Renner and the other military personnel were treated differently. "Strip," the officer said. "Everything, if you please." The Marines did not even do them the courtesy of pointing their weapons slightly away. When they had removed everything—Renner even had to put his signet ring into the plastic container—they were sent forward. Another Marine officer indicated battle armor, and two Marines helped them into it. There were no weapons in sight now.
"Damnedest strip-tease act I ever saw," Renner said to the pilot. The coxswain nodded. "Mind telling me what it's about?"
"Your captain will explain, sir," the coxswain said.
"More Brownies!" Renner exclaimed.
"Is that it, Mr. Renner?" Whitbread asked from behind him. The midshipman was climbing into battle armor as instructed. He hadn't dared ask anyone else, but Renner was easy to talk to.
Renner shrugged. There was an air of unreality about the situation. The cutter was packed with Marines and armor—many were MacArthur's Marines. Gunner Kelley watched impassively from near the air lock, and he held his weapon trained at its door.
"That's all of them," a voice announced.
“Where is Chaplain Hardy?" Renner asked.
"With the civilians, sir," the coxswain said. "A minute, please." He worked at the communications gear. The screen lit with Blaine's face.
"Secure circuit, sir," the coxswain announced.
"Thank you. Staley."
"Yes, Captain?" the senior midshipman answered.
"Mr. Staley, this cutter will shortly come alongside Lenin. The civilians and cutter crew except Cox'n Lafferty will transfer to the battleship, where they will be inspected by security personnel. After they have left, you will take command of Lenin's number-one cutter and proceed to MacArthur. You will board MacArthur from the starboard side immediately aft of the starboard petty officers' lounge. Your purpose is to create a diversion and engage any surviving enemies in that area in order to assist a group of civilians and Marines trapped in the lounge to escape. You will send Kelley and his Marines into that lounge with pressure suits and battle armor for twenty-five men. The equipment is already aboard. Send that party forward. Commander Cargill has secured the way forward of bulkhead one six zero."
"Aye aye, sir." Staley sounded incredulous. He stood at near-rigid attention despite the absence of gravity in the cutter.
Blaine almost smiled. At least there was a twitch to his lips. "The enemy, Mister, is several hundred miniature Moties. They are armed with hand weapons. Some have gas masks. They are not well organized, but they are quite deadly. You will satisfy yourself that there are no other passengers or crew in the midships starboard section of MacArthur. After that mission is accomplished, you will lead a party into the midships crew mess and send out the coffeepot. But be damned sure that pot is empty, Mr. Staley."
"Coffeepot?" Renner said incredulously. Behind him Whitbread shook his head and murmured something to Potter.
"Coffeepot, Mr. Renner. It has been altered by the aliens, and the technique used could be of great value to the Empire. You will see other strange objects, Mr. Staley. Use your judgment about bringing them out—but under no circumstances will you send out anything that might contain a live alien. And watch the crewmen. The miniatures have killed several people, used their heads as decoys, and inhabited their battle armor. Be sure that a man in armor is a man, Mr. Staley. We haven't seen them try that trick with a skintight pressure suit yet, but be damned careful."
"Yessir," Staley snapped. "Can we regain control of the ship, sir?"
"No." Blaine fought visibly for control of himself. "You will not have long, Mister. Forty minutes after you enter MacArthur, activate all conventional destruct systems, then start the timer on that torpedo we rigged. Report to me in the main port entryway when you've got it done. Fifty-five minutes after you enter, Lenin will commence firing on MacArthur in any event. You have that?"
"Yes, sir," Horst Staley said quietly. He looked at the others. Potter and Whitbread looked back uncertainly.
"Captain," Renner said. "Sir, I remind you that I'm senior officer here."
"I know that, Renner. I have a mission for you too. You will take Chaplain Hardy back aboard MacArthur's cutter and assist him in recovering any equipment or notes that might be required. Another of Lenin's boats will come for that, and you will see that everything is packed into a sealed container the boat will bring."
"But—sir, I should be leading the boarding party!"
"You're not a combat officer, Renner. Do you recall what you told me at lunch yesterday?"
