Captain Larkin cleared his throat. "He's dead, Mr. Taine."
"Dead? He'd only be in his fifties now—"
"I know. Sad. It was disease, hit him soon after he came to us. Lazarus Six had a very short reign. Didn't he, Mr. Lindquist?"
"He certainly did," Lindquist agreed. "Let's hope that Lazarus Seven is here to step down for Eight—and to watch Nine come in, fifty years from now!"
Cheers filled the room and Eric smiled briefly. That reminded him of Clair's note. Clair—
"So," said Captain Larkin, "you'll be crowned tomorrow. After that, your people will see you, King Lazarus Seven on his throne. Don't disappoint us, Mr. Taine. Their tradition means a lot to them."
"It should," Eric said. "The planners made it that way. With nothing but space outside, and the confining walls of the ship, they needed something to bind them together."
"Yes, that's true. But the people, as you'll see, have come up with some of their own traditions over the years." Captain Larkin ran a hand through his graying hair. "Like your kinghood, for example. You'll see, Mr. Taine—or should it be Lazarus now, eh?" He laughed.
"If you'd like," Eric said. He did not relish the idea particularly, but then, it was their show. Still, he had everything to check—from astrogation to ethics—and he would not want to be delayed by pomp and ceremony. Well, there was time enough for that. Now he felt weary—and that made him chuckle, because he had just concluded a hundred-seventy-five year nap.
They took him to his quarters, where the six before him had lived. There he ate in silence, food from the hydroponic gardens on a lower level of the ship. The line of light under his door had turned from white to a soft blue. It was night on the ship.