The Mote in God's Eye (53 page)

Admiral Kutuzov was saying something. Horvath leaned away from the screen pickup to listen. “Ask about the midshipmen,” the Admiral commanded.

Horvath gulped and said, “Is there any other word about our midshipmen?”

The Motie’s voice took on a pained note. “How could there be, Anthony? They were killed attempting reentry, and their craft burned away completely. We have sent you pictures, did you not receive them?”

“Uh—I didn’t see them,” Horvath replied. Which was true, but it didn’t make saying it any easier. The damned Admiral didn’t believe anything! What did he think, that the boys were captured somewhere and being tortured for information? “I’m sorry, I was instructed to ask.”

“We understand. Humans are very concerned about their young decision makers. So are Moties. Our races do have much in common. It has been good to speak with you again, Anthony. We hope you will return soon.”

An alarm flashed on the bridge consoles. Admiral Kutuzov frowned and listened attentively to something Horvath couldn’t hear. Simultaneously a speaker announced the quartermaster’s report. “Ship’s boats secure, sir. Ready to depart.”

The Motie had evidently overheard. She said, “The gift ship is quite capable of catching up with you, provided you do not accelerate at more than”—there was a pause as the Motie listened to something—”three of your gravities.”

Horvath shot an inquiring eye at the Admiral. The officer was brooding heavily, evidently about to say something. Instead he nodded to Horvath. “One and a half of our gees for this trip,” Horvath told the Motie.

“Our gifts will join you in five hours,“ the Motie said. The screens flashed and Horvath’s pickup went dead.

Admiral Kutuzov’s voice grated in the Minister’s ear. “I am informed that a ship has left Mote Prime and is traveling toward Alderson point at one point seven four of our gravities. Two Mote gravities. You will please have them explain what that ship is doing.” The Admiral’s voice was calm enough, but the tone was imperative.

Horvath gulped and turned back to the Motie. His screen came active again. He asked hesitantly, afraid to offend them. “Do you know?” he finished.

“Certainly,” the Motie replied smoothly. “I have only just learned of it myself. The Masters have sent our ambassadors to the Empire to rendezvous with you. There will be three of them, and we request that you convey them to your Imperial capital where they will represent our race. They have full authority to negotiate for us.”

Kutuzov took a deep breath. He seemed about to scream, and his face was almost purple with effort, but he only said, very quietly so that the Motie could not hear, “Tell them we must discuss this. Captain Mikhailov, accelerate when convenient.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“We’re leaving now,” Horvath told the Motie. “I—we—must discuss the question of ambassadors. This is a surprise—I would have hoped that you would come yourself. Will there be any of our Fyunch(click)s sent as ambassadors?” He spoke rapidly as the warning tones sounded behind him.

“There will be time for any discussions needed,” the Motie assured him. “And no, no Motie ambassador could identify with any individual human; all must represent our race, surely you can understand that? The three have been selected to represent all views, and unanimously acting they can commit all Moties to an agreement. Given the plague menace, they would expect to be quarantined until you are certain they are no threat to your health—” A loud tone sounded through
Lenin
. “Farewell, Anthony. To all of you. And return soon.”

The final warning horns blared and
Lenin
surged forward. Horvath stared at the blank screen as behind him the others broke into astonished chatter.

His Imperial Majesty’s President Class battleship
Lenin
was packed, crammed to capacity and beyond with
MacArthur
’s crew and the scientists who had been aboard her. Able spacers shared hammocks in rotation with their duties. Marines slept in corridors, and officers were stuffed three and more into staterooms meant for one. There were Motie artifacts salvaged from
MacArthur
in her hangar deck, which Kutuzov insisted be kept in vacuum, constantly under guard, with inspections. There was no place aboard where the ship’s company could be assembled.

If there had been an assembly point it would not have been used.
Lenin
would remain at battle stations until she left the Mote system, even during the funeral services, conducted by David Hardy and
Lenin
’s chaplain, George Alexis. It was not an unusual situation for either; although it was traditional for the ship’s company to assemble when possible, burial services were often conducted with the ship at battle stations. As he put on a black stole and turned to the missal a rating held open for him, David Hardy reflected that he had probably conducted more requiems this way than before an assembly.

