The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Raoul suddenly looked up from his work. His eyes met Xris’s and their gaze was steady, intense, not the dreamy, unfocused gaze of the Loti. Raoul smiled, a secret, knowing smile for just the two of them. And he did know—he knew the truth, knew everything about Dalin Rowan/Darlene Mohini. The Little One, who was also a telepath as well as an empath (“It comes with age among his people,” Raoul had once explained), had peered out from under the brim of the fedora and seen right inside Xris. Hell, the Little One probably knew more about what Xris was thinking and feeling than Xris did himself. And in some strange and inexplicable manner the Little One had transferred his knowledge to Raoul.

  Was Raoul for real? Xris wondered, not for the first time, as he returned Raoul’s smile with a reluctant, grudging half smile of his own. The lipstick, the clothes, the nail polish; the foppish behavior, the affected mannerisms. Certainly they were typically Adonian. So very typically Adonian that it was almost too typically Adonian. It was too real . . . surreal. And the drugs. Was Raoul a true Loti? Or was that, too, some sort of charade? In emergencies, he could react with split-second timing, something no true Loti could accomplish. He was inventive, creative, a genius with chemicals—traits the pleasure-seeking, indolent Loti did not possess. Yet the unfocused eyes, the dilated pupils, the blissful, unperturbed, most assuredly drug-induced euphoria were all typical—again, to the point of being atypical.

  But if his was an act—why? What was the purpose?

  Xris could almost suppose that Raoul, behind those painted, drug-drenched eyes, was laughing at them all. . . .

  “Yes, Xris Cyborg?” Raoul’s eyelids fluttered lazily. “What is wrong? Not the mascara!”

  “Your hair’s blocking part of the space station,” Xris said, pointing.

  “I beg your pardon.” Raoul flipped his hair over his shoulder and, breathing a sigh of relief to know that his mascara wasn’t smudged, continued with his nails.

  Xris shoved aside a vial of nail polish remover that was sitting in a docking bay, and began. “What you are looking at is a holographic image of RFComSec. In case you can’t translate the acronym, RFComSec stands for Royal Fleet Communications Security Establishment.”

  Harry gave a low whistle.

  “Yeah, I know,” Xris said. “For obvious reasons, it wouldn’t be a good idea for any of you to know how I managed to obtain this layout. So don’t even bother. Or,” he added for Raoul’s benefit, “if you know, keep your mouth shut.”

  Raoul glanced up, smiled, returned to more important work.

  Xris continued. “Inside this space station is where the Royal Navy formulates the codes and ciphers that keep their secrets secret. It’s also where they work at decoding other people’s secrets. Security is as tight as Raoul’s buns.”

  The Adonian nodded his head to indicate he appreciated the compliment.

  “The space station sits squarely in the middle of nowhere. It’s near one of the Lanes, but most hyperspace traffic zips right past, never realizing the station’s there. No inhabited star systems within a couple of hundred light-years. RFComSec is heavily shielded and completely self-sufficient, except for one small detail, which I’ll go into later. This large complex in the center here”—he indicated the hub of what looked like a gigantic wheel—”is the headquarters, the work area. These spokes radiating out from it provide housing, shops, gym and recreation areas, that sort of thing. Our man—”

  Raoul lifted his head.

  “Woman,” Xris corrected himself grimly, “lives and works on the station, rarely leaves. According to the files, she’s only left twice in the seven years since he . . . she’s been assigned to it. Those trips were duty-related.”

  “Perhaps,” Raoul suggested mildly, studying his nails with a critical air, “if we called her by name, this would alleviate the confusion in your mind, Xris Cyborg.”

  “Which name? She’s got two.”

  Raoul shifted his gaze and again the eyes were disconcertingly focused. “The name you attach to her in your thoughts. The name of the person she was to you. For that is the person who must die.”

  Xris said nothing for long moments, just chewed on the twist. Finally he said, “Rowan. We call her Rowan. That’s who she was and, as far as I’m concerned, who she is.”

