Raoul jumped, stared at her vaguely. “Have we met?”
She drew up a chair, took out a small vidcam, placed it in front of Raoul, ordered it to activate.
“The subject is an Adonian of undetermined age. He is also, purportedly, a Loti. I am beginning the interview now.” She looked at Raoul. “You were once in the employ of the weapons dealer Snaga Ohme.”
“Ah,” said Raoul sadly. “My late former employer. A charming man. But most unfortunate. He managed to get himself murdered, you know—”
The woman was not interested. “How long were you with Snaga Ohme?”
Raoul shrugged. “What is time but an ephemeral butterfly, flitting through the dead garden of our wretched existence?”
The woman asked other questions, interminable questions, which Raoul answered absently with whatever came into his head. His gaze had returned to the steel cabinet.
The laboratory door slid open; the ugly man walked inside.
“Knight Officer wants to know how the interrogation is going.”
The woman switched off the vidcam, handed it to the man. “He can judge for himself.” She sounded pleased. “I would say the evidence is conclusive.”
“The blood samples have been evaluated. They test positive.”
The woman gave a stiff nod. “I will await Knight Officer’s orders.”
The ugly man glanced at Raoul. “Good riddance,” he said, and left.
Raoul sank back in his chair. Time passed. The woman appeared impatient. She paced back and forth. The medicbot whirred about the room, cleaning up.
Then a voice came over a comm. “The interview is satisfactory, Doctor. You may terminate the subject.”
“Yes, Knight Officer,” the woman answered.
“Terminate the subject,” Raoul repeated dreamily.
That means you, twit! They’re going to kill you! the voice inside Raoul’s head shouted. Do something!
Yes, I should do something. I should, Raoul thought, fight for my life. Yes, that is what I should do.
But he was feeling weak-headed and lethargic, completely uncaring. Various notions of attacking the woman flitted into his skull, danced around there aimlessly, and eventually fluttered out. Fighting required so much effort....
“You will take care of Xris for me, won’t you, my friend? He and the others will be terribly lost without me. You can communicate with him by— Ah!”
Raoul sucked in his breath. The woman had gone over to the cabinet. Removing a plastic card from the pocket of her white coat, she inserted the card into a slot, punched in a series of numbers on a keypad.
Raoul watched through half-closed eyes.
The cabinet was, as he had supposed, filled with small bottles. Each small bottle was filled with a chemical substance.
Life might be worth living, after all.
The woman removed a vial containing a reddish orange liquid. She emptied the contents of the vial into an infusor that was attached to the ‘bot’s mechanical arm.
“Inject him,” she commanded.
The medicbot trundled toward Raoul.
Halfway there, however, the ‘bot rolled to a stop. Its mechanical head swiveled around.
“I have run a routine analysis on this drug. Are you aware, Doctor, that the injection of this substance will be lethal to the patient?”
“Of course I’m aware,” the woman returned, irritated. “Continue with the injection.”
“I cannot, Doctor.” The medicbot ground to a halt. “My programming will not permit me to kill a patient.”
“Then give the damn thing to me.” The woman seized the injector from the ‘bot.
Raoul watched the woman draw near. A dim, terror-filled haziness seemed to slow time, to stretch it like an elastic band. Seconds lengthened to hours, hours to eternities. The speed of sound slowed. The woman’s loud, thudding footfalls reverberated through Raoul’s body. A squeaking bearing on the ‘bot grew louder and louder until it was a shrill, screeching scream.
A voice boomed over the comm. It had a strange, echoing quality to it, which made it difficult for Raoul to understand what was being said. He heard the words, some part of his brain understood; other parts watched them drift past.
“Synchronize chronometers to Zulu Time—now. Mission go/ nogo will be transmitted in sixty-six hours. Mission completion, barring nogo, will occur by eighty-one hours. You have your orders.”
This made no sense to Raoul, but it jolted the woman. She stopped, stared at the comm as if she would have liked to interrogate it.
