The Mote in God's Eye

Bruno Cziller turned from the window. Rod was startled: Cziller no longer wore the little silver replica of MacArthur that showed him to be her master. Instead the comet and sunburst of the Naval Staff shone on his breast, and Cziller wore the broad stripes of a brevet admiral.

“How are you, Commander?” Cziller asked formally. Then grinned. That twisted lopsided grin was famous through MacArthur. “You’re looking all right. At least from the right profile you do. Well, you were aboard an hour. What damage did you find?”

Confused, Rod reported the present condition of MacArthur as he’d found her, and the repairs he’d ordered. Cziller nodded and asked questions. Finally: “And you conclude she’s ready for space, but not war. Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. Not against a capital ship, anyway.”

“It’s true, too. Admiral, my recommendation. Commander Blaine is ready for promotion and we can give him MacArthur to take for refit to New Scotland, then on to the Capital. He can take Senator Fowler’s niece with him.”

Give him MacArthur? Rod heard him dimly, wonderingly. He was afraid to believe it, but here was the chance to show Plekhanov and everyone else.

“He’s young. Never be allowed to keep that ship as a first command,” Plekhanov said. “Still and all, it’s probably the best way. He can’t get in too much trouble going to Sparta by way of New Caledonia. She’s yours, Captain.” When Rod said nothing, Plekhanov barked at him. “You. Blaine. You’re promoted to captain and command of MacArthur. My writer will have your orders in half an hour.”

Cziller grinned one-sided. “Say something,” he suggested.

“Thank you, sir. I— I thought you didn’t approve of me.”

“Not sure I do,” Plekhanov said. “If I had any choice you’d be somebody’s exec. You’ll probably make a good marquis, but you don’t have the Navy temperament. I don’t suppose it matters, the Navy’s not your career anyway.”

“Not any more, sir,” Rod said carefully.

It still hurt inside. Big George, who filled a room with barbells when he was twelve and was built like a wedge before he was sixteen—his brother George was dead in a battle halfway across the Empire. Rod would be planning his future, or thinking wistfully about home, and the memory would come as if someone had pricked his soul with a needle. Dead. George?

George should have inherited the estates and titles. Rod had wanted nothing more than a Navy career and the chance to become Grand Admiral someday. Now less than ten years and he’d have to take his place in Parliament.

“You’ll have two passengers,” Cziller said. “One you’ve met. You do know Lady Sandra Bright Fowler, don’t you? Senator Fowler’s niece.”

“Yes, sir. I hadn’t seen her for years, but her uncle dines at Crucis Court quite often… then I found her in the prison camp. How is she?”

“Not very good,” Cziller said. His grin vanished. “We’re packing her home, and I don’t have to tell you to handle with care. She’ll be with you as far as New Scotland, and all the way to the Capital if she wants. That’s up to her. Your other passenger, though, that’s a different matter.”

Rod looked up attentively. Cziller looked to Plekhanov, got a nod, and continued, “His Excellency, Trader Horace Hussein Bury, Magnate, Chairman of the Board of Imperial Autonetics, and something big in the Imperial Traders Association. He stays with you all the way to Sparta, and I mean he stays aboard your ship, do you understand?”

“Well, not exactly, sir,” Rod answered.

Plekhanov sniffed. “Cziller made it clear enough. We think Bury was behind this rebellion, but there’s not enough evidence to put him in preventive detention. He’d appeal to the Emperor. All right, we’ll send him to Sparta to make his appeal. As the Navy’s guest. But who do I send him with, Blaine? He’s worth millions. More. How many men would turn down a whole planet for a bribe? Bury could offer one.”

“I—yes, sir,” Rod said.

“And don’t look so damned shocked,” Plekhanov barked. “I haven’t accused any of my officers of corruption. But the fact is, you’re richer than Bury. He can’t even tempt you. It’s my main reason for giving you command of MacArthur, so I don’t have to worry about our wealthy friend.”

“I see. Thank you anyway, sir.” And I will show you it was no mistake.

Plekhanov nodded as if reading Blaine’s thoughts. “You might make a good Navy officer. Here’s your chance. I need Cziller to help govern this planet. The rebels killed the Governor General.”

“Killed Mr. Haruna?” Rod was stunned. He remembered the wrinkled old gentleman; well over a hundred when he came to Rod’s home— “He’s an old friend of my father’s.”

“He wasn’t the only one they killed. They had the heads strung up on pikes outside Government House. Somebody thought that’d make the people fight on longer. Make ‘em afraid to surrender to us. Well, they have reason to be afraid now. Your deal with Stone. Any other conditions?”