of the blade.

“It vibrates,” he said. “I think.”

A few smells got through their air filters. It must have been worse for the Moties, but they didn’t seem to mind. They crawled inside the second car.

“You better look these over,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She sounded much better now. “Know your enemy.” She twittered at the Brown, and it went to the controls of the car and examined them carefully, then sat in the driver’s seat. She had to toss a Warrior out to do it.

“Have a look under the left arm,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “That’s a second left arm, vestigial in most Mote subspecies. Only thing is, it’s all one nail, like a—” She thought for a moment. “A hoof. It’s a gutting knife. Plus enough muscle to swing it.”

Whitbread and Potter grimaced. At Staley’s direction they began to heave demon bodies out the hole in the side of the car. The Warriors were like twins of each other, all identical except for the cooked areas where the x-ray laser had swept through them. The feet were sheathed in sharp horn at toe and heel. One kick, backward or forward, and that would be all. The heads were small.

“Are they sentient?” Whitbread asked.

“By your standards, yes, but they aren’t very inventive,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She sounded like Whitbread reciting lessons to the First Lieutenant, her voice very precise but without feelings. “They can fix any weapon that ever worked, but they don’t tend to invent their own. Oh, and there’s a Doctor form, a hybrid between the real Doctor and the Warrior. Semisentient. You should be able to guess what they look like. You’d better have the Brown look at any weapons you keep—”

Without warning the car began to move. “Where are we going?” Staley asked.

Whitbread’s Motie twittered. It sounded a little like a mockingbird whistle. “That’s the next city down the line...”

“They’ll have a roadblock. Or an armed party waiting for us,” Staley said. “How far is it?”

“Oh—fifty kilometers.”

“Take us halfway and stop,” Staley ordered.

“Yes, sir.” The Motie sounded even more like Whitbread. “They’ve underestimated you, Horst. That’s the only way I can explain this. I’ve never heard of a Warrior killed by anything but another Warrior. Or a Master, sometimes, not often. We fight the Warriors against each other. It’s how we keep their population down.”

“Ugh,” Whitbread muttered. “Why not just—not breed them?”

The Motie laughed. It was a peculiarly bitter laugh, very human, and very disturbing. “Didn’t any of you ever wonder what killed the Engineer aboard your ship?”

“Aye.” “Of course.” “Sure.” They all answered together. Charlie twittered something.