The ugly man reentered the room. He was in haste and appeared greatly excited.
“Have you terminated the subject yet, Doctor?”
“I am about to do so now,” the woman responded. “I had trouble with the ‘bot. I heard the announcement. The mission is starting. May the one true God be with us.”
“God is with us,” the man answered reverently. “Something’s happened with the Royal Navy—”
The doctor was alarmed. “They’ve discovered us!”
“You’re paranoid.” The ugly man scoffed. “How could they? No, I don’t think that’s it. Knight Officer isn’t talking specifics, but he says the military’s got big problems and that this proves God is working for us in this matter. Work on the device has been completed, except for the final test run. Speaking of the test, the termination order for the subject is canceled.”
The woman stood about six centimeters from Raoul. She continued to hold the injector in her hand. Raoul—attracted by the bright reddish orange color of the poison—stared at it in fascination.
“Why is that?” The woman sounded annoyed.
“Further examination revealed the possibility of undamaged micromachines in the subject’s bloodstream. If this is true, it will make him the ideal candidate for the last run-through of the device. We won’t have to sacrifice one of our own. Knight Officer wants you to look at the blood samples, to see if you reach the same conclusion.”
“Interesting,” the woman said in thoughtful tones. “Of course. I will be right up.”
Turning, walking away from Raoul, she laid the injector on a countertop. Raoul stared at the injector, its color the only bright spot of warmth in the cold, sterile room.
“What are we going to do with the Loti in the meantime?” the ugly man asked. “When he goes into total withdrawal, he will be a confounded nuisance. A raving lunatic. We’ll have difficulty managing him.”
“I will give him a strong sedative, render him comatose. After that”—she shrugged—”the test itself will kill him.”
“Report to the lab as soon as he goes under. I will send one of the squires to keep an eye on him.”
The woman returned to Raoul, laid a long-nailed and cold-fingered hand on his shoulder. “Stand up,” she ordered. “Go lie down on that bed.”
Raoul obeyed, meandered off in what appeared to be the general direction of the bed. The medicbot intercepted him halfway to the steel cabinet, gently turned him around, gently steered him to the bed.
Raoul lay down. He had the vague impression that they weren’t going to kill him after all. He supposed he should be happy about this, but what had truly perked him up, caught his attention, were the words “strong sedative.”
“Give him forty ccs.” The woman was issuing instructions to the medicbot. “I presume your programming allows you to do that,” she added sarcastically.
“Yes, Doctor,” said the ‘bot, and whirred toward Raoul.
Raoul watched it approach with blissful anticipation.
The ‘bot placed the injector on Raoul’s upper arm. The drug flowed into him. Raoul experienced a sudden feeling of intense drowsiness that very nearly put him to sleep.
He closed his eyes.
“There, that should take care of him,” said the woman, and Raoul was dimly conscious of the fact that she left the room.
The medicbot, no longer needed, shut itself down.
After several moments, Raoul opened his eye
s, sat up. He yawned, stretched, looked about him with interest. Feeling relaxed, alert, as after a good night’s rest, he jumped down off the bed.
The injector lay forgotten on a tray. Raoul took it, studied it, sniffed at it, made his analysis, and hid the injector beneath the pillow of the bed. He walked over to the computer, scrolled back through the doctor’s entries, read them with interest.
What is the name of the ship?
The voice was much clearer now and Raoul recognized it. Hopeful, exhilarated, he searched the lab room, found nothing. He hastened back to the computer files. Nothing there, either.
Frustrated, Raoul glared at the computer, began folding and unfolding the hem of the detested hospital gown.
It was then he noticed the markings stenciled on the bottom. Laundry markings.
Raoul smiled blissfully. Returning to the bed, he lay down, rested his head on the pillow.
“The name of the ship is Canis Major Research I,” he reported to the Little One, then settled back to enjoy being heavily sedated.
Chapter 20
And thereby hangs a tale.