A trumpet note sounded through
Lenin
. “Ship’s company, at ease,” the Chief Boatswain ordered quietly.

“Eternal rest grant them, O Lord,” Hardy intoned.

“And let light perpetual shine upon them,” Alexis answered. Every verse and response was familiar to anyone who had been in the Navy long enough to be part of
Lenin
’s crew.

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. Whosoever believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”

The service went on, with the spacers responding from their duty stations, a low murmur through the ship.

“I heard a voice from Heaven saying unto me, Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labors.”

Rest, Rod thought. There’s that, anyway, rest for the kids. He shivered. I’ve seen plenty of ships lost, and plenty of men under my command have bought it a hundred parsecs from home. Why is this one getting to me? He took a deep breath but the tightness in his chest remained unchanged.

Lights dimmed throughout
Lenin
, and the recorded voices of the Imperial Navy choir chanted a hymn in which the crewmen joined. “Day of wrath, and doom impending, David’s words with Sybil’s blending: Heavens and worlds in ashes ending...”

Sybil? Rod thought. God, that must be ancient. The hymn went on and on, ending in a burst of male voices.

Do I believe any of this? Rod wondered. Hardy does, look at his face. And Kelley, ready to launch his comrades out the torpedo tubes. Why can’t I believe as they do? But I do, don’t I? I always thought I did, there’s got to be some purpose in this universe. Look at Bury. This isn’t even his religion, but it’s getting to him. Wonder what he’s thinking?

Horace Bury stared intently at the torpedo tubes. Four bodies and a head! The head of a Marine the Brownies had used for a Trojan horse. Bury had seen it only once, spinning through space in a cloud of fog and shattered glass and kicking, thrashing, dying Brownies. He remembered a square jaw, a wide, slack mouth, glittering dead eyes. Allah be merciful to them, and may His legions descend on the Mote...

Sally’s taking it better than I am, Rod thought, and she’s a civilian. We both liked those boys... Why don’t I worry about the others? Five Marines killed getting the civilians out. It wouldn’t be so bad if the middies had been killed in action. I expected losses when I sent the rescue party in with the cutter. I wasn’t sure the kids would ever get out of
Mac
at all. But they did, they were safe!

“Unto Almighty God we commend the souls of our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deeps of space; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the worlds, the seas shall yield their dead, and the deeps give forth their burdens...”

Kelley pressed the keys and there was a soft whoosh, another—three, four, five. Only four bodies and a head recovered out of twenty-seven dead and missing.

“Ship’s Company, atten-shut!”

“Shoot!”

And what will the Moties make of that? Rod wondered. Three broadsides fired off into space at nothing—except the third, which would vaporize the bodies launched a moment ago. The Admiral had insisted, and no one had argued.

Contralto trumpet notes died away as
Lenin
’s trumpeter and
MacArthur
’s ended taps in duet. The ship was still for a moment.

“Ship’s company, dismissed!”

The officers moved silently away from the torpedo room. Lights brightened in the corridors and men hurried back to their action stations or their crowded rest areas. Navy routine continues, Rod thought. Funeral services are part of the Book too. There is a regulation for everything: birth aboard ship, registration of; burial, with or without bodies; and one for captains who lose their ships. The Book demands a court-martial for that one.

“Rod. Wait a minute, Rod. Please.”

He stopped at Sally’s call. They stood in the corridor while the other officers and crew split around them. Rod wanted to join them, to get back to the solitude of his cabin where no one would ask him what happened aboard
MacArthur
. Yet here was Sally, and something way inside wanted to talk to her, or just be close to her—

“Rod, Dr. Horvath says the Moties have sent ambassadors to meet us at the Crazy Eddie point, but Admiral Kutuzov won’t let them aboard! Is that right?”

Damn! he thought. Moties again, Moties— “It’s right.” He turned away.

“Rod, wait! We’ve got to do something! Rod, where are you going?” She stared at his back as he walked rapidly away. Now what did I do? she wondered.

Blaine’s door was closed but the telltale showed that it wasn’t locked. Kevin Renner hesitated, then knocked. Nothing happened. He waited a moment, then knocked again.