  Raoul nodded complacently, repeated “Rowan” to himself several times, spread his fingers, and waved his hands in the air to dry the nail polish.

  Xris again indicated the holograph. “Best-case scenario would be to catch Rowan alone in her apartment, which is located somewhere in this block. But that’s out, for several reasons. Getting onto the space station itself is going to be damn difficult. Once we get there, we’re going to have a limited amount of time, so we’ll have to move fast. One thing the military doesn’t give out is the addresses of its people. We could spend hours wandering around the station searching for her housing unit, only to find out when we get there that she’s not at home.

  “But she works in a place called FCWing. Once we’re inside, we tap into the computer, ask it where to find FCWing, and let the computer lead us right to him. Her.”

  Raoul rolled his eyes, gave a delicate sigh.

  Xris pretended he didn’t hear. “If Rowan’s in an office by herself—no problem. I’ll need five minutes alone—”

  “Five minutes To take out a mark?” Harry was a bit thick-headed.

  Xris stared fixedly at the holograph. “I need time for a short conversation.”

  Harry looked uncomfortable. “Sure, Xris. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Xris turned, walked away from the table over to the trash receptacle located beneath a fully stocked bar. He spit the soggy wad of tobacco into the trash, then helped himself to a brandy—Mataska 7 Star. The seven-hundred-year-old variety. He poured himself a glass. Looking in the mirror, he could see the others exchange questioning glances, with the exception of Raoul, who calmly blew on his nails.

  Xris swallowed the brandy, returned to the hologram. “Any questions so far?”

  Raoul raised a hand. “What happens if this Rowan is not alone, my friend?”

  “Then I’ll know for certain there’s not a God,” Xris returned quietly. “I’ll need one of your special concoctions.” The cyborg indicated his weapons hand. “Something I can smear on a needle, inject into the flesh. Slow-acting, no antidote.”

  Raoul was thoughtful, intrigued. “I have just the thing. It is known as—”

  “I’ll leave the details to you.” Xris indicated a large digital clock placed in a prominent location on the wall. “We’re running short on time and we’ve got more important details to cover.”

  “Such as how we get onto the space station,” Quong observed. “I take it blasting our way through is not an option.”

  “We’d never make it within torpedo range. The base is well armed with strong defensive capabilities. It switches on its marker lights only when a ship is near, to aid in docking. And the only ships that ever dock are Royal Navy, plus a select few. A very select few. A fleet of Corasian mother ships would have a tough time taking that space station out.”

  “But you have a plan,” said Harry, grinning.

  “I have a plan.” Xris bent near the hologram. “As I said, the base is mostly self-sufficient. Mostly. They have one little problem that requires outside intervention.”

  Xris straightened, shook another twist out from the case, and lit it. “Fleas.” He inhaled the noxious smoke.

  “Fleas!” Harry guffawed.

  “They don’t consider it a laughing matter. It seems that about twenty years ago, some colonel’s kid sneaked a stray dog on board the space station. The dog was infested with a particularly virulent type of flea. Not only is this flea harder than hell to kill, it carries a highly infectious, flulike disease. It’s not fatal to healthy adults, but it puts them out of action for a considerable length of time. Came damn close to shutting down the entire RFComSec operation for about a month the first time the plague hit.

  “Sinc
e then, the Navy’s tried every trick known to men and aliens to eradicate the pest. The best they can do is keep it under control. This requires a team of specially trained exterminators to come in once a month.”

  “Every month?” Jamil asked, skeptical. “Is this reliable?”

  “Every Standard Military month,” Xris said, “for the last twenty years.”

  “Twenty years! Why doesn’t the Navy just do it themselves?”

  “The Royal Navy is not in the bug-killing business,” Xris returned. “Besides, this extermination company invented the system that keeps the fleas dormant. No one’s quite sure how it works and the exterminators won’t tell. They hold patents on the entire system and they have an open-ended exclusive contract to take care of it.

