“Horst,” Whitbread said. “Mr. Staley. Wake up.”
Horst Staley had forced himself to sleep. He was still as rigid as a statue, the rocket launcher across his lap, his hands gripping it tightly.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know. We changed course, and now—listen,” Whitbread said. The Moties were still chattering. Their voices grew louder.
38. Final Solution
Whitbread’s Motie came back to her seat. “It’s started,” she said. She didn’t sound like Whitbread now. She sounded like an alien. “War.”
“Who?” Staley demanded.
“My Master and King Peter. The others haven’t joined in yet, but they will.”
“War over us?” Whitbread asked incredulously. He was ready to cry. The transformation in his Fyunch(click) was too much to bear.
“Over jurisdiction over you,” the Motie corrected. She shivered, relaxed, and suddenly Whitbread’s voice spoke to them from the half-smiling alien lips. “It’s not too bad yet. Just Warriors, and raids. Each one wants to show the other what she could do, without destroying anything really valuable. There’ll be a lot of pressure from the other decision makers to keep it that way. They don’t want to be in a fallout pattern.”
“God’s teeth,” said Whitbread. He gulped. “But—welcome back, brother.”
“Where does that leave us?” Staley demanded. “Where do we go now?”
“A neutral place. The Castle.”
“Castle?” Horst shouted. “That’s your Master’s territory!” His hand was very near his pistol again.
“No. Think the others would give my Master that much control over you? The Mediators you met were all part of my clan, but the Castle itself belongs to a sterile decision maker. A Keeper.”
Staley looked distrustful. “What do we do once we’re there?”
The Motie shrugged. “Wait and see who wins. If King Peter wins he’s going to send you back to Lenin. Maybe this war will convince the Empire that it’s better to leave us alone. Maybe you can even help us.” The Motie gestured disgustedly. “Help us. He’s Crazy Eddie too. There’ll never be an end to the Cycles.”
“Wait?” Staley muttered. “Not me, damn it. Where is this Master of yours?”
“No!” the Motie shouted. “Horst, I can’t help you with something like that. Besides, you’d never get past the Warriors. They’re good, Horst, better than your Marines; and what are you? Three junior officers with damn little experience and some weapons you got from an old museum.”
Staley looked below. Castle City was ahead. He saw the space port, an open space among many, but gray, not green. Beyond it was the Castle, a spire circled by a balcony. Small as it was, it stood out among the industrial ugliness of the endless cityscape.
There was communications gear in their baggage. When Renner and the others came up, the Sailing Master had left everything but their notes and records in the Castle. He hadn’t said why, but now they knew: he wanted the Moties to think they would return.
There might even be enough to build a good transmitter. Something that would reach Lenin. “Can we land in the street?” Staley asked.
“In the street?” The Motie blinked. “Why not? If Charlie agrees. This is her aircraft.” Whitbread’s Motie trilled. There were answering hums and clicks from the cockpit.
“You’re sure the Castle is safe?” Staley asked. “Whitbread, do you trust the Moties?”
“I trust this one. But I may be a little prejudiced, Hor—Mr. Staley. You’ll have to make your own judgment.”
“Charlie says the Castle is empty, and the ban on Warriors in Castle City still holds,” Whitbread’s Motie said. “She also says King Peter’s winning, but she’s only hearing reports from her side.”
“Will she land near to the Castle?” Staley asked.
“Why not? We have to buzz the street first, to warn the Browns to look up.” The Motie trilled again.
The grumble of motors died to a whisper. Wings spread again, and the plane dipped lower, falling almost straight down to pull level with a swoop. It whizzed past the Castle, giving them a view of its balconies. Traffic moved below, and Staley saw a White on the pedestrian walkway across from the Castle. The Master ducked quickly into a building.
“No demons,” Staley said. “Anybody see Warriors?”
“No.” “Nae.” “Me neither.”
The plane banked sharply and fell again. Whitbread stared wide-eyed at the hard concrete sides of skyscrapers whipping past. They watched for Whites—and Warriors—but saw neither.
The plane slowed and leveled off two meters above the ground. They glided toward the Castle like a gull above waters. Staley braced himself at the windows and waited. Cars came at them and swerved around.
They were going to hit the Castle, he realized. Was the Brown trying to ram their way through like the cutter into MacArthur? The plane dropped joltingly and surged against brakes and thrust reverses. They were just beneath the Castle wall.
“Here, trade with me, Potter.” Staley took the x-ray laser. “Now move out.” The door wouldn’t work for him and he waved at the Motie.
She threw the door wide. There was a two-meter space between wingtip and wall, making twenty-five meters in all. That wing of the aircraft had folded somehow. The Motie leaped into the street.
The humans dashed after her, with Whitbread carrying the magic sword in his left hand. The door might be locked, but it would never stand up to that.
The door was locked. Whitbread hefted the sword to hew through it, but his Motie waved him back. She examined a pair of dials set in the door, took one in each of the right hands, and as she twirled them turned a lever with her left arm. The door opened smoothly. “Meant to keep humans out,” she said.
The entryway was empty. “Any way to barricade that damn door?” Staley asked. His voice sounded hollow, and he saw that the furnishings were gone from the room.
When there was no answer, Staley handed Potter the x-ray laser. “Keep guard here. You’ll need the Moties to tell if someone coming through is an enemy. Come on, Whitbread.” He turned and ran for the stairs.
Whitbread followed reluctantly. Horst climbed rapidly, leaving Whitbread out of breath when they reached the floor where their rooms were. “You got something against elevators?” Whitbread demanded. “Sir?”
Staley didn’t answer. The door to Renner’s room stood open, and Horst dashed inside. “God damn!”
“What’s the matter?” Whitbread panted. He went through the door.
The room was empty. Even the bunks were removed.
There was no sign of the equipment Renner had left behind. “I was hoping to find something to talk to Lenin with,” Staley growled. “Help me look. Maybe they stored our stuff in here somewhere.”
They searched, but found nothing. On every floor it was the same: fixtures, beds, furniture, everything removed. The Castle was a hollow shell. They went back downstairs to the entryway.
“Are we alone?” Gavin Potter asked.
“Yeah,” Staley replied. “And we’ll starve pretty bloody quick if nothing worse. The place has been stripped.”
Both Moties shrugged. “I’m a little surprised,” Whitbread’s Motie said. The two Moties twittered for a moment. “She doesn’t know why either. It looks like the place won’t be used again—”
“Well, they damn well know where we are,” Staley growled. He took his helmet from his belt and connected the leads to his radio. Then he put the helmet on. “Lenin, this is Staley. Lenin, Lenin, Lenin, this is Midshipman Staley. Over.”