The Mote in God's Eye (42 page)

“No, sir.”

“You disobey direct order, Captain?”

“I can’t accept that order, sir. She’s still my ship.”

There was a long pause. “Your devotion to Navy tradition is admirable, Captain, but stupid. It is possible that you are only officer in Empire who can devise defense against this menace. You know more about aliens than anyone else in fleet. That knowledge is worth more than your ship. It is worth more than every man aboard your ship, now that civilians are evacuated. I cannot allow you to die, Captain. You will leave that ship even if I am required to send new commanding officer into her.”

“He’d never find me, Admiral. Excuse me, sir, I have work to do.”

“Stop!” There was another pause. “Very well, Captain. I will make agreement with you. If you will stay in communication with me, I will allow you to remain aboard
MacArthur
until you have abandoned and scuttled. At instant that you are no longer in communication with me, that is moment at which you no longer command
MacArthur
. Need I send Commander Borman there?”

The trouble is, Rod thought, he’s right.
MacArthur
’s doomed. Cargill can get the crew out as well as I can. Maybe I
do
know something important. But
she's my ship!
“I’ll accept your proposition, sir. I can direct operations better from here anyway. There’s no communications left on the bridge.”

“Very well. I have your word, then.” The circuit went dead.

Rod turned back to the air lock. The Marines had won their skirmish, and Piper was waving to him. Rod went aboard. “Commander Cargill here,” the intercom said. “Skipper?”

“Yeah, Jack?”

“We’re fighting our way to port side, Skipper. Sinclair’s got his people ready to leave. Says he can’t hold the engine rooms without reinforcements. And a runner tells me there are civilians trapped in the starboard petty officers’ lounge. A Marine squad is there with them, but it’s a tough fight.”

“We’ve been ordered to abandon ship and scuttle, Number One.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have to get those civilians out. Can you hold a route from bulkhead 160 forward? Maybe I can get some help in to let the scientists get that far.”

“I think we can, sir. But, Captain, I can’t get to the Field generator room! How do we scuttle?”

“I’ll take care of that, too. Get moving, Number One.”

“Aye aye, Skipper.”

Scuttle. The word had an unreal sound. Rod breathed deeply. The suit air had a sharp metallic taste. Or perhaps it wasn’t the air at all.

It was nearly an hour before one of
Lenin
’s boats pulled alongside the cutter. They watched it approach in silence.

“Relay from
MacArthur
through
Lenin
, sir,” the coxswain said. The screen lit.

The face on the screen wore Rod Blaine’s features but it wasn’t his face. Sally didn’t recognize him. He looked older, and the eyes were—dead. He stared at them, and they stared back. Finally Sally said it. “Rod, what’s
happening
?”

Blaine looked her in the eyes, then looked away. His expression hadn’t changed. He reminded Sally of something pickled in a bottle at the Imperial Museum. “Mr. Renner,” the image said. “Send all personnel over the line to
Lenin
’s boat. Clear the cutter. Now all of you, you’re going to get some funny orders from the boat’s pilot. Obey them, exactly as given. You won’t have a second chance, so
don’t argue
. Just do as you’re told.”

“Now, just a minute,” Horvath bellowed. “I—”

Rod cut him off. “Doctor, for reasons you will understand later, we are not going to explain a damned thing. Just do as you’re told.” He looked back to Sally. His eyes changed, just a little. Perhaps there was concern in them. Something, a tiny spark of life, came into them for a moment, anyway. She tried to smile, but failed. “Please, Sally,” he said. “Do
exactly
as
Lenin
’s pilot instructs you. All right. Out. Now.”

They stood immobile. Sally took a deep breath and turned toward the air lock. “Let’s go,” she said. She tried again to smile, but it only made her look more nervous.

The starboard air lock had been reconnected to the embassy ship. They left by the port side.
Lenin
’s boat crew had already rigged lines from the auxiliary vessel to the cutter. The boat was almost a twin for
MacArthur
’s cutter, a flat-topped lifting body with a shovel-blade reentry shield hanging below the nose.

Sally pulled herself gently along the cable to
Lenin
’s cutter, then cautiously moved through the hatch, She was halted when she entered the airlock. The mechanism cycled, and she felt pressure again.