  “Here’s what we do know. The exterminators place robots that release the chemicals in minute doses all over the station to control the fleas on a continuous basis. If the ‘bots run across flea-breeding grounds, they actively seek out the fleas and their larvae and eradicate them using a chemical spray and microlasers. Every month the Olicien personnel bring the ‘bots in to a central checkpoint for maintenance and chemical replenishment.”

  “Nice profitable operation they’ve got going,” Tycho observed through his translator. “Paid for by our tax credits. Ill bet they stick the Navy for a fortune!”

  “Quit worrying about your tax return. At any rate, this is one time the Navy’s not going to get their money’s worth. As I said, the exterminators visit once every SMT month. Every month they fly their own craft, which leaves from their own home world. They make the jump, arrive on the space station. The crew goes in—just like they’ve been going in once a month for twenty years.”

  “Same old same old,” Harry said softly. “I’ll bet no one even bothers to check their IDs.”

  “Yeah, but is it the same crew all the time?” Jamil wondered. “If so, we’ve got problems.”

  Xris shook his head. “No, they’ve got other contracts to handle. Plus the usual amount of employee attrition and turnover. We may have a tough time explaining why all of us are new to the job, but I’m sure that’s something our knowledgeable Adonian salesman can handle.” He looked at Raoul, who grimaced.

  “I do not enjoy playing salesmen, Xris Cyborg.”

  Xris was sympathetic. “I know, but you’re so good at it. And I think it’s about time that Olicien Pest Control tries to sell the Navy some additional services. Their charming representative will keep the security systems officer on RFComSec engaged in bug-related small talk—”

  Raoul shot Xris a reproachful glance.

  “—while the rest of us take care of business. At this point, we face a problem. The exterminators are supposed to remain in one secure area. The security officer keeps tabs on them by following their movements on his screen. Any deviation from the norm and we’ll have the whole blasted Navy on us. And,” Xris added, taking another drag on the twist, “it’s highly probable that once I locate Rowan, I’m going to have to leave the area to get to her.”

  “I am a good conversationalist,” Raoul said gravely, “but I do not believe I am capable of distracting a person with airy chatter— even on a subject as fascinating as fleas—while his monitor is flashing alarms and urgently attempting to gain his attention.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” Xris snubbed out the twist. “When the Little One picks up the first indication that this officer has spotted something wrong, you give him a quick fix. Nothing lethal—I don’t want any innocent people killed. Just something to send him to la-la land while we finish the job.”

  Raoul nodded complacently, admired his nails. “I see no problem in this, Xris Cyborg.”

  “There is one little thing I better mention, Raoul,” Xris said slowly.

  Not liking the cyborg’s tone, Raoul looked up in alarm. “What is that, my friend?”

  “You have to wear .. . coveralls.”

  Raoul’s eyes widened. “Baggy coveralls?” he whispered, aghast.

  “Bright yellow.”

  Raoul shuddered.

  Xris was relentless. “With a large black beetle on the back.”

  Raoul shut his eyes, unable to contemplate the horror. “I will take that double pay, after all.”

  Xris looked around at the others. “That’s the general plan. Now we’ll cover the details. Any questions so far?”

  “What happens if we get there and this Rowan’s taken the day off or is working the night shift?” Jamil asked.

  “She won’t be,” Xris said shortly. “I have her work schedule.”

  “Damn!” Harry was admiring. “What’d you do, Xris, ask Lord Admiral Dixter to hand over the Navy’s classified files?”

  “Something like that,” Xris said easily. “Any more questions?”

  They discussed how they were going to hijack the craft, what they were going to use to subdue the exterminators before they could be stripped of clothes and equipment. The team tried to anticipate anything that could go wrong and formed a variety of contingency plans to deal with various scenarios.

  Xris brought the meeting to a close. “Our time’s almost up. When we leave here, we don’t mention any of this. Not a word. From this point on, we separate. You four split up. I’ll keep the Loti and the empath with me. You’ll find the date, time, and location of our meeting place in a coded file in your own individual computers. That will also give you the location of Olicien Pest Control. Raoul, you and the Little One will arrive early, ahead of the rest of the team, in order to conduct your research. You’re going to have to learn a lot about fleas.”

