The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [139]
He was looking directly at the space-suited figure behind him. It had no baggage, and it was overtaking Bury because it had both hands free. The light from Lenin was shining on its faceplate. As Bury watched, the figure’s head shifted slightly and the light shone right into the faceplate.
Bury saw at least three pairs of eyes staring back at him. He glimpsed the tiny faces.
It seemed to Bury, later, that he had never thought so fast in his life. For a heartbeat he stared at the thing coming up on him while his mind raced, and then— But the men who heard his scream said that it was the shriek of a madman, or a man being flayed alive.
Then Bury flung his suitcase at it.
He put words into his next scream. “They’re in the suit! They’re inside it!” He was wrenching at his back now, ripping the air tank loose. He poised the cylinder over his head, in both hands, and pitched it.
The pressure suit dodged his suitcase, clumsily. A pair of miniatures in the arms, trying to maneuver the fingers . . . it lost its hand hold, tried to pull itself back. The metal cylinder took it straight in the faceplate and shattered it.
Then space was filled with tiny struggling figures, flailing six limbs as a ghostly puff of air carried them away. Something else went with them, something football shaped, something Bury had the knowledge to recognize. That was how they had fooled the officer at the air locks. A severed human head.
Bury discovered he was floating three meters from the line. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Good: he’d thrown the right air tank. Allah was merciful.
He waited until a man-shaped thing came out of Lenin’s boat on backpack jets and took him in tow. The touch made him flinch. Perhaps the man wondered why Bury peered so intently into his faceplate. Perhaps not.
31 Defeat
MacArthur lurched suddenly. Rod clawed at the intercom and shouted, “Chief Sinclair! What are you doing, Chief?”
The reply was barely audible. “‘Tis nae my doin’, Captain. I hae nae control o’ the altitude jets, and precious little o’ anything else.”
“Oh, Lord God,” Blaine said. Sinclair’s image faded from the screens. Other screens faded. Suddenly the bridge was dead. Rod tried alternate circuits. Nothing.
“Computer inactivated,” Crawford reported. “I get nothing at all.”
“Try the direct wire. Get me Cargill,” Rod told his talker.
“I have him, Captain.”
“Jack, what’s the situation back there?”
“Bad, Skipper. I’m beseiged in here, and I don’t have communications except for direct wires—not all of them.”
MacArthur lurched again as something happened aft. “Captain!” Cargill reported excitedly. “Lieutenant Piper reports the Brownies are fighting each other in the main crew kitchen! Real pitched battle!”
“Jesus, Number One, how many of those monsters do we have aboard?”
“Skipper, I don’t know! Hundreds, maybe. They must have hollowed out every gun on the ship, and they’ve spread to everywhere else too. They’re—” Cargill’s voice cut off.
“Jack!” Rod shouted. “Talker, have we got an alternate line to the First Lieutenant?”
Before the Quartermaster’s Mate could answer, Cargill came on the line again. “Close one, Skipper. Two armed miniatures came out of the auxiliary fire-control computer. We killed ‘em.”
Blaine thought furiously. He was losing all his command circuits, and he didn’t know how many men he had left. The computer was bewitched. Even if they did regain possession of MacArthur there was a good chance she couldn’t be made spaceworthy again. “You still on, Number One?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going down to the air lock to talk to the Admiral. If I don’t call you in fifteen minutes, abandon ship. Fifteen minutes, Jack. Mark.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And you can start rounding up the crew now. Port side only, Jack—that is, if she stays oriented where she is. The lock officers have orders to close the holes in the Field if she shifts.”
Rod motioned to his bridge crew and began working his way toward the air locks. The corridors were in confusion. Yellow clouds filled several—ciphogene. He’d had hopes for ending the