“Mr. Staley, where in hell are you?” It was Captain Blaine.
“Captain! Thank God! Captain, we’re holed up in— Wait one moment, sir.” The Moties were twittering to each other, Whitbread’s Motie tried to say something, but Staley didn’t hear it. What he heard was a Motie speaking with Whitbread’s voice— “Captain Blaine, sir. Where do you get your Irish Mist? Over.”
“Staley, cut the goddamn comedy and report! Over.”
“Sorry, sir, I really must know. You’ll understand why I ask. Where do you get your Irish Mist? Over.”
“Staley! I’m tired of the goddamn jokes!”
Horst took the helmet off. “It isn’t the Captain,” he said. “It’s a Motie with the Captain’s voice. One of yours?” he asked Whitbread’s Motie.
“Probably. It was a stupid trick. Your Fyunch(click) would have known better. Which means she’s not cooperating with my Master too well.”
“There’s no way to defend this place,” Staley said. He looked around the entryway. It was about ten meters by thirty, and there was no furniture at all. The hangings and pictures which adorned the walls were gone. “Upstairs,” Horst said. “We’ve got a better chance there.” He led them back up to the living quarters floor, and they took positions at the end of the hall where they could cover the stairwell and elevator.
“Now what?” Whitbread asked.
“Now we wait,” both Moties said in unison. A long hour passed.
The traffic sounds died away. It took them a minute to notice, then it was obvious. Nothing moved outside.
“I’ll have a look,” Staley said. He went to a room and peered carefully out the window, standing well inside so that he wouldn’t expose himself.
Demons moved on the street below. They came forward in a twisting, flickering quick run, then suddenly raised their weapons and fired down the street. Horst turned and saw another group melting for cover; they left a third of their number dead. Battle sounds filtered through the thick windows.
“What is it, Horst?” Whitbread called. “It sounds like shots.”
“It is shots. Two groups of Warriors in a battle. Over us?”
“Certainly,” Whitbread’s Motie answered. “You know what this means, don’t you?” She sounded very resigned.
When there was no answer she said, “It means the humans won’t be coming back. They’re gone.”
Staley cried, “I don’t believe it! The Admiral wouldn’t leave us! He’d take on the whole damn planet—”
“No, he wouldn’t, Horst,” Whitbread said. “You know his orders.”
Horst shook his head, but he knew Whitbread was right. He called, “Whitbread’s Motie! Come here and tell me which side is which.”
“No.”
Horst looked around. “What do you mean, no? I need to know who to shoot at!”
“I don’t want to get shot.”
Whitbread’s Motie was a coward! “I haven’t been shot, have I? Just don’t expose yourself.”
Whitbread’s voice said, “Horst, if you’ve exposed an eye, any Warrior could have shot it out. Nobody wants you dead now. They haven’t used artillery, have they? But they’d shoot me.”
“All right. Charlie! Come here and—”
“I will not.”
Horst didn’t even curse. Not cowards, but Brown-and-whites. Would his own Motie have come?
The demons had all found cover: cars parked or abandoned, doorways, the fluting along the sides of one building. They moved from cover to cover with the flickering speed of houseflies. Yet every time a Warrior fired, a Warrior died. There had not been all that much gunfire, yet two thirds of the Warriors in sight were dead. Whitbread’s Motie had been right about their marksmanship. It was inhumanly accurate.
Almost below Horst’s window, a dead Warrior lay with its right arms blown away. A live one waited for a lull, suddenly broke for closer cover—and the fallen one came to life. Then it happened too fast to follow: the gun flying, the two Warriors colliding like a pair of buzz saws, then flying away, broken dolls still kicking and spraying blood.
Something crashed below. There were sounds in the stairwell. Hooves clicked on marble steps. The Moties twittered. Charlie whistled, loudly, and again. There was an answering call from below, then a voice spoke in David Hardy’s perfect Anglic.
“You will not be mistreated. Surrender at once.”
“We’ve lost,” Charlie said.
“My Master’s troops. What will you do, Horst?”
For answer Staley crouched in a corner with the x-ray rifle aimed at the stairwell. He waved frantically at the other midshipmen to take cover.
A brown-and-white Motie turned the corner and stood in the hallway. It had Chaplain Hardy’s voice, but none of his mannerisms. Only the perfect Anglic, and the resonant tones. The Mediator was unarmed. “Come now, be reasonable. Your ship has gone. Your officers believe you are dead. There is no reason to harm you. Don’t get your friends killed over nothing, come out and accept our friendship.”
“Go to hell!”
“What can you gain by this?” the Motie asked. “We only wish you well—”
There were sounds of firing from below. The shots rebounded through the empty rooms and hallways of the Castle. The Mediator with Hardy’s voice whistled and clicked to the other Moties.
“What’s she saying?” Staley demanded. He looked around: Whitbread’s Motie was crouched against the wall, frozen. “Jesus, now what?”
“Leave her alone!” Whitbread shouted. He moved from his post to stand beside the Motie and put his arm on her shoulder. “What should we do?”
The battle noises moved closer, and suddenly two demons were in the hallway. Staley aimed and fired in a smooth motion, cutting down one Warrior. He began to swing the beam toward the other. The demon fired, and Staley was flung against the far wall of the corridor. More demons bounded into the hallway, and there was a burst of fire that held Staley upright for a second. His body was chewed by dragon’s teeth, and he fell to lie very still. Potter fired the rocket launcher. The shell burst at the end of the hallway. Part of the walls fell in, littering the floor with rubble and partly burying the Mediator and Warriors.
“It seems to me that no matter who wins yon fight below, we know aye more about the Langston Field than is safe,” Potter said slowly. “What do ye think, Mr. Whitbread? ‘Tis your command now.”
Jonathon shook himself from his reverie. His Motie was stock-still, unmoving— Potter drew his pistol and waited. There were scrabbling sounds in the hallway. The sounds of battle died away.
“Your friend is right, brother,” Whitbread’s Motie said. She looked at the unmoving form of Hardy’s Fyunch(click). “That one was a brother too…”
Potter screamed. Whitbread jerked around.
Potter stood unbelieving, his pistol gone, his arm shattered from wrist to elbow. He looked at Whitbread with eyes dull with just realized pain and said, “One of the dead ones threw a rock.”
There were more Warriors in the hall, and another Mediator. They advanced slowly.
Whitbread swung the magic sword that would cut stone and metal. It came up in a backhanded arc and cut through Potter’s neck—Potter, whose religion forbade suicide, as did Whitbread’s. There was a burst of fire as he swung the blade at his own neck, and two clubs smashed at his shoulders. Jonathon Whitbread fell and did not move.
They did not touch him at first except to remove the weapons from his belt. They waited for a Doctor, while the rest held off King Peter’s attacking forces. A Mediator spoke quickly to Charlie and offered a communicator—there was nothing left to fight for. Whitbread’s Motie remained by her Fyunch(click).