Mote in Gods Eye doc

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LARRY NIVEN

JERRY POURNELLE

THE MOTE IN GOD'S EYE

Prologue

"Throughout the past thousand years of history it has been

traditional to regard the Alderson Drive as an unmixed blessing.

Without the faster than light travel Alderson's discoveries made

possible, humanity would have been trapped in the tiny prison of

the Solar System when the Great Patriotic Wars destroyed the

CoDominium on Earth. Instead, we had already settled more than

two hundred worlds.

"A blessing, yes. We might now be extinct were it not for the

Alderson Drive. But unmixed? Consider. The same tramline effect

that colonized the stars, the same interstellar contacts that allowed

the formation of the First Empire, allow interstellar war. The worlds

wrecked in two hundred years of Secession Wars were both settled

and destroyed by ships using the Alderson Drive.

"Because of the Alderson Drive we need never consider the

space between the stars. Because we can shunt between stellar

systems in zero time, our ships and ships' drives need cover only

interplanetary distances. We say that the Second Empire of Man

rules two hundred worlds and all the space between, over fifteen

million cubic parsecs.

"Consider the true picture. Think of myriads of tiny bubbles,

very sparsely scattered, rising through a vast black sea. We rule

some of the bubbles. Of the waters we know nothing. .

-from a speech delivered by Dr. Anthony Horvath at the Blaine

Institute, A.D. 3029.

A.D. 3017

THE CRAZY EDDIE PROBE

1Command

"Admiral's compliments, and you're to come to his office right

away," Midshipman Staley announced.

Commander Roderick Blaine looked frantically around the

bridge, where his officers were directing repairs with low and urgent

voices, surgeons assisting at a difficult operation. The gray steel

compartment was a confusion of activities, each orderly by itself,

but the overall impression was of chaos. Screens above one

helmsman's station showed the planet below and the other ships in

orbit near MacArthur, but everywhere else the panel covers had

been removed from consoles, test instruments were clipped into

their insides, and technicians stood by with color-coded electronic

assemblies to replace everything that seemed doubtful. Thumps

and whines sounded through the ship as somewhere aft the

engineering crew worked on the hull.

The scars of battle showed everywhere, ugly burns where the

ship's protective Langston Field had overloaded momentarily. An

irregular hole larger than a man's fist was burned completely

through one console, and now two technicians seemed permanently

installed in the system by a web of cables. Rod Blaine looked at the

black stains that had spread across his battle dress. A whiff of

metal vapor and burned meat was still in his nostrils, or in his brain,

and again he saw fire and molten metal erupt from the hull and

wash across his left side. His left arm was still bound across his

chest by an elastic bandage, and he could follow most of the

previous week's activities by the stains it carried.

And I've only been aboard an hour! he thought. With the

Captain ashore, and everything a mess, I can't leave now! He

turned to the midshipman. "Right away?"

"Yes, sir. The signal's marked urgent."

Nothing for it, then, and Rod would catch hell when the

Captain came back aboard. First Lieutenant Cargill and Engineer

Sinclair were competent men, but Rod was Exec and damage

control was his responsibility, even if he'd been away from

MacArthur when she took most of the hits.

Rod's Marine orderly coughed discreetly and pointed to the

stained uniform. "Sir, we've time to get you more decent?"

"Good thinking." Rod glanced at the status board to be sure.

Yes, he had half an hour before he could take a boat down to the

planet's surface. Leaving sooner wouldn't get him to the Admiral's

office any quicker. It would be a relief to get out of these coveralls.

He hadn't undressed since he was wounded.

They had to send for a surgeon's mate to undress him. The

medic snipped at the armor cloth embedded in his left arm and

muttered. "Hold still, sir. That arm's cooked good." His voice was

disapproving. "You should have been in sick bay a week ago."

"Hardly possible," Rod answered. A week before, MacArthur

had been in battle with a rebel warship, who'd scored more hits

than she ought to have before surrendering. After the victory Rod

was prize master in the enemy vessel, and there weren't facilities

for proper treatment there. As the armor came away he smelled

something worse than week-old sweat. Touch of gangrene, maybe.

"Yessir." A few more threads were cut away. The synthetic

was as tough as steel. "Now it's gonna take surgery, Commander.

