The Mote in God's Eye

“No.” The voice was calm. “I accept your recommendation, Captain, but you are hereby ordered to abandon your ship. Log that order, Commander Borman,” he added to someone on his bridge. “You will issue the order to abandon and scuttle, turn over command to your First Lieutenant, and report aboard Lenin’s number-two cutter. Immediately.”

“Sir. Sir, I request permission to remain with my ship until my crew is safe.”

“Denied, Captain,” the merciless voice snapped. “I am quite aware that you have courage, Captain. Have you enough to live when you lose your command?”

“Sir—” Oh, God damn him to hell! Rod turned toward MacArthur, breaking the secure circuit. There was fighting at the air lock. Several miniatures had dissolved the bulkhead opposite the Marines’ barricade, and the joeys were pouring fire into the gap. Blaine gritted his teeth and turned away from the battle. “Admiral, you cannot order me to leave my crew and run!”

“I cannot? You find it hard to live now, Captain? You think they will whisper about you the rest of your life, and you are afraid of that? And you tell this to me? Carry out your orders, Captain My Lord Blaine.”

“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.”