William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
Xris woke with a start and the panicked feeling that always hit him when his systems shut down. The sound of a snore was highly comforting. He glanced over to see the Doc, sitting upright, his head lolling backward, asleep in one of the metal frame chairs.
Tycho, who didn’t handle jumps well, was stretched out on a cot, feebly twitching and groaning. The Little One was a bundle of blankets. Above the usual rattlings and thrumnmings of the plane, Harry’s loud voice could be heard discoursing on the subject of fleas.
Xris did a careful systems analysis. Everything checked out. Quong must have fixed him up. Standing, Xris walked forward into the cockpit.
Jamil, looking intensely bored, was listening to Harry. Rowan was pretending to listen. In reality, she probably hadn’t heard a word, sat staring out into space.
Xris began to chew on a twist. “Hello,” he said. “How’s everything going?”
“Fine, everything’s fine,” Harry said cheerfully.
“You okay?” Jamil asked gruffly.
Xris nodded, changed the subject. He hated talking about the times when he “crashed,” as Quong put it.
“What’s our ETA?”
Harry glanced at the instruments. “Six hours fifty-four minutes and seven seconds.”
“Good. Now why don’t you and Jamil go take a walk.”
Jamil, casting a glance at Rowan, was already on his feet. Harry just sat there, looking blank.
“Take a walk, Harry,” Xris repeated. “Beat it.”
“C’mon, Harry.” Jamil prodded the big man. “You can show me that video.”
“Oh, uh, sure. If you really want to see it. You know, I never knew bugs could be so interesting. Why, were you aware that the flea is known for its agility in leaping—”
The two wandered off back into the interior of the cargo plane.
Xris leaned against the console, chewed on the twist.
Rowan continued to stare into space.
Xris stirred, shifted his gaze to join hers. “Give me one good reason,” he said quietly, “why I shouldn’t throw you out there.”
She finally looked at him.
“Where do you want me to start?”
Xris waved his hand. “Oh, how about when you decided to betray us to the Hung?”
Rowan sighed. “I didn’t, Xris. You have to believe me. I didn’t.”
Xris remained silent, was unconvinced. He finished off the twist, took out another.
“I admit I made mistakes, Xris. I know that now. I knew it then, but by the time I realized ... I should have talked to you ... I wanted to ...”
Shutting her eyes, she shivered. The spaceplane was cold and her uniform—a crisp white blouse and knife-pleated black slacks— was intended for the sheltered, temperature-controlled space station. Xris realized he was still dressed in the yellow coveralls. He glanced around, found a down-filled jacket—Harry’s, to judge by the enormous size—and tossed it to Rowan. She wrapped it around her slender shoulders, hunched into it.
“I’ve often wondered if it would have made any difference,” she continued. “Maybe if I’d opened up to you that day of the briefing, before we left for TISor 13 . .. met you in the bar, like I promised, talked about—” She abruptly skipped that part. “Maybe I would have been less preoccupied with myself. I might have seen the warning signs. . . .”
She stared at him bleakly. Her hands lay limply in her lap. “I couldn’t! I wanted to, but I couldn’t! Damn it, Xris, can’t you understand? You’d been right! You’d been so goddamn right. And I hated you for being right. I didn’t want to hear you say, ‘I told you so’!”
Xris took the twist out of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that. I wanted to apologize. Your private life was none of my business. I should have kept my mouth shut. It’s just—” He shook his head.
“You were trying to save me from myself,” Rowan said, smiling the lopsided, sad smile. “I know that. I knew it then. And I knew the truth about her, too. I just didn’t know the truth about myself.”
She was silent a moment, seemed about to add something. She did add something, eventually. But Xris had the feeling it wasn’t what she’d intended.
“I wanted to be loved. It was nice, having someone to come home to at night. I wanted what you and Marjorie had. ...”
Xris tossed the chewed-up twist onto the deck.
Rowan glanced at him, looked away. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
“So you were saying you should have talked to me,” Xris prompted, cold and hard.
“Yes,” said Rowan, “I should have talked to you... .”
