The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “Everything all right, Xris?” Jamil called.

  “Sure, yeah, fine.”

  Xris eyed Rowan. “So, you go undercover, send a few of the Hung’s top boys to the gas mines on Nogales 4, and then you pop out to buy a new wardrobe and a body to match.”

  Rowan’s face was now cold, pale. She no longer expected to be believed. Perhaps she no longer cared. She continued to face him, her eyes level. “That job was hell, Xris. I worked undercover for nine months and I knew every moment that passed was going to be my last. I’m not asking for sympathy. I did good work. I broke them. But in the process, something broke inside me.

  “When I was finished, I told the bureau I wanted out. The feeling was mutual. They wanted rid of me, too. I knew the truth about Armstrong, you see. I’d become an embarrassment. Amadi offered me a new identity, but I knew that changing my name and shaving off my beard wasn’t going to be any kind of protection.”

  “From the Hung ... or from me?” Xris asked.

  “I heard you were out of the hospital, asking questions about me. I wanted to see you, Xris. I wanted to tell you the truth. But it would have been too dangerous. Not for me,” she added before he could comment, “for you.”

  He stared at her.

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” She was impatient. “It was the bureau who set me up, Xris! They set me up to take the fall. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t realize until it was too late. And if I didn’t play their game, they would have killed me, you, Marjorie. Anyone who knew anything. You see, I not only found about the Hung, I found out about their connection with the bureau.”

  It was all starting to make sense. Xris watched a light flash on the console. “When you said ‘they’ killed Armstrong, you didn’t mean the Hung, did you?”

  “That was when I decided to do this.” Rowan gestured to herself, to her body. “Dalin Rowan had to die. He knew too much. If he died, the rest of you might live.”

  “Why didn’t he die for real, then?” Xris demanded harshly.

  “Because he intended to come back from the dead,” she said softly. “One day, he was going to return and make things right.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  She was silent a moment, then said, “You don’t feel any pain when you’re dead, Xris. Resurrections hurt.”

  He could have said something to this, was about to when the computer interrupted. “We will be coming out of hyperspace in mark: thirty minutes and counting.”

  “Harry!” Xris yelled.

  “I’m on my way.” Harry entered the cockpit. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he added awkwardly, blushing, as he tripped over Rowan’s feet.

  “I’ll move,” she offered. “My throat’s dry. Talking too much.” She smiled faintly, said something about getting some water, and left the cockpit.

  Xris stared at nothing. He had a twist in his hand but had forgotten about it. Harry looked extremely uncomfortable, as if he wanted to ask a question but couldn’t think of any way to phrase it. He punched a few buttons in a desultory fashion and darted glances at Xris out of the corner of his eye.

  Ignoring him, Xris sat down in the copilot’s chair, began to strap himself in.

  Rowan didn’t return. Probably needed some time to herself. Time to recover from a painful ordeal? Or time to think up more lies? After all, she’d had almost ten years to devise that nifty little story.

  He had to find out if she was telling the truth.

  Xris motioned to Quong.

  Yawning and stretching, the Doc wandered over. “How are you feeling?”

  Xris waved that away. “Look, is there any way we can communicate with the Little One? I could really use the empath’s help about now.”

  Quong shook his head. “I doubt it. He and Raoul seem to have developed some sort of strange symbiotic connection. I’m not certain the Little One even understands what we are saying. My guess is that he gets everything filtered through Raoul. If I knew more about Tongans, maybe I could suggest something. But I don’t. I doubt if any human does.”

  “Then we have to find Raoul. At least the Little One ought to be able to tell us something about what happened to his buddy. Maybe he could answer yes-or-no questions. You know—one blink of the eye for yes, two for no.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” Quong promised, but he didn’t sound hopeful. Shaking his head, he went to examine his small patient.

  Xris clenched his fist, his good fist. Damn it! Trust the Loti to get himself snatched right when he might be useful!

  Harry was warning everyone to strap themselves in.

  “Coming out of hyperspace in one minute. Counting down. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight . ..” The computer chanted the time.

  Coming out of the jump was not nearly so traumatic as going into it. Everything seemed to slow, to move in slow motion, but Xris had read that this was a psychological reaction to the process. Of course, the ship was essentially slowing down, but the human mind was not capable of comprehending the change. The main difference one noticed was that one minute there was nothing visible and the next minute, the viewscreen was filled with stars.

  Stars and .. .

  “Holy shit!” Harry gasped, swore.

  A Naval battle cruiser, sleek and huge and powerful, came into view. Compared to the immense cruiser, the Olicien Pest Control plane was as small and helpless as the black beetle painted on its bright yellow hull.

  “They can’t be after us!” Harry protested, his eyes bulging.

  A warning shot streaked past the viewscreen.

  “Oh, yeah?” Xris demanded. “That one was close enough to smell! Take us back into hyperspace.”

