The Mote in God's Eye (74 page)

Stone was still on New Chicago, but whatever he had told Naval Intelligence was important enough to be put on a message sloop. Nabil’s informant didn’t know what the rebel leader had said, but Bury did, as surely as if he could read the coded tapes. The message would be brief, and it would contain death by hanging for Horace Bury.

So this is the end of it all.
The Empire acts swiftly against treason: a few days, a few weeks. No more. There is no chance to escape. The Marines are polite, but very alert. They have been warned, and there are many of them, too many. One might accept a bribe, but not when his comrades are watching.

As Allah wills. But it is a pity. Had I not been so concerned with the aliens, had I not done the Empire’s work with the Traders, I would long since have escaped. Levant is large. But I would have had to leave New Scotland, and it is here the decisions will be made—what point to escape when the aliens may destroy us all?

The Marine Sergeant conducted him to an ornate conference room and held open the door until Bury went inside. Then, incredibly, the guards retired. There were only two men in the room with him.

“Good morning, my lord,” Bury said to Rod Blaine. His words were even and smooth, but his mouth felt dry, and there was a sharp taste in the back of his throat as he bowed to the other man. “I have not been introduced to Senator Fowler, but of course his face is known to everyone in the Empire. Good morning, Senator.”

Fowler nodded without rising from his seat at the big conference table. “Good morning, Excellency. Good of you to come. Have a seat, won’t you?” He waved to a place opposite his.

“Thank you.” Bury took the indicated chair. Then more astonishment, as Blaine brought coffee. Bury sniffed carefully and recognized it as a blend he had sent to the Palace chef for Blaine’s use.

In the Name of Allah.
They are playing games with me, but to what end? He felt rage mingled with fear, but no hope at all. And a wild, bubbling laugh rose in his throat.

“Just so we know where we stand, Excellency,” Fowler said. He waved, and Blaine activated a wall screen. The bulky features of Jonas Stone loomed out into the ornately paneled room. There was sweat on the brow and along the cheekbones, and Stone’s voice alternately boomed and pleaded.

Bury listened impassively, his lip curled in contempt for Stone’s weakness. There was no doubt at all: the Navy had more than enough evidence to send him to a traitor’s death. Still the smile did not fade from Bury lips. He would give them no satisfaction. He would not plead.

Eventually the tape ended. Fowler waved again and the rebel leader’s image vanished. “Nobody’s seen that but the three of us, Excellency,” Fowler said carefully.

But no.
What do they want? Is there hope after all?

“I don’t know that it needs discussing,” the Senator continued. “Me, I’d rather talk about Moties.”

“Ah,” said Bury. The tiny sound almost stuck in his throat. And do you wish to deal, or do you taunt me with the final horror? He swallowed coffee to moisten his tongue before he spoke. “I am sure that the Senator is aware of my views. I consider Moties the greatest threat humans have ever faced.” He looked at the two men opposite him, but there was nothing to be read in their faces.

“We agree,” Blaine said.

Quickly, while hope rose in Bury’s eyes, Fowler added, “There’s not much question about it. They’re locked into a permanent state of population explosion followed by total war. If they ever get out of their system— Bury, they’ve got a soldier subspecies that puts the Saurons to shame. Hell, you’ve seen them.”

Blaine did things to his pocket computer and another picture appeared: the time-machine sculpture.

“Those? But my Motie said they—” Bury stopped himself in realization. Then he laughed: the laugh of a man who has nothing more to lose. “
My
Motie.”

“Precisely.” The Senator smiled faintly. “I can’t say we have much trust in your Motie. Bury, even if it were only the miniatures that got loose, we could lose whole worlds. They breed like bacteria. Nothing big enough to see breeds like that. But you know.”

“Yes.” Bury gathered himself with difficulty. His face smoothed, but behind his eyes was a myriad of glittering tiny eyes. Splendor of Allah, I almost brought them out myself! Praise and glory to the One who is merciful...

“Dammit, stop shivering,” Fowler commanded.

“My apologies. You will doubtless have heard of my encounter with miniatures.” He glanced at Blaine and envied his external calm. Miniatures could be no less unpleasant to the commander of
MacArthur
. “I am pleased to hear that the Empire recognizes the dangers.”

