The Mote in God's Eye

The rumble continued. They were accelerating together at nearly a standard gee, with Mote Prime a vast green crescent to one side. On the other was the deep black of the Coal Sack, and the blacker mass of Lenin. The boats accelerated for a long time.

32. Lenin

The young Russian midshipman carried himself proudly. His battle armor was spotless, and all his equipment arranged properly by the Book. “The Admiral requests that you come to the bridge,” he chirped in flawless Anglic.

Rod Blaine followed listlessly. They floated through the air lock from Lenin’s number-two hangar deck to a flurry of salutes from Kutuzov’s Marines. The full honors of a visiting captain only stirred his grief. He’d given his last orders, and he’d been the last man to leave his ship. Now he was an observer, and this was probably the last time anyone would render him boarding honors.

Everything aboard the battleship seemed too large, yet he knew it was only an illusion. With few exceptions the compartments and corridors of capital ships were standardized, and he might as well have been aboard MacArthur

. Lenin was at battle stations, with all her airtight doors closed and dogged. Marines were posted at the more important passageway controls, but otherwise they saw no one, and Rod was glad of that. He could not have faced any of his former crew. Or passengers.

Lenin’s bridge was enormous. She was fitted out as a flagship, and in addition to the screens and command posts for the ship herself there were a dozen couches for the Admiral’s battle staff. Rod woodenly acknowledged the Admiral’s greeting and sank gratefully into the flag Captain’s chair. He didn’t even wonder where Commander Borman, Kutuzov’s flag lieutenant and chief of staff, had gone. He was alone with the Admiral at the flag command station.

MacArthur was displayed from half a dozen views on the screens above him. The last of Lenin’s boats were pulling away from her. Staley must have accomplished his mission, Rod thought. Now she has only a few minutes to live. When she’s gone I’ll really be finished. A newly promoted captain who lost his ship on her first mission—even the Marquis’ influence would not overcome that. Blind hatred for the Mote and all its inhabitants welled up inside him.

“Dammit, we ought to be able to get her back from a bunch of—of goddamn animals

!” he blurted.

Kutuzov looked up in surprise. His craggy eyebrows came closer together in a frown, then relaxed slightly. “Da. If that is all they are. But suppose they are more than that? In any event is too late.”

“Yes, sir. They triggered the torpedoes.” Two hydrogen bombs. The Field generator would vaporize in milliseconds, and MacArthur would— He writhed in pain at the thought. When the screens flared, she’d be gone. He looked up suddenly. “Where are my midshipmen, Admiral?”

Kutuzov grunted. “They have decelerated to a lower orbit and are beyond the horizon. I will send a boat for them when everything is clear.”

Strange, Rod thought. But they couldn’t come directly to Lenin by the Admiral’s orders, and the boats wouldn’t provide any real protection when MacArthur

exploded. What they had done was unnecessary caution since the torpedoes did not give off a large fraction of their energy in x-rays and neutrons, but it was understandable caution.

The timers twirled noiselessly to zero. Kutuzov watched grimly as another minute, and another, went past. “The torpedoes did not fire,” he said accusingly.

“No, sir.” Rod’s misery was complete. And now—

“Captain Mikhailov. You will please prepare main battery to fire on MacArthur.” Kutuzov turned his dark gaze to Rod. “I dislike this, Captain. Not so much as you. But I dislike it. Do you prefer to give order yourself? Captain Mikhailov, you permit?”

“Da, Admiral.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rod took a deep breath. A man ought to kill his own dog. “Shoot!”

Space battles are lovely to see. The ships approach like smooth black eggs, their drives radiating dazzling light. Scintillations in the black flanks record the explosions of torpedoes that have escaped destruction from the stabbing colors of the secondary lasers. The main batteries pour energy into each other’s Fields, and lines of green and ruby reflect interplanetary dust.

Gradually the Fields begin to glow. Dull red, brighter yellow, glaring green, as the Fields become charged with energy. The colored eggs are linked by red and green threads from the batteries, and the colors change.

Now three green threads linked Lenin and MacArthur. Nothing else happened. The battle cruiser did not move and made no attempt to fight back. Her Field began to glow red, shading to yellow where the beams converged amidships. When it became white it would overload and the energy stored in it would be released—inward and out. Kutuzov watched in growing puzzlement.