The Mote in God's Eye

Yet, he thought, it was the only possible way. He had sworn the Oath on taking the Imperial commission. Humanity must be reunited into one government, by persuasion or by force, so that the hundreds of years of Secession Wars could never happen again. Every Imperial officer had seen what horrors those wars brought; that was why the academies were located on Earth instead of at the Capital.

As they neared the city he saw the first signs of battle. A ring of blasted lands, mined outlying fortresses, broken concrete rails of the transportation system; then the almost untouched city which had been secure within the perfect circle of its Langston Field. The city had taken minor damage, but once the Field was off, effective resistance had ceased. Only fanatics fought on against the Imperial Marines.

They passed over the ruins of a tall building crumpled over by a falling landing boat. Someone must have fired on the Marines and the pilot hadn’t wanted his death to be for nothing…

They circled the city, slowing to allow them to approach the landing docks without breaking out all the windows. The buildings were old, most built by hydrocarbon technology, Rod guessed, with strips torn out and replaced by more modem structures. Nothing remained of the First Empire city which had stood here.

When they dropped onto the port on top of Government House, Rod saw that slowing hadn’t been required. Most city windows were smashed already. Mobs milled in the streets, and the only moving vehicles were military convoys. Some people stood idly, others ran in and out of shops. Gray-coated Imperial Marines stood guard behind electrified riot fences around Government House. The flyer landed.

Blaine was rushed down the elevator to the Governor General’s floor. There wasn’t a woman in the building, although Imperial government offices usually bristled with them, and Rod missed the girls. He’d been in space a long time. He gave his name to the ramrod-straight Marine at the receptionist’s desk and waited.

He wasn’t looking forward to the coming interview, and spent the time glaring at blank walls. All the decorative paintings, the three-d star map with Imperial banners floating above the provinces, all the standard equipment of a governor general’s office on a Class One planet, were gone, leaving ugly places on the walls.

The guard motioned him into the office. Admiral Sir Vladimir Richard George Plekhanov, Vice Admiral of the Black, Knight of St. Michael and St. George, was seated at the Governor General’s desk. There was no sign of His Excellency Mr. Haruna, and for a moment Rod thought the Admiral was alone. Then he noticed Captain Cziller, his immediate superior as master of MacArthur, standing by the window. All the transparencies had been knocked out, and there were deep scratches in the paneled walls. The displays and furniture were gone. Even the Great Seal—crown and spaceship, eagle, sickle and hammer—was missing from above the duralplast desk. There had never in Rod’s memory been a duralplast desk in a governor general’s office.

“Commander Blaine reporting as ordered, sir.”

Plekhanov absently returned the salute. Cziller didn’t look around from the window. Rod stood at stiff attention while the Admiral regarded him with an unchanging expression. Finally: “Good morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Not really. I suppose I haven’t seen you since I last visited Crucis Court. How is the Marquis?”

“Well when I was last home, sir.”

The Admiral nodded and continued to regard Blaine with a critical look. He hasn’t changed, Rod thought. An enormously competent man, who fought a tendency to fat by exercising in high gravity. The Navy sent Plekhanov when hard fighting was expected. He’s never been known to excuse an incompetent officer, and there was a gunroom rumor that he’d had the Crown Prince—now Emperor—stretched over a mess table and whacked with a spatball paddle back when His Highness was serving as a midshipman in Plataea.

“I have your report here, Blaine. You had to fight your way to the rebel Field generator. You lost a company of Imperial Marines.”

“Yes, sir.” Fanatic rebel guardsmen had defended the generator station, and the battle had been fierce.

“And just what the devil were you doing in a ground action?” the Admiral demanded. “Cziller gave you that captured cruiser to escort our assault carrier. Did you have orders to go down with the boats?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose you think the aristocracy isn’t subject to Navy discipline?”

“Of course I don’t think that, sir.”

Plekhanov ignored him. “Then there’s this deal you made with a rebel leader. What was his name?” Plekhanov glanced at the papers. “Stone. Jonas Stone. Immunity from arrest. Restoration of property. Damn you, do you imagine that every naval officer has authority to make deals with subjects in rebellion? Or do you hold some diplomatic commission I’m not aware of, Commander?”