  Raoul gave a heart-wrenching sigh. “The sacrifices I make for my career. And the Little One”—he glanced at his slumbering friend—”will find this most distasteful. He has the strong aversion to insect life-forms that is so prevalent among his kind.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Xris said, who had no idea what “kind” the Little One was and who knew better than to ask, having been through that once with Raoul and gaining nothing from it except a throbbing pain behind the eyes. “Wake him up. I’ve got some additional instructions for you both.”

  The others filed out, pausing to ask final questions or obtain clarification on some minor details. The last man had gone before Raoul roused the Little One. The empath shook himself, straightened his raincoat, and stared up from beneath the brim of the fedora at Xris.

  The cyborg reached across to the control panel, shut and sealed the door.

  “Now here’s the plan for Olicien—” Xris began, then interrupted himself. “What the hell does he mean—staring at me like that?”

  “The Little One says you are unsettled in your mind, Xris Cyborg, and that is most unlike you. Not even when you were contemplating that foolhardy venture to launch a one-man rescue of your wife from the Corasian prison camp—”

  Xris frowned, interrupted the flow. “If this is leading somewhere, get to it. We don’t have much time and I still have to pack up the equipment.”

  “Not even during that dark time were you this ... this .. .” Raoul fluttered his hands, searching his fog-ridden mind for a word. “Deranged.”

  “Deranged.” Xris clamped his jaw down angrily on a twist. “He thinks I’m deranged.”

  “Perhaps that is not the word I meant. Possibly you would prefer unhinged?”

  “I’d prefer you both out of sight and out of mind!” Xris glared at the Little One. “But I suppose that’s impossible, since you’re traveling with me. This is the last I want to hear of it, or you can both make the trip home locked up snugly in the storage compartment. Now here are your orders—”

  “We are telling you this for your good, Xris Cyborg.” Raoul was defensive. “Usually your brain is like a laser beam—clear, focused, flashing in a straight line toward your goal. But now, my friend, you are a laser beam in a room full of reflectors. You bounce off one and are distracted by another. You are zapping all over the place.”

  “Thanks for the analysis,” Xris said. “Send me
a bill.”

  “The bill may be a large one, my friend.” Raoul’s eyes were extraordinarily clear, intense. Disconcerting. “And we—the others and myself—are the ones who will pay. You are too emotionally involved. This could lead you to commit rash and hasty acts. You are already making mistakes.”

  “Clear out.” Xris ground the words between his teeth and the twist. “Both of you. Now. I’ll meet you at the spaceplane.”

  He pointed at the door.

  “In just a moment.” Raoul appeared to have taken root. The Little One entrenched himself behind the Loti’s legs. “You must listen to us.”

  Xris sighed. Unless he wanted to get physical—which Raoul would have probably enjoyed—there would be no budging the Adonian. The fastest way to get rid of him and the empath was to simply let them have their say. And, although he was fairly certain no one could plant any listening devices aboard his spaceplane without his knowing it, he was up against some of the best in the business—the bureau, the Royal Navy, and the Hung. Sure he was acting paranoid. It was unlikely any of these groups would have found out about him yet, but—as the saying went—just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone’s not following you. Best to let Raoul unburden himself inside a secure room.

  “I could always shut down the circuits that control my hearing,” Xris muttered to himself. But he didn’t. He had a strange need to listen, like poking at an aching tooth to feel the pain.

  “Okay, but make it quick. Why am I . . . unhinged?”

  “Number one. You did not ask John Dixter for those files on the space station, as you led Harry to believe. You obtained the files illegally, by raiding the Royal Navy’s computers, using the access code John Dixter gave you the time we did some work for him. You betrayed a friendship and a trust and you are not pleased with yourself. Such an action bothers you deeply.”

  “It does not. I had to do it. I’ll explain later. Rowan’s a security risk.” Xris indicated the chronometer set into his wrist. “You’ve got five more minutes.”