The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [160]
The demons had teeth, long and sharp, like true monsters from childhood books and half-forgotten legends.
Charlie twittered to Whitbread’s Motie. When there was no answer she twittered again, more shrill, and waved at the Brown. The Engineer approached the door and began to examine it closely. Whitbread’s Motie stood petrified, staring at the dead Warriors.
“Look out for booby traps!” Staley yelled. The Brown paid no attention and began to feel cautiously at the door.
“Watch out!”
“They will have traps, but the Brown will see them,” Charlie said very slowly. “I will tell her to be careful.” The voice was precise and had no accent at all.
“You can talk,” Staley said.
“Not well. It is difficult to think in your language.”
“What’s wrong with my Fyunch(click)?” Whitbread demanded.
Instead of answering, Charlie twittered again. The tones rose sharply. Whitbread’s Motie seemed to jerk and turned toward them.
“Sorry,” she said. “Those are my Master’s Warriors. Damn, damn, what am I doing?”
“Let’s get in there,” Staley said nervously. He raised his gun to cut through the side of the car. The Brown was still inspecting the door, very carefully, as if afraid of it.
“Allow me, sir.” Whitbread must have been kidding. He was holding a thick-handled short sword. Horst watched him cut a square doorway in the metal side of the subway car with one continuous smooth, slow sweep of the blade.
“It vibrates,” he said. “I think.”
A few smells got through their air filters. It must have been worse for the Moties, but they didn’t seem to mind. They crawled inside the second car.
“You better look these over,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She sounded much better now. “Know your enemy.” She twittered at the Brown, and it went to the controls of the car and examined them carefully, then sat in the driver’s seat. She had to toss a Warrior out to do it.
“Have a look under the left arm,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “That’s a second left arm, vestigial in most Mote subspecies. Only thing is, it’s all one nail, like a—” She thought for a moment. “A hoof. It’s a gutting knife. Plus enough muscle to swing it.”
Whitbread and Potter grimaced. At Staley’s direction they began to heave demon bodies out the hole in the side of the car. The Warriors were like twins of each other, all identical except for the cooked areas where the x-ray laser had swept through them. The feet were sheathed in sharp horn at toe and heel. One kick, backward or forward, and that would be all. The heads were small.
“Are they sentient?” Whitbread asked.
“By your standards, yes, but they aren’t very inventive,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She sounded like Whitbread reciting lessons to the First Lieutenant, her voice very precise but without feelings. “They can fix any weapon that ever worked, but they don’t tend to invent their own. Oh, and there’s a Doctor form, a hybrid between the real Doctor and the Warrior. Semisentient. You should be able to guess what they look like. You’d better have the Brown look at any weapons you keep—”
Without warning the car began to move. “Where are we going?” Staley asked.
Whitbread’s Motie twittered. It sounded a little like a mockingbird whistle. “That’s the next city down the line...”
“They’ll have a roadblock. Or an armed party waiting for us,” Staley said. “How far is it?”
“Oh—fifty kilometers.”
“Take us halfway and stop,” Staley ordered.
“Yes, sir.” The Motie sounded even more like Whitbread. “They’ve underestimated you, Horst. That’s the only way I can explain this. I’ve never heard of a Warrior killed by anything but another Warrior. Or a Master, sometimes, not often. We fight the Warriors against each other. It’s how we keep their population down.”
“Ugh,” Whitbread muttered. “Why not just—not breed them?”
The Motie laughed. It was a peculiarly bitter laugh, very human, and very disturbing. “Didn’t any of you ever wonder what killed the Engineer aboard your ship?”
“Aye.” “Of course.” “Sure.” They all answered together. Charlie twittered something.
“They may as well know,” Whitbread’s Motie