Renner did. "I did not tell you I was a coward," he grated.
"I'm aware of that. I am also aware that you are probably the most unpredictable officer I have. The Chaplain has been told only that there is a plague epidemic aboard MacArthur, and that we're going back to the Empire before it spreads to everybody. That will be the official story to the Moties. They may not believe it, but Hardy'll have a better chance of selling it to them if he believes it himself. I have to have somebody who knows the real situation along too."
"One of the midshipmen—"
"Mr. Renner, get back aboard MacArthur's cutter. Staley, you have your orders."
"Aye aye, sir."
Renner departed, seething.
Three midshipmen and a dozen Marines hung from crash webbing in the main cabin of Lenin's cutter. The civilians and regular crew were gone, and the boat moved away from Lenin's black bulk.
"All right, Lafferty," Staley said. "Take us to MacArthur's starboard side. If nothing attacks us, you will ram, aiming for the tankage complex aft of bulkhead 185."
"Aye aye, sir." Lafferty did not react noticeably. He was a big-boned man, a plainsman from Tabletop. His hair was ash-blond and very short, and his face was all planes and angles.
The crash webbing was designed for high impacts. The midshipmen hung like flies in some monstrous spider web. Staley glanced at Whitbread. Whitbread looked at Potter. Both looked away from the Marines behind them. "OK. Go," Staley ordered. The drive roared.
The real defensive hull of any warship is the Langston Field. No material object could withstand the searing heat of fusion bombs and high energy lasers. Since anything that can get past the Field and the ship's defensive fire will evaporate anything below, the hull of a warship is a relatively thin skin. It is, however, only relatively thin. A ship must be rigid enough to withstand high acceleration and jolt.
Some compartments and tanks, however, are big, and in theory can be crushed by enough impact momentum. In practice— Nobody had ever taken a combat party aboard a ship that way as far as Staley's frantically searching memory could tell him. It was in the Book, though. You could get aboard a crippled ship with her Field intact by ramming. Staley wondered what damn fool had first tried it.
The long black blob that enclosed MacArthur became a solid black wall without visible motion. Then the shovel-blade reentry shield went up. Horst watched blackness grow on the forward view screen as he peered over Lafferty's shoulder.
The cutter surged backward. An instant of cold as they passed through the Field, then the screaming of grinding metal. They stopped.
Staley unclasped his crash webbing. "Get moving," he ordered. "Kelley, cut our way through those tanks."
"Yes, sir." The Marines swept past. Two aimed a large cutting laser at the buckled metal that had once been the interior wall of a hydrogen tank. Cables stretched from the weapon back into the mangled cutter.
The tank wall collapsed, a section blown outward and narrowly missing the Marines. More air whistled out, and dead miniature Moties blew about like autumn leaves.
The corridor walls were gone. Where there had been a number of compartments there was a heap of ruins, cut-off bulkheads, surrealistic machinery, and everywhere dead miniatures. None seemed to have had pressure suits.
"Christ Almighty," Staley muttered. "OK, Kelley, get moving with those suits. Let's go." He charged forward across the ruins to the next airtight compartment doo
r. "Shows pressure on the other side," he said. He reached into the communications box on the bulkhead and plugged in his suit mike. "Anybody there?"
"Corporal Hasner here, sir," a voice answered promptly. "Be careful back there, that area's full of miniatures."
"Not now," Staley answered. "What's your status in there?"
"Nine civilians without no suits in here, sir. Three Marines left alive. We don't know how to get them scientist people out without suits."
"We've got suits," Staley said grimly. "Can you protect the civilians until we can get through this door? We're in vacuum."
"Lord, yes, sir. Wait a minute." Something whirred. Instruments showed the pressure falling beyond the bulkhead companionway. Then the dogs turned. The door opened to reveal an armored figure inside the petty officers' mess room. Behind Hasner two other Marines trained weapons on Staley as he entered. Behind them— Staley gasped.
The civilians were at the other end of the compartment. They wore the usual white coveralls of the scientific staff. Staley recognized Dr. Blevins, the veterinarian. The civilians were chattering among themselves— "But there's no air in here!" Staley yelled.
