The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [147]
A fourth cone popped from the blackness. Staley turned in his seat. It looked like a man— Three hand weapons fired simultaneously. The fourth cone glowed and melted, but they fired for a long time. “One of the—uh—” Staley didn’t know what to report. His circuit might not be secure.
“We have you on the screens, Midshipman,” a heavily accented voice said. “Move away from MacArthur, and wait for pickup. Did you complete your mission?”
“Yes, sir.” Staley glanced at his watch. “Four minutes to go, sir.”
“Then move fast, Mister,” the voice ordered.
But how? Staley wondered. The controls had no obvious function. While he searched frantically, his rocket fired. But what—he hadn’t touched anything.
“My rocket’s firing again,” said Whitbread’s voice. He sounded calm—much calmer than Staley felt.
“Aye, and mine,” Potter added. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth. We’re movin’ away from you ship.”
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