  “But how did they know—”

  “Just do it, damn it!” Xris shouted.

  “The missile cruiser Starfire requests that we cut our engines and prepare to be towed,” said the computer. “May I add that I’m not enjoying myself anymore? I think it would be advisable—”

  “Computer, switch to manual,” Harry commanded. “Now!”

  Sullenly, the computer did so. “It’s going to take a minute to make the calculations—”

  Jamil crowded into the cockpit. “I’ll tell you how they found us. That wasn’t any missile that hit us back there at the space station! Navy Katana pilots can shoot straighter than that. It must have been some sort of tracking device!”

  “Through hyperspace? That’s impossible!”

  A second warning shot skimmed past them, so close that the cargo plane bucked and rocked.

  “Ask your girlfriend!” Jamil said grimly, and before Xris could make an angry retort, Rowan appeared.

  “He’s right, Xris! The Navy’s been working on a device capable of tracking ships through hyperspace.”

  Xris glared at her. “You knew about this!”

  “Xris, please—” Rowan began.

  “Skip it. How does the thing work? Can we get rid of it?”

  “The device attaches itself to the outer hull. It doesn’t actually track the plane, like a homing device. It doesn’t need to. It has one simple function, and that is to tap into our plane’s computer, download our coordinates, and transmit them. Once our plane has made the jump, the coordinates can’t be changed, and so the Navy knows when and where a plane will come out of the Lanes.”

  “You know a lot about it,” Xris said.

  “I invented it,” Rowan answered. She was silent a moment, then added, “I’m glad to see it’s working.”

  Xris snorted, but he caught himself almost smiling. The old Rowan all over again. .. .

  “Your tax dollars at work,” Tycho was muttering.

  “Evasive maneuver! Hang on!” Harry shouted.

  The stars whirled. The cruiser disappeared. Everyone clung to whatever they could find to cling to. A thud, a yelp, and a curse came from the vicinity of the cargo bay. Quong must not have heard the warning.

  Xris was on his feet. “Computer, how soon can we make the jump into hyperspace?”

  “We will not be going int
o hyperspace,” said XP-28 in self-righteous tones. “We have no shields, no weapons. I have decided that it would be in our best interests to surrender. I have locked out manual control.”

  “Harry, take over!”

  “I can’t, Xris. It’s getting some sort of signal from that cruiser out there! I can’t override—”

  “I can, Xris,” Rowan said quietly. “You know I can.”

  Xris stared at her, grim, doubtful.

  “Spaceplanes,” reported Jamil, peering out the viewscreen.

  “Flying to intercept. We won’t outmaneuver them. We better do something fast.”

  “Trust me, Xris,” Rowan pleaded.

  Xris spit the soggy wad of twist out on the deck. “If you screw us, you’ll die with us. Because I’m not about to surrender.”

  He was bluffing and he figured Rowan knew he was bluffing. The old Rowan would have. But this one only nodded and turned to the computer.

  “XP-28”—she rested her hands on the keyboard—”good-bye.”

  “What the devil is going on?” Quong appeared in the cockpit, highly indignant, a large and swelling bump on his forehead. “And why am I always the last one to know?”

  “I’ll explain later—” Xris began.

  “Hang on, gentlemen,” Rowan warned.

  Her eyes shone; her face was flushed. Her fingers tapped swiftly, lightly. She was enjoying herself. And she was, Xris found himself thinking incongruously, a damn attractive woman.

  “Making the jump in five, four ...”

  There was a mad scramble; everyone rushing to find seats, fumbling with the complicated straps and webbing.

  “Another rough jump!” Tycho groaned.

  “I hope you realize this is upsetting my patient,” Quong snapped, hurling himself into a chair.

  “He’d be a lot more upset in the brig,” Xris returned.

  Stars flashed before his eyes and so did most of his life. They were making the jump. And this one, as Tycho had said, was rough.

  When Xris could breathe again and was relatively certain that his body parts—real and mechanical—had all returned to their respective locations, he unstrapped himself with a shaking hand.

  “Everyone make it?” he asked.

  Tycho, his hand over his mouth, was on his way to the head.

  Xris returned to the cockpit. Harry, mopping his face, looked a bit green around the gills, but appeared otherwise fine.

  Rowan was reclining back in her seat. She was pale; her eyes were closed. Her brown hair was damp with sweat and starting to curl around her face. But she was smiling, obviously extraordinarily pleased with herself. Xris stood over her.

  “You’re no level-two government clerk. The Navy doesn’t make clerks majors. The Navy doesn’t threaten to shoot clerks rather than let them fall into enemy hands. And the Navy sure as hell doesn’t take the time and trouble to plant homing devices on clerks to find out where they’re going. Just what the hell do you do for RFComSec, ‘old friend’?”

  Rowan looked gravely up at Xris, and told him.

  Chapter 22

  He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.