Got to cut all that away before the regeneration stimulators can

work. While we got you in sick bay we can fix that nose."

"I like my nose," Rod told him coldly. He fingered the slightly

crooked appendage and recalled the battle when it was broken. Rod

thought it made him look older, no bad thing at twenty-four

standard years; and it was the badge of an earned, not inherited,

success. Rod was proud of his family background, but there were

times when the Blaine reputation was a bit hard to live up to.

Eventually the armor was cut loose and his arm smeared with

Numbitol. The stewards helped him into a powder blue uniform, red

sash, gold braid, epaulettes; all wrinkled and crushed, but better

than monofiber coveralls. The stiff jacket hurt his arm despite the

anesthetic until he found that he could rest his forearm on the

pistol butt.

When he was dressed he boarded the landing gig from

MacArthur's hangar deck, and the coxswain let the boat drop

through the big flight elevator doors without having the spin taken

off the ship. It was a dangerous maneuver, but it saved time.

Retros fired, and the little winged flyer plunged into atmosphere.

NEW CHICAGO: Inhabited world, Trans-Coalsack Sector,

approximately 20 parsecs from Sector Capital. The primary is an F9

yellow star commonly referred to as Beta Hortensis.

The atmosphere is very nearly Earth-normal and breathable

without aids or filters. Gravity is 1.08 standard. The planetary

radius is 1.05, and mass is 1.21 Earth-standard, indicating a planet

of greater than normal density. New Chicago is inclined at 41

degrees with a semi-major axis of 1.06 AU, moderately eccentric.

The resulting variations in seasonal temperatures have confined the

inhabited areas to a relatively narrow band in the south temperate

zone.There is one moon at normal distance, commonly called

Evanston. The origin of the name is obscure.

New Chicago is 70 percent seas. Land area is mostly

mountainous with continuing volcanic activity. The extensive metal

industries of the First Empire period were nearly all destroyed in the

Succession Wars; reconstruction of an industrial base has

proceeded satisfactorily since New Chicago was admitted to the

Second Empire in AD. 2940. Most inhabitants reside in a single city

which bears the same name as the planet. Other population centers

are widely scattered, with none having a population over 45,000.

Total planet population was reported as 6.7 million in the census of

2990. There are iron mining and smelting towns in the mountains,

and extensive agricultural settlements. The planet is self-sufficient

in foodstuffs.

New Chicago possesses a growing merchant fleet, and is

located at a convenient point to serve as a center of TransCoalsack

interstellar trade. It is governed by a governor general and a council

appointed by the Viceroy of TransCoalsack Sector, there is an

elected assembly, and two delegates have been admitted to the

Imperial Parliament.

Rod Blaine scowled at the words flowing across the screen of

his pocket computer. The physical data were current, but

everything else was obsolete. The rebels had changed even the

name of their world, from New Chicago to Dame Liberty. Her

government would have to be built all over again. Certainly she'd

lose her delegates; she might even lose the right to an elected

assembly.

He put the instrument away and looked down. They were over

mountainous country, and he saw no signs of war. There hadn't

been any area bombardments, thank God.

It happened sometimes: a city fortress would hold out with

the aid of satellite-based planetary defenses. The Navy had no time

for prolonged sieges. Imperial policy was to finish rebellions at the

lowest possible cost in lives-but to finish them. A holdout rebel

planet might be reduced to glittering lava fields, with nothing

surviving but a few cities lidded by the black domes of Langston

Fields; and what then? There weren't enough ships to transport

food across interstellar distances. Plague and famine would follow.

Yet, he thought, it was the only possible way. He had sworn the

Oath on taking the Imperial commission. Humanity must be

reunited into one government, by persuasion or by force, so that

the hundreds of years of Secession Wars could never happen

again. Every Imperial officer had seen what horrors those wars

brought; that was why the academies were located on Earth

instead of at the Capital.

As they neared the city he saw the first signs of battle. A ring

of blasted lands, mined outlying fortresses, broken concrete rails of

the transportation system; then the almost untouched city which

had been secure within the perfect circle of its Langston Field. The

city had taken minor damage, but once the Field was off, effective

resistance had ceased. Only fanatics fought on against the Imperial

Marines.

They passed over the ruins of a tall building crumpled over by

a falling landing boat. Someone must have fired on the Marines and

the pilot hadn't wanted his death to be for nothing...

