The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [135]
“It looked a mite peculiar too.”
“I bet. You see what they did, don’t you? The little bastards are redesigning MacArthur! The doors are still there, but the ships can go through them now. In an emergency you don’t even have to evacuate hangar deck.”
“I’ll tell the Captain,” Sinclair said. He turned to the intercom.
“Where the hell did they hide?” Cargill demanded. The engineering ratings who had pulled him out stared blankly. So did Sinclair. “Where? Where didn’t we look?”
His legs still felt cold. He massaged them. On the screen he could see Rod Blaine’s pained expression. Cargill struggled to his feet. As he did, alarms hooted through the ship.
“NOW HEAR THIS. INTRUDER ALERT. ALL COMBAT PERSONNEL WILL DON BATTLE ARMOR. MARINES REPORT TO HANGAR DECK WITH HAND WEAPONS AND BATTLE ARMOR.”
“The guns!” Cargill shouted.
“I beg your pardon?” Sinclair said. Blaine’s image focused on the First Lieutenant.
“The guns, Skipper! We did not look in the guns. Damn, I’m a bloody fool, did anyone think of the guns?”
“It may be,” Sinclair agreed. “Captain, I request that you send for the ferrets.”
“Too late, Chief,” Blaine said. “There’s a hole in their cage. I already checked.”
“God damn,” Cargill said. He said it reverently. “God damn them.” He turned to the armed Marines swarming onto hangar deck. “Follow me.” He was through treating the miniatures as escaped pets, or as vermin. As of now they were enemy boarders.
They rushed forward to the nearest turret. A startled rating jumped from his post as the First Lieutenant, Chief Engineer, and a squad of Marines in battle armor crammed into his control room.
Cargill stared at the instrument board. Everything seemed normal. He hesitated in real fear before he opened the inspection hatch.
The lenses and focus rings were gone from Number 3 Battery. The space inside was alive with Brownies. Cargill jumped back in horror—and a thread of laser pulse splashed against his battle armor. He cursed and snatched a tank of ciphogene from the nearest Marine and slammed it into the gap. It wasn’t necessary to open the stopcock.
The tank grew hot in his hand, and one laser beam winked through and past him. When the hissing died he was surrounded by yellow fog.
The space inside 3 Battery was thick with dead miniatures and filthy with bones. Skeletons of rats, bits of electronic gear, old boots—and dead Brownies.
“They kept a herd of rats in there,” Cargill shouted. “Then they must have outgrown the herd and eaten them all. They’ve been eating each other—”
“And the other batteries?” Sinclair said in wonder. “We’d best be hasty.”
There was a scream from the corridor outside. The Navy rating who’d been displaced from his post fell to the deck. A bright red stain appeared at his hip. “In the ventilator,” he shouted.
A Marine corporal tore at the grating. Smoke flashed from his battle armor and he jumped back. “Nipped me, by God!” He stared incredulously at a neat hole in his shoulder as three other Marines fired hand lasers at a rapidly vanishing shape. Somewhere else in the ship an alarm sounded.
Cargill grabbed an intercom. “Skipper—”
“I know,” Blaine said quickly. “Whatever you did has them stirred up all over the ship. There are a dozen fire fights going on right now.”
“My God, sir, what do we do?”
“Send your troops to Number 2 Battery to clean that out,” Blaine ordered. “Then get to damage control.” He turned to another screen. “Any other instructions, Admiral?”
The bridge was alive with activity. One of the armored helmsmen jumped from his seat and whirled rapidly.
“Over there!” he shouted. A Marine sentry pointed his Brownie-altered weapon helplessly.
“You are not in control of your vessel,” Kutuzov said flatly.
“No, sir.” It was the hardest thing Blaine had ever had to say.
“CASUALTIES IN CORRIDOR TWENTY,” the bridge talker announced.
“Scientist country,” Rod said. “Get all available Marines into that area and have them assist the civilians into pressure suits. Maybe we can gas the whole ship—”
“Captain Blaine.