“Come in.”

Renner opened the door. It seemed strange to walk directly into Blaine’s cabin: no Marine sentry on duty, none of the mysterious aura of command that surrounds a captain. “Hi, Captain. Mind if I join you?”

“No. Can I get you anything?” Blaine clearly didn’t care one way or another. He didn’t look at Renner, and Kevin wondered what would happen if he took the polite offer seriously. He could ask for a drink...

No. Not time to push. Not just yet. Renner took a seat and looked around.

Blaine’s cabin was big. It would have been a tower room if
Lenin
had been designed with a tower. There were only four men and one woman who rated cabins to themselves, and Blaine wasn’t using the precious room; he looked to have been sitting in that chair for hours, probably ever since the funeral services. Certainly he hadn’t changed. He’d had to borrow one of Mikhailov’s dress uniforms and it didn’t fit at all.

They sat silently, with Blaine staring into some internal space-time that excluded his visitor.

“I’ve been going over Buckman’s work,” Renner said at random. He had to start somewhere, and it probably shouldn’t be with Moties.

“Oh? How goes it?” Blaine asked politely.

“Way over my head. He says he can prove there’s a protostar forming in the Coal Sack. In a thousand years it’ll be shining by its own light. Well, he can’t prove it to me, because I don’t have the math.”

“Um.”

“How are you making out?” Renner showed no indication of leaving. “Enjoying your vacation from duties?”

Blaine finally lifted haunted eyes. “Kevin, why did the kids try to do a reentry?”

“God’s eyes, Captain, that’s plain silly. They wouldn’t have tried anything of the kind.” Jesus, he’s not even thinking straight. This is going to be tougher than I thought.

“Then you tell me what happened.”

Renner looked puzzled, but obviously Blaine meant it. “Captain, the ship was lousy with Brownies—everywhere nobody was looking. They must have got to the lifeboat storage area pretty early. If you were a Motie, how would you redesign an escape craft?”

“Superbly.” Blaine actually smiled. “Even a dead man couldn’t pass up a straight line like that.”

“You had me wondering.” Renner grinned, then turned serious. “No, what I mean is, they’d redesign for every new situation. In deep space the boat would decelerate and scream for rescue. Near a gas giant it would orbit. Always automatic, mind, because the passengers could be hurt or unconscious. Near a habitable world the boat would reenter.”

“Eh?” Blaine frowned. There was a spark of life in his eyes. Renner held his breath,

“Yeah, but Kevin, what went wrong? If the Brownies got to the boats they’d have designed them
right
. Besides, there’d be controls; they wouldn’t
make
you reenter.”

Renner shrugged. “Can you figure out Motie control panels at a glance? I can’t, and I doubt that the middies could. But the Brownies would expect them to. Captain, maybe the boats weren’t finished, or got damaged in a fire fight.”

“Maybe—”

“Maybe a lot of things. Maybe they were designed for Brownies. The kids would have had to crowd in, rip out a dozen fifteen-centimeter Motie crash couches or something. There wasn’t much time, with the torpedoes due to go in three minutes.”

“Those goddamn torpedoes! The casings were probably full of Brownies and a rat ranch, if anyone had looked!”

Renner nodded. “But who’d know to look?”

“I should have.”

“Why?” Renner asked it seriously. “Skipper, there’s—”

“I’m not a skipper.”

Aha!
Renner thought. “Yes, sir. There’s still not a man in the Navy who’d have looked. Nobody.
I
didn’t think of it. The Tsar was satisfied with your decontamination procedure, wasn’t he? Everybody was. What bloody good does it do to blame yourself for a mistake we all made?”

Blaine looked up at Renner and wondered. The Sailing Master’s face was slightly red. Now why’s he so stirred up? “There’s another thing,” Rod said. “Suppose the lifeboats were properly designed. Suppose the kids made a perfect reentry, and the Moties lied.”

“I thought of that,” said Renner. “Do you believe it?”

“No, but I wish I could be sure.”

“You would be if you knew Moties as well as I do. Convince yourself. Study the data. We’ve got plenty aboard this ship, and you’ve got the time. You’ve
got
to learn about Moties, you’re the Navy’s heaviest expert on them.”