The Mote in God's Eye

As Allah wills, he sighed, and wondered that he no longer resented the thought. Perhaps there would be comfort in submission… there was little else to console him. The Marines had brought his servant and all his baggage down on the landing ship, and then separated him from Nabil at the Palace roof. Before they did, Nabil had whispered his message: Jonas Stone’s confession was even now reaching the Palace.

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.