They circled the city, slowing to allow them to approach the

landing docks without breaking out all the windows. The buildings

were old, most built by hydrocarbon technology, Rod guessed, with

strips torn out and replaced by more modem structures. Nothing

remained of the First Empire city which had stood here.

When they dropped onto the port on top of Government

House, Rod saw that slowing hadn't been required. Most city

windows were smashed already. Mobs milled in the streets, and the

only moving vehicles were military convoys. Some people stood idly,

others ran in and out of shops. Gray-coated Imperial Marines stood

guard behind electrified riot fences around Government House. The

flyer landed.

Blaine was rushed down the elevator to the Governor

General's floor. There wasn't a woman in the building, although

Imperial government offices usually bristled with them, and Rod

missed the girls. He'd been in space a long time. He gave his name

to the ramrod-straight Marine at the receptionist's desk and

waited.

He wasn't looking forward to the coming interview, and spent

the time glaring at blank walls. All the decorative paintings, the

three-d star map with Imperial banners floating above the

provinces, all the standard equipment of a governor general's office

on a Class One planet, were gone, leaving ugly places on the walls.

The guard motioned him into the office. Admiral Sir Vladimir

Richard George Plekhanov, Vice Admiral of the Black, Knight of St.

Michael and St. George, was seated at the Governor General's

desk. There was no sign of His Excellency Mr. Haruna, and for a

moment Rod thought the Admiral was alone. Then he noticed

Captain Cziller, his immediate superior as master of MacArthur,

standing by the window. All the transparencies had been knocked

out, and there were deep scratches in the paneled walls. The

displays and furniture were gone. Even the Great Seal crown and

spaceship, eagle, sickle and hammer-was missing from above the

duralplast desk. There had never in Rod's memory been a

duralplast desk in a governor general's office.

"Commander Blaine reporting as ordered, sir."

Plekhanov absently returned the salute. Cziller didn't look

around from the window. Rod stood at stiff attention while the

Admiral regarded him with an unchanging expression. Finally:

"Good morning, Commander."

"Good morning, sir."

"Not really. I suppose I haven't seen you since I last visited

Crucis Court. How is the Marquis?"

"Well when I was last home, sir."

The Admiral nodded and continued to regard Blaine with a

critical look. He hasn't changed, Rod thought. An enormously

competent man, who fought a tendency to fat by exercising in high

gravity. The Navy sent Plekhanov when hard fighting was expected.

He's never been known to excuse an incompetent officer, and there

was a gunroom rumor that he'd had the Crown Prince-now

Emperor-stretched over a mess table and whacked with a spatball

paddle back when His Highness was serving as a midshipman in

Plataea.

"I have your report here, Blaine. You had to fight your way to

the rebel Field generator. You lost a company of Imperial Marines."

"Yes, sir." Fanatic rebel guardsmen had defended the

generator station, and the battle had been fierce.

"And just what the devil were you doing in a ground action?"

the Admiral demanded. "Cziller gave you that captured cruiser to

escort our assault carrier. Did you have orders to go down with the

boats?"

"No, sir."

"I suppose you think the aristocracy isn't subject to Navy

discipline?"

"Of course I don't think that, sir."

Plekhanov ignored him. "Then there's this deal you made with

a rebel leader. What was his name?" Plekhanov glanced at the

papers. "Stone. Jonas Stone. Immunity from arrest. Restoration of

property. Damn you, do you imagine that every naval officer has

authority to make deals with subjects in rebellion? Or do you hold

some diplomatic commission I'm not aware of, Commander?"

"No, sir." Rod's lips were pressed tightly against his teeth. He

wanted to shout, but he didn't. To hell with Navy tradition, he

thought. I won the damned war.

"But you do have an explanation?" the Admiral demanded.

"Yes, sir."

"Well?"

Rod spoke through tightening throat muscles. "Sir. While

commanding the prize Defiant, I received a signal from the rebel

city. At that time the city's Langston Field was intact, Captain Cziller

aboard MacArthur was fully engaged with the satellite planetary

defenses, and the main body of the fleet was in general

engagement with rebel forces. The message was signed by a rebel

leader. Mr. Stone promised to admit Imperial forces into the city on

condition that he obtain full immunity from prosecution and

restoration of his personal property. He gave a time limit of one

hour, and insisted on a member of the aristocracy as guarantor. If

there were anything to his offer, the war would end once the

Marines entered the city's Field generator house. There being no

possibility of consultation with higher authority, I took the landing

force down myself and gave Mr. Stone my personal word of honor."