Her suit was a woven fabric that fitted like an extra skin. A baggy protective garment covered that. The only space inside her suit that she didn’t fill was the helmet that joined the skintight body stocking with a neck seal.

“It will be necessary to search you, my lady,” a guttural-voiced officer said. She looked around: two armed Marines stood in the air lock with her. Their weapons weren’t aimed at her—not quite. But they stood alertly, and they were afraid.

“What
is
this?” she demanded.

“All in good time, my lady,” the officer said. He assisted her in detaching the air-bottle backpack from her suit. It was thrust into a transparent plastic container. The officer looked into her helmet after he took that off, then put it in with the backpack and her coveralls. “Thank you,” he muttered. “You will please now go aft. The others will join you there.”

Renner and the other military personnel were treated differently. “Strip,” the officer said. “Everything, if you please.” The Marines did not even do them the courtesy of pointing their weapons slightly away. When they had removed everything—Renner even had to put his signet ring into the plastic container—they were sent forward. Another Marine officer indicated battle armor, and two Marines helped them into it. There were no weapons in sight now.

“Damnedest strip-tease act I ever saw,” Renner said to the pilot. The coxswain nodded. “Mind telling me what it’s about?”

“Your captain will explain, sir,” the coxswain said.

“More Brownies!” Renner exclaimed.

“Is that it, Mr. Renner?” Whitbread asked from behind him. The midshipman was climbing into battle armor as instructed. He hadn’t dared ask anyone else, but Renner was easy to talk to.

Renner shrugged. There was an air of unreality about the situation. The cutter was packed with Marines and armor—many were
MacArthur
’s Marines. Gunner Kelley watched impassively from near the air lock, and he held his weapon trained at its door.

“That’s all of them,” a voice announced.

“Where is Chaplain Hardy?” Renner asked.

“With the civilians, sir,” the coxswain said. “A minute, please.” He worked at the communications gear. The screen lit with Blaine’s face.

“Secure circuit, sir,” the coxswain announced.

“Thank you. Staley.”

“Yes, Captain?” the senior midshipman answered.

“Mr. Staley, this cutter will shortly come alongside
Lenin
. The civilians and cutter crew except Cox’n Lafferty will transfer to the battleship, where they will be inspected by security personnel. After they have left, you will take command of
Lenin
’s number-one cutter and proceed to
MacArthur
. You will board
MacArthur
from the starboard side immediately aft of the starboard petty officers’ lounge. Your purpose is to create a diversion and engage any surviving enemies in that area in order to assist a group of civilians and Marines trapped in the lounge to escape. You will send Kelley and his Marines into that lounge with pressure suits and battle armor for twenty-five men. The equipment is already aboard. Send that party forward. Commander Cargill has secured the way forward of bulkhead one six zero.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Staley sounded incredulous. He stood at near-rigid attention despite the absence of gravity in the cutter.

Blaine almost smiled. At least there was a twitch to his lips. “The enemy, Mister, is several hundred miniature Moties. They are armed with hand weapons. Some have gas masks. They are not well organized, but they are quite deadly. You will satisfy yourself that there are no other passengers or crew in the midships starboard section of
MacArthur
. After that mission is accomplished, you will lead a party into the midships crew mess and send out the coffeepot. But be damned sure that pot is empty, Mr. Staley.”

“Coffeepot?” Renner said incredulously. Behind him Whitbread shook his head and murmured something to Potter.

“Coffeepot, Mr. Renner. It has been altered by the aliens, and the technique used could be of great value to the Empire. You will see other strange objects, Mr. Staley. Use your judgment about bringing them out—but under no circumstances will you send out anything that might contain a live alien. And watch the crewmen. The miniatures have killed several people, used their heads as decoys, and inhabited their battle armor. Be sure that a man in armor is a
man
, Mr. Staley. We haven’t seen them try that trick with a skintight pressure suit yet, but be damned careful.”

“Yessir,” Staley snapped. “Can we regain control of the ship, sir?”

