The Mote In God's Eye

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 Mode 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, 0 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!"