Plekhanov frowned. "Your word. As Lord Blaine. Not as a Navy

officer."

"It was the only way he'd discuss it, Admiral."

"I see." Plekhanov was thoughtful now. If he disavowed

Blaine's word, Rod would be through, in the Navy, in government,

everywhere. On the other hand, Admiral Piekhanov would have to

explain to the House of Peers. "What made you think this offer was

genuine?"

"Sir, it was in Imperial code and countersigned by a Navy

intelligence officer."

"So you risked your ship-"

"Against the chance of ending the war without destroying the

planet. Yes, sir. I might point out that Mr. Stone's message

described the city prison camp where they were keeping the

Imperial officers and citizens."

"I see." Plekhanov's hands moved in a sudden angry gesture.

"All right. I've no use for traitors, even one who helps us. But I'll

honor your bargain, and that means I have to give official approval

to your going down with the landing boats. I don't have to like it,

Blaine, and I don't. It was a damn fool stunt."

One that worked, Rod thought. He continued to stand at

attention, but he felt the knot in his guts loosen.

The Admiral grunted. "Your father takes stupid chances.

Almost got us both killed on Tanith. It's a bloody wonder your

family's survived through eleven marquises, and it'll be a bigger one

if you live to be twelfth. All right, sit down."

"Thank you, sir." Rod said stiffly, his voice coldly polite.'

The Admiral's face relaxed slightly. "Did I ever tell you your

father was my commanding officer on Tanith?" Plekhanov asked

conversationally.

"No, sir. He did." There was still no warmth in Rod's voice.

"He was also the best friend I ever had in the Navy,

Commander. His influence put me in this seat, and he asked to

have you under my command."

"Yes, sir." I knew that. Now I wonder why.

"You'd like to ask me what I expected you to do, wouldn't

you, Commander?"

Rod twitched in surprise. "Yes, sir."

"What would have happened if that offer hadn't been genuine?

If it had been a trap?"

"The rebels might have destroyed my command."

"Yes." Plekhanov's voice was steely calm. "But you thought it

worth the risk because you had a chance to end the war with few

casualties on either side. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if the Marines were killed, just what would my fleet have

been able to do?" The Admiral slammed both fists against the desk.

"I'd have had no choices at all!" he roared. "Every week I keep this

fleet here is another chance for outies to hit one of our planets!

There'd have been no time to send for another assault carrier and

more Marines. If you'd lost your command, I'd have blasted this

planet into the stone age, Blaine. Aristocrat or no, don't you ever

put anyone in that position again! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir". He's right. But- What good would the Marines have

been with the city's Field intact? Rod's shoulders slumped.

Something. He'd have done something. But what?

"It turned out well," Plekhanov said coldly. "Maybe you were

right. Maybe you weren't. You do another stunt like that and I'll

have your sword. Is that understood?" He lifted a printout of Rod's

service career. "Is MacArthur ready for space?"

"Sir?" The question was asked in the same tone as the threat,

and it took Rod a moment to shift mental gears. "For space, sir.

Not a battle. And I wouldn't want to see her go far without a refit."

In the frantic hour he'd spent aboard, Rod had carried out a

thorough inspection, which was one reason he needed a shave.

Now he sat uncomfortably and wondered. MacArthur's captain

stood at the window, obviously listening, but he hadn't said a

word. Why didn't the Admiral ask him?

As Blaine wondered, Plekhanov made up his mind. "Well?

Bruno, you're Fleet Captain. Make your recommendation."

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

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LARRYNIVEN&JERRYPOURNELLETHEMOTEINGOD'SEYEPrologue"ThroughoutthepastthousandyearsofhistoryithasbeentraditionaltoregardtheAldersonDriveasanunmixedblessing.WithoutthefasterthanlighttravelAlderson'sdiscoveriesmadepossible,humanitywouldhavebeentrappedinthetinyprisonoftheSolarSystemwhentheGreatPatrioticW...

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