"Not here, sir," Hasner said. He pointed. "Some kind of box thing there, makes like a curtain, Mr. Staley. Air can't get through it but we can."
Kelley growled and moved his squad into the mess room. The suits were flung to the civilians.
Staley shook his head in wonder. "Kelley. Take charge here. Get everybody forward—and take that box with you if it'll move!"
"It moves," Blevins said. He was speaking into the microphone of the helmet Kelley had passed him, but he wasn't wearing the helmet. "It can be turned on and off, too. Corporal Hasner killed some miniatures who were doing things to it."
"Fine. We'll take it," Staley snapped. "Get 'em moving, Kelley."
"Sir!" The Marine Gunner stepped gingerly through the invisible barrier. He had to push. "Like—maybe kind of like the Field, Mr. Staley. Only not so thick."
Staley growled deep in his throat and motioned to the other midshipmen. "Coffeepot," he said. He sounded as if he didn't believe it. "Lafferty. Kruppman. Janowitz. You'll come with us." He went back through the companionway to the ruins beyond.
There was a double-door airtight companionway at the other end, and Staley motioned Whitbread to open it. The dogs turned easily, and they crowded into the small air lock to peer through the thick glass into the main starboard connecting corridor.
"Looks normal enough," Whitbread whispered.
It seemed to be. They went through the air lock in two cycles and pulled themselves along the corridor walls by hand holds to the entryway into the main crew mess room.
Staley looked through the thick glass into the mess compartment. "God's teeth!"
"What is it, Horst?" Whitbread asked. He crowded his helmet against Staley's.
There were dozens of miniatures in the compartment. Most were armed with laser weapons—and they were firing at each other. There was no order to the battle. It seemed that every miniature was fighting every other, although that might have been only a first impression. The compartment drifted with a pinkish fog: Motie blood. Dead and wounded Moties flopped in an insane dance as the room winked with green-blue pencils of light.
"Not in there," Staley whispered. He remembered he was speaking through his suit radio and raised his voice. "We'd never get through that alive. Forget the coffeepot." They moved on through the corridor and searched for other human survivors.
There were none. Staley led them back toward the crew mess room. "Kruppman," he barked. "Take Janowitz and get this corridor into vacuum. Burn out bulkheads, use grenades—anything, but get it into vacuum. Then get the hell off this ship."
"Aye aye, sir." When the Marines rounded a turn in the steel corridor the midshipmen lost contact with them. The suit radios were line-of-sight only. They could still hear, though. MacArthur was alive with sound. High-pitched screams, the sounds of tearing metal, hums and buzzes—none of it was familiar.
"She's not ours anymore," Potter murmured.
There was a whoosh. The corridor was in vacuum. Staley tossed a thermite grenade against the mess-room bulkhead and stepped back around a turn. Light flared briefly, and Staley charged back to fire his hand laser at the still-glowing spot on the bulkhead. The others fired with him.
The wall began to bulge, then broke through. Air whistled into the corridor, with a cloud of dead Moties. Staley turned the dogs on the companionway but nothing happened. Grimly they burned at the bulkhead until the hole was large enough to crawl into.
There was no sign of live miniatures. "Why can't we do that all over the ship?" Whitbread demanded. "We could get back in control of her . . ."
"Maybe," Staley answered. "Lafferty. Get the coffee maker and take it port side. Move, we'll cover you."
The plainsman waved and dove down the corridor in the direction the Marines had vanished. "Had we nae best be goin' wi' him?" Potter asked.
"Torpedo," Staley barked. "We've got to detonate the torpedo."
"But, Horst," Whitbread protested. "Can't we get control of the ship? I haven't seen any miniatures with vacuum suits. . ."
"They can build those magic pressure curtains," Staley reminded him. "Besides, we've got our orders." He pointed aft, and they moved ahead of him. Now that MacArthur was clear of humans they hurried, burning through airtight compartments and grenading the corridors beyond. Potter and Whitbread shuddered at the damage they were doing to the ship. Their weapons were not meant to be used aboard a working space craft.
The torpedoes were in place: Staley and Whitbread had been part of the work crew that welded them on either side of the Field generator. Only—the generator was gone. A hollow shell remained where it had been.
