The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [83]
“So I’ve heard. He’s won more general fleet actions than any officer in the service, but Jesus, what a tough bastard.”
“Yes, sir.” Cargill studied his captain closely. They had been lieutenants together not long before, and it was easier to talk to Blaine than it would be with an older CO. “You’ve never been on St. Ekaterina, have you, Skipper?”
“No.”
“But we’ve got several crewmen from there. Lenin has more, of course. There’s an unholy high percentage of Katerinas in the Navy, Skipper. You know why?”
“Only vaguely.”
“They were settled by the Russian elements of the old CoDominium fleet,” Cargill said. “When the CD fleet pulled out of Sol System, the Russkis put their women and children on Ekaterina. In the Formation Wars they got hit bad. Then the Secession Wars started when Sauron hit St. Ekaterina without warning. It stayed loyal, but...”
“Like New Scotland,” Rod said.
Cargill nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. Imperial loyalist fanatics. With good reason, given their history. The only peace they’ve ever seen has been when the Empire’s strong.”
Rod nodded judiciously, then turned back to his screens. There was one way to make the Admiral happy. “Staley,” Blaine snapped. “Have Gunner Kelley order all Marines to search for the escaped Moties. They are to shoot on sight. Shoot to disable, if possible, but shoot. And have those ferrets turned loose in the galley area.”
21 The Ambassadors
As the Motie ship made its final approach, all details of its construction remained hidden by the flaring drive. MacArthur watched with screens up and charged. A hundred kilometers away, Lenin watched too.
“Battle stations, Mr. Staley,” Blaine ordered softly.
Staley grasped the large red handle which now pointed to Condition Two and moved it all the way clockwise. Alarms trilled, then a recorded trumpet sang “To Arms!,” rapid notes echoing through steel corridors.
“NOW HEAR THIS. NOW HEAR THIS. BATTLE STATIONS, BATTLE STATIONS. CONDITION RED ONE.”
Officers and crew rushed to action stations—gun crews, talkers, torpedomen, Marines. Shipfitters and cooks and storekeepers became damage-control men. Surgeon’s mates manned emergency aid stations throughout the ship—all quickly, all silently. Rod felt a burst of pride. Cziller had given him a taut ship, and by God they still were taut.
“COM ROOM REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE,” the bridge talker announced. The quartermaster’s mate third class said words given him by someone else, and all over the ship men rushed to obey, but he gave no orders of his own. He parroted words that would send MacArthur leaping across space, fire laser cannon and launch torpedoes, attack or withdraw, and he reported results that Blaine probably already knew from his screens and instruments. He took no initiative and never would, but through him the ship was commanded. He was an all-powerful mindless robot.
“GUNNERY STATIONS REPORT CONDITION RED ONE.”
“MARINE COMMANDER REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”
“Staley, have the Marines not on sentry duty continue the search for those missing aliens,” Blaine ordered.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“DAMAGE CONTROL REPORTS CONDITION RED ONE.”
The Motie ship decelerated toward MacArthur, the fusion flame of its drive a blaze on the battle cruiser’s screens. Rod watched nervously. “Sandy, how much of that drive could we take?”
“It’s nae too hot, Captain,” Sinclair reported through the intercom. “The Field can handle all of that for twenty minutes or more. And ‘tis nae focused, Skipper, there’d be nae hot spots.”
Blaine nodded. He’d reached the same conclusion, but it was wise to check when possible. He watched the light grow steadily.
“Peaceful enough,” Rod told Renner. “Even if it is a warship.”
“I’m not so sure it is one, Captain.” Renner seemed very much at ease. Even if the Motie should attack he’d be more a spectator than a participant. “At least they’ve aimed their drive