Dalin Rowan sat in his seat in the shuttlecraft, pretending to study the material he’d been given yesterday, during the briefing at agency headquarters. He was pretending to study it because the new controller—what was his name? Armstrong. Mike Armstrong—was seated beside him and obviously wanted to pass the time in conversation.
Ordinarily, Rowan would have enjoyed the opportunity to talk with someone who had worked in HQ, who could have filled him in on the latest changes, promotions, who was in, who was out. But not now. Not today. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even his best friend.
Rowan was hurting. When he’d been a new recruit to the agency, he’d received training in hand-to-hand combat. He’d been pummeled, stepped on, kicked, thrown, stomped, and mauled. There hadn’t been one part of his body that didn’t hurt. It was how he felt now, except the hurt was inside, not out. And though he told himself it was his ego that had taken the beating, not his heart, the pain was there and it was real. He knew, too, that he was indulging himself in his pain, luxuriating in it, getting some sort of a perverse satisfaction out of it. He was doing his best to prolong it.
You’re being a real asshole, Rowan told himself. You shouldn’t have stood Xris up last night. This wasn’t his fault.
Yes, but he’s enjoying this, came the ugly rejoinder from some croaking demon inside Rowan.
He knew that wasn’t true. Xris probably hurt as much for his friend as Rowan hurt for himself. But the demon wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t let loose. And because he knew he was treating Xris unfairly, Rowan felt guilty as well as hurting. Irrationally, he blamed Xris for adding to the pain.
Someone touched his arm. Rowan gave a violent start, nearly dropping his electronic notebook.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.” Armstrong was obviously astonished at Rowan’s reaction. He made a vague gesture. “You can see Vigilance from the viewscreen now. Thought you might want to take a look, the ship being new and all. .. .” His words dried up.
Rowan flushed. “Yeah, thanks. I should put this stuff away anyhow. I guess we’ll be docking soon.” He switched off the notebook, thrust it into the metal traveling case, and tried to appear interested in the new space cruiser.
And then, in spite of himself,
he was interested. Vigilance was the newest weapon in the agency’s arsenal. The ship was equipped with the latest in sensing and communications devices. Its main function was to act as an orbiting command post for planetside operations. The relatively simple raid on TISor 13 was to be the test run.
“Sorry I haven’t been very good company,” Rowan apologized. “It’s just . .. well, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Sure. I understand,” said Armstrong, and then promptly proved he didn’t by adding, “From what I’ve heard, this job should be relatively simple for a computer genius like you.”
It was the type of compliment Rowan detested. It made him sound like some sort of freak. And then he wondered just exactly what Armstrong had “heard.” And was the reference to “genius” a subtle sneer? Rowan forgot about his own internal miseries, studied Armstrong more closely, taking a good look at the guy for the first time since they’d met yesterday.
What he saw was unprepossessing. Probably in his late forties, Armstrong had sandy hair, tanned skin with a smattering of freckles that gave him a friendly, youthful appearance. He was of average build, average height, apparently average intelligence—an all-around average sort of guy. And from his vacuous smile, Armstrong had intended his remark to be a compliment. Obviously not the subtle type.
A good steady man to have on the team, probably make a good controller. But he wouldn’t ever be a friend. Not like Xris. Not like Ito.
Rowan was disgusted with himself. Suddenly he wanted to talk to Xris. Needed to talk to him. The logjam of self-pity and anger was beginning to break up inside. He knew what he had to do now. It would be a comfort to let the pain pour out.
I’ll have my chance, he promised himself. When this job is finished and Xris and Ito and I are flying back on Vigilance together, it’ll be like old times, sitting, talking over a beer. I’ll tell them everything....
The shuttle docked with Vigilance. The two agents gathered their belongings, prepared to disembark. Captain Bolton was on hand to meet them.
“Welcome aboard the Vigilance. Your berths will be up forward off the forward mess. Stow your luggage. Then meet me on the bridge. I’ll give you a tour of the ship.”
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 22