“Yeah. We’re going to blockade the Moties. Bottle ‘em up in their own system.”

“Would it not be better to exterminate them while we can?” Bury asked quietly. The voice was calm, but his dark eyes blazed.

“How?”

Bury nodded. “There would be political difficulties, of course. But I could find men to take an expedition to Mote Prime, and given the proper orders—”

Fowler gestured dismissal. “I’ve got my own
agents provocateurs
if I need ‘em.”

“Mine would be considerably less valuable.” Bury looked pointedly at Blaine.

“Yeah.” Fowler said nothing more for a moment, and Blaine stiffened visibly. Then the Senator continued: “Better or worse, Trader, we’ve decided on the blockade. Government’s shaky enough without being accused of genocide. Besides, I don’t know as I like the idea of unprovoked attack on intelligent beings. We’ll do it this way.”

“But the threat!” Bury leaned forward, unmindful of the fanatical gleam in his eyes. He knew he was close to madness, but he no longer cared. “Do you think you have locked the djinn away because the cork is back in the bottle? What if another another generation does not see the Moties as we do? What if they let the djinn loose again? Glory of Allah! Picture swarms of their ships. They pour into the Empire, each commanded by things that looked like
that
and think like Admiral Kutuzov! Specialized Warriors more than the equals of Sauron Death’s-heads! And you will let them live? I tell you they must be destroyed...”

No!
Men are never persuaded simply because they must believe. They will not listen when— Visibly he relaxed. “I see that you have decided. How may I be of assistance?” Or do you wish anything of me at all?
Is
this a game?

“I think you already have,” Blaine said. He lifted his coffee and sipped. “And I thank you for the gift.”

“Blockade’s about the most expensive kind of naval action there is,” Fowler mused. “Never very popular either.”

“Ah.” Bury felt the tension die within him. They held his life, but they needed him—perhaps he could keep far more than his life. “You are concerned about the Imperial Traders’ Association.”

“Exactly.” There was no reading Fowler’s expression.

Relief. For this I will build a mosque. It would make my father gloriously happy, and who knows? Perhaps Allah exists after all. That bubbling laugh was still there in his throat, but he knew that if he began he would never stop. “I have already pointed out to my colleagues the disadvantages of unrestricted trade with Moties. I have my share of success, although too many traders are like the neighbor who followed Aladdin into the magician’s cave. Incalculable wealth glitters more brightly than the dangers.”

“Yeah. But can you hold ‘em? Find out who intends to sabotage us and squash their schemes?”

Bury shrugged. “With some assistance. It will be very expensive. I assume I will have the use of secret funds...”

Fowler grinned evilly. “Rod, what else was it Stone said? Something about—”

“It will not be necessary to bring up that man’s ravings,” Bury protested. “I believe I have sufficient wealth.” He shuddered. What would he have when this was done? Fowler wouldn’t care if he bled Bury to death. “If there is something that requires resources beyond mine—”

“We’ll discuss it then,” Fowler said. 
“There will be, too. For instance, this blockade’s going to suck up a lot of resources Merrill thought he’d have for the unification of Trans-Coalsack. Now it seems to me a smart Trader might just have a few contacts among the rebels. Might even be able to persuade ‘em to our point of view. I don’t know how that would work, of course.”

“I see.”

Fowler nodded. “Thought you might. Rod, take that tape and see it’s put in a good safe place, will you? I  doubt if we’ll be needing it again.”

“Yes, sir.” Rod did things to his pocket computer. The machine hummed: a tiny whine that signaled a new kind of life for Horace Bury.

There will be no evasions, Bury thought. Fowler will accept only results, not excuses; and my life will be at stake in this game. It will not be easy to be this man’s political agent. Yet what choice is there? On Levant I could only wait in fear. At least this way I will know how they are dealing with the Moties . . . and perhaps change their policies as well.

“One more thing,” the senator said. He gestured and Rod Blaine went to the office door. Kevin Renner entered.