  William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 5

  “Chief crypto analyst.” Tusk stumbled over the words, then said, “What the hell does that mean, sir?”

  “It means we’re in a bad situation. Potentially, a very bad one.” Dixter was back at his desk in his office. He had placed an urgent call to the king, was waiting for His Majesty to return it. “Major Mohini is our top-level code maker and breaker. She was responsible for designing and setting up the high-level secure communications used by every ship in the fleet. And now she’s been kidnapped. Think about it, Tusk. Think about it.”

  Tusk did. He stared at the picture of the woman he held in his hand, said several words appropriate to the situation, then added lamely, “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  “No need to apologize.” Dixter sighed, ran his hand through his grizzled hair. “I’ve been saying the same myself. Do you realize that right now, at this moment, our security is breached? Whoever has the major could potentially gain access to the movements of the fleet, the current position of every ship of the line. Worse then that”—Dixter’s voice lowered—”they could send out false commands. Scatter the fleet all over the galaxy. Order our ships into Corasia, for God’s sake!”

  Tusk was on his feet, pacing about the room. “But why, sir?” Coming to an abrupt halt, he put his hands on Dixter’s desk, leaned over it. “Why would Xris— Why would anyone— What motive—”

  “Revolution,” Dixter said dryly, “for one.”

  Tusk gave a low whistle, slowly straightened. He considered the matter, then shook his head. “No, sir. Not Xris.”

  “We can’t ignore the evidence!” Dixter slammed his hand down on top of the vid shots. “And I can’t afford to take chances! That’s why I ordered them shot down.”

  Tusk turned away, walked over to the window. The view of the Glitter Palace—residence of Their Majesties, King Dion Starfire and his Queen, Astarte—was magnificent. The palace’s crystal walls were streaked with the reds and purples and oranges of a spectacular sunset. Tusk didn’t see it; any of it.

  Once again, he was back in the Corasian galaxy, was lying wounded, helpless on the ground beneath his shot-up spaceplane. Corasians had him surrounded: lasfire streaked around him. And then Xris appeared, coming out of the smoke. Using his extraordinary strength, the cyborg lifted the injured pilot in his arms.

  We’ve got a better chance inside the plane than out, Xris told him.

  You, maybe! Tusk vaguely remembered arguing. Not me. Go on. Leave me!

  He saw the cyborg’s grim smile, the brooding, scarred face. He felt the strong arms, comforting, protecting . ..

  A firm hand rested on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, son,” Dixter said quietly. “I know he was your friend.”

  “Damn it all, sir,” Tusk said, blinking back tears, his voice choked. “I just don’t believe it! Not Xris!”

  “Good men have gone bad before now, Tusk,” Dixter said, his voice softened. “Every man has his price, they say. Every man ... and every woman.”

  The comm buzzed. Both men jumped, turned.

  “Rear Admiral Lopez, my lord,” Bennett reported.

  Dixter hurried to the comm room, Tusk right behind. All nonessential personnel had been ordered out. The rest remained at their posts, carrying on business as usual, though with a heightened tension. Everyone knew something was wrong; no one yet knew what. All eyes glanced at Dixter as he entered, immediately shifted back to their brightly lit screens.

  Dixter sat down in the chair, faced the screen, saw the expression on the admiral’s face, and sighed. “That bad, eh, Rod?”

  “We had them, John,” the rear admiral reported. “The ‘tick’ worked just like it was supposed to. The Olicien spaceplane came out of hyperspace right under our guns—Starfire, missile cruiser. Captain James Manto ordered them twice to surrender, then sent a signal to the onboard computer which should have locked it up. But someone was able to override it. The next thing Captain Manto knows, the plane has disappeared back into hyperspace. And now the goddam homing device has shut down. Of course,” he added wryly, “you know who designed it”

  Tusk breathed a soft, relieved sigh.

  Dixter glared at him.

  “Sorry, sir,” Tusk said, half ashamed of himself. “I know this is serious, but—damn it—Xris must have some logical explanation.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear it!” Dixter muttered. “But this leaves me no choice. Captain?” He turned to the communications chief. “I am calling a holo-conference with all flag-grade officers in the fleet now—Alpha One priority.”

  Everyone in the comm room exchanged glances. No one even pretended to work. Dixter started for his office, Tusk in accompaniment. Once they were alone, in the small corridor that separated Dixter’s office from the comm room, Tusk leaned near.

  “You were relieved,
too, sir. Weren’t you?”

  “In case it hasn’t occurred to you, Commander,” Dixter said grimly, “we may be facing armed rebellion, a revolution. Or a mass assault from the Corasian Empire. The next order I’m about to give will throw the fleet into disarray, disrupt Naval operations in every sector of the galaxy.”

  Dixter fumbled in his pocket, produced more antacid tablets, threw them in his mouth, and crunched them down.

  Pausing at the door