Potter was reaching for the timers that would trigger the torpedo. "Wait," Staley ordered. He found a direct wire intercom outlet and plugged his suit in. "Anyone, this is Midshipman Horst Staley in the Field generator compartment. Anyone there?"
"Aye aye, Mr. Staley," a voice answered. "A moment, sir, here's the Captain." Captain Blaine came on the line.
Staley explained the situation. "The Field generator's gone, sir, but the Field seems strong as ever. . ."
There was a long pause. Then Blaine swore viciously, but cut himself off. "You're overtime, Mr. Staley. We've orders to close the holes in the Field and get aboard Lenin's boats in five minutes. You'll never get out before Lenin opens fire."
"No, sir. What should we do?"
Blaine hesitated a moment. "I'll have to buck that one up to the Admiral. Stay right where you are."
A sudden roaring hurricane sent them scurrying for cover. There was silence, then Potter said unnecessarily, "We're under pressure. Yon Brownies must have repaired one or another door."
"Then they'll soon be here." Whithread cursed, "Damn them anyway." They waited. "What's keeping the Captain?" Whitbread demanded. There was no possible answer, and they crouched tensely, their weapons drawn, while around them they heard MacArthur coming back to life. Her new masters were approaching.
"I won't leave without the middies," Rod was saying to the Admiral.
"You are certain they cannot reach after port air lock?" Kutuzov said.
"Not in ten minutes, Admiral. The Brownies have control of that part of the ship. The kids would have to fight all the way."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Let them use the lifeboats, sir," Rod said hopefully. There were lifeboats in various parts of the ship, with a dozen not twenty meters from the Field generator compartment. Basically solid-fuel motors with inflatable cabins, they were meant only to enable a refugee to survive for a few hours in the event that the ship was damaged beyond repair— or about to explode. Either was a good description of MacArthur's present status.
"The miniatures may have built recording devices and transmitters into lifeboats," Kutuzov said. "A method of giving large Moties all of MacArthur's secrets," He spoke to someone else. "Do you thin
k that possible, Chaplain?"
Blaine heard Chaplain Hardy speaking in the background. "No, sir. The miniatures are animals. I've always thought so, the adult Moties say so, and all the evidence supports the hypothesis. They would be capable of that only if directly ordered—and, Admiral, if they've been that anxious to communicate with the Moties, you can be certain they've already done it."
"Da," Kutuzov muttered. "There is no point in sacrificing these officers for nothing. Captain Blaine, you will instruct them to use lifeboats, but caution them that no miniatures must come out with them. When they leave, you will immediately come aboard Lenin."
"Aye aye, sir." Rod sighed in relief and rang the intercom line to the generator compartment. "Staley: the Admiral says you can use the lifeboats. Be careful there aren't any miniatures in them, and you'll be searched before you board one of Lenin's boats. Trigger the torpedoes and get away. Got that?"
"Aye aye, sir." Staley turned to the other middies. "Lifeboats," he snapped. "Let's—"
Green light winked around them. "Visors down!" Whitbread screamed. They dove behind the torpedoes while the beam swung wildly around the compartment. It slashed holes in the bulkheads, then through compartment walls beyond, finally through the hull itself. Air rushed out and the beam stopped swinging, but it remained on, pouring energy through the hull into the Field beyond.
Staley swung his sun visor up. It was fogged with silver metal deposits. He ducked carefully under the beam to look at its source.
It was a heavy hand laser. Half a dozen miniatures had been needed to carry it. Some of them, dead and dry, clung to the double hand holds.
"Let's move," Staley ordered. He inserted a key into the lock on the torpedo panel. Beside him Potter did the same thing. They turned the keys—and had ten minutes to live. Staley rushed to the intercom. "Mission accomplished, sir."
They moved through the airtight open compartment's door into the main after corridor and rushed sternward, flinging themselves from hand hold to hand hold. Null-gee races were a favorite if slightly non-regulation game with midshipmen, and they were glad of the practice they'd had. Behind them the timer would be clicking away—
The Mote In God's Eye Page 33