It was the first time any of them had seen the Sailing Master in civilian clothing. Renner had chosen bright plaid trousers and an even brighter tunic. His sash was some silklike material that looked natural but probably was synthetic. Soft boots, jewelry; in short, he looked like most of Bury’s successful merchant captains. Trader and shipmaster eyed each other wonderingly.

“Yes, sir?” Renner asked.

“Bit premature, aren’t you, Kevin?” Rod asked. “Your discharge isn’t effective until this afternoon.”

Renner grinned. “Didn’t think the Provost would mind. And it sure feels good. Morning, Excellency.”

“You know Trader Bury, then,” Fowler said. “Good enough, since you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Uh?” Renner’s face took on a wary look.

“The Senator means,” Rod explained, “that he’d like to ask you a favor. Kevin, do you recall the terms of your enlistmnent?”

“Sure.”

“Four years, or the duration of a Class One Imperial emergency, or the duration of a formal war,” Rod said. “Oh, by the way, the Senator has declared the Motie situation a Class One emergency.”

“Now wait a minute!” Renner shouted. “You can’t do that to me!”

“Yes, I can,” said Fowler.

Renner sagged into a chair. “Oh, my God. Well, you are the expert.”

“Haven’t made it public yet,” Senator Fowler said. “Wouldn’t want to panic anybody. But you’ve been officially notified now.” Fowler waited for that to sink in. “Of course, we might have an alternative for you.”

“Bless you.”

“Bitter, aren’t you?” Rod said. He was cheerful. Renner hated him.

“You did us a good piece of work, Renner,” Fowler said. “Empire’s grateful.
I’m
grateful. You know, I brought a hatful of blank Imperial patents when I came out . . . how’d you like to be a baron come next Birthday?”

“Oh, no! Not me! I’ve put in my time!”

“But surely you’d find the privileges enjoyable,” Rod said.

“Damn! So I should have waited until morning to bring the Senator to your room. I
knew
I should have waited. No, sir, you’ll not make any aristocrat out of Kevin Renner! I’ve got too much of the universe to explore! I don’t have time for all the work...”

“It might spoil your carefree life,” Senator Fowler said. “Anyway, it wouldn’t be so easy to arrange. Jealousy and such. But you’re too useful, Mr. Renner, and there is the Class One emergency.”

“But—but...”

“Civilian ship captain,” Fowler said. “With a knighthood. And an understanding of the Motie problem. Yep, you’re just what we need.”

“I haven’t got any knighthood.”

“You will. You can’t turn
that
down. Mr. Bury’ll insist that his personal pilot have at least the St. Michael and St. George. Won’t you, Excellency?”

Bury winced. It was inevitable that the Empire would assign men to watch him, and they would want a man who could talk to the merchant captains. But this—harlequin? Beard of the Prophet, the man would be intolerable! Horace sighed to the inevitable. At least he was an intelligent harlequin. Perhaps he would even be useful. “I think Sir Kevin would be an admirable man to command my personal ship,” Bury said smoothly. There was only a trace of distaste in the voice. “Welcome to Imperial Autonetics, Sir Kevin.”

“But—” Renner looked around the room for help, but there wasn
’t any. Rod Blaine was holding a paper—what was it? Renner’s discharge! As Kevin watched, Blaine tore the document to shreds.

“All right, dammit!” Renner could see no mercy from
them
. “But as a civilian!”

“Oh, sure,” Fowler agreed. “Well, you’ll hold a commission in Naval Intelligence, but it won’t show.”

“God’s navel.” The phrase gave Bury a start. Renner grinned. “What’s the matter, Excellency? God doesn’t have a navel?”

“I foresee interesting times,” Bury said slowly. “For both of us.”

Bright sunlight sparkled on the Palace roof. Fleecy, impossibly white clouds scudded overhead, but there was only a gentle breeze across the landing deck. The sunlight felt very warm and pleasant.

An admiral and two captains stood at the entryway to a landing boat. They faced a small group of civilians, three aliens wearing dark goggles, and four armed Marines. The Admiral carefully ignored the Moties and their escort as he bowed to the civilians. “Your pardon, my lady. My lord. It appears I will not be present at wedding after all. Not that I will be missed, but I regret taking your friends so soon.” He indicated the two captains and bowed again. “I leave them to make farewells.”