“No.” Blaine fought visibly for control of himself. “You will not have long, Mister. Forty minutes after you enter
MacArthur
, activate all conventional destruct systems, then start the timer on that torpedo we rigged. Report to me in the main port entryway when you’ve got it done. Fifty-five minutes after you enter,
Lenin
will commence firing on
MacArthur
in any event. You have that?”

“Yes, sir,” Horst Staley said quietly. He looked at the others. Potter and Whitbread looked back uncertainly.

“Captain,” Renner said. “Sir, I remind you that I’m senior officer here.”

“I know that, Renner. I have a mission for you too. You will take Chaplain Hardy back aboard
MacArthur
’s cutter and assist him in recovering any equipment or notes that might be required. Another of
Lenin
’s boats will come for that, and you will see that everything is packed into a sealed container the boat will bring.”

“But—sir, I should be leading the boarding party!”

“You’re not a combat officer, Renner. Do you recall what you told me at lunch yesterday?”

Renner did. “I did not tell you I was a coward,” he grated.

“I’m aware of that. I am also aware that you are probably the most unpredictable officer I have. The Chaplain has been told only that there is a plague epidemic aboard
MacArthur
, and that we’re going back to the Empire before it spreads to everybody. That will be the official story to the Moties. They may not believe it, but Hardy’ll have a better chance of selling it to them if he believes it himself. I have to have somebody who knows the real situation along too.”

“One of the midshipmen—”

“Mr. Renner, get back aboard
MacArthur
’s cutter. Staley, you have your orders.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Renner departed, seething.

Three midshipmen and a dozen Marines hung from crash webbing in the main cabin of
Lenin
’s cutter. The civilians and regular crew were gone, and the boat moved away from
Lenin
’s black bulk.

“All right, Lafferty,” Staley said. “Take us to
MacArthur
’s starboard side. If nothing attacks us, you will ram, aiming for the tankage complex aft of bulkhead 185.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Lafferty did not react noticeably. He was a big-boned man, a plainsman from Tabletop. His hair was ash-blond and very short, and his face was all planes and angles.

The crash webbing was designed for high impacts. The midshipmen hung like flies in some monstrous spider web. Staley glanced at Whitbread. Whitbread looked at Potter.

Both looked away from the Marines behind them. “OK. Go,” Staley ordered. The drive roared.

The real defensive hull of any warship is the Langston Field. No material object could withstand the searing heat of fusion bombs and high energy lasers. Since anything that can get past the Field and the ship’s defensive fire will evaporate anything below, the hull of a warship is a relatively thin skin. It is, however, only relatively thin. A ship must be rigid enough to withstand high acceleration and jolt.

Some compartments and tanks, however, are big, and in theory can be crushed by enough impact momentum. In practice nobody had ever taken a combat party aboard a ship that way as far as Staley’s frantically searching memory could tell him. It was in the Book, though. You
could
get aboard a crippled ship with her Field intact by ramming. Staley wondered what damn fool had first tried it.

The long black blob that enclosed
MacArthur
became a solid black wall without visible motion. Then the shovel blade reentry shield went up. Horst watched blackness grow on the forward view screen as he peered over Lafferty’s shoulder.

The cutter surged backward. An instant of cold as they passed through the Field, then the screaming of grinding metal. They stopped.

Staley unclasped his crash webbing. “Get moving,” he ordered. “Kelley, cut our way through those tanks.”

“Yes, sir.” The Marines swept past. Two aimed a large cutting laser at the buckled metal that had once been the interior wall of a hydrogen tank. Cables stretched from the weapon back into the mangled cutter.

The tank wall collapsed, a section blown outward and narrowly missing the Marines. More air whistled out, and dead miniature Moties blew about like autumn leaves.

The corridor walls were gone. Where there had been a number of compartments there was a heap of ruins, cutoff bulkheads, surrealistic machinery, and everywhere dead miniatures. None seemed to have had pressure suits.

“Christ Almighty,” Staley muttered. “OK, Kelley, get moving with those suits. Let’s go.” He charged forward across the ruins to the next airtight compartment door. “Shows pressure on the other side,” he said. He reached into the communications box on the bulkhead and plugged in his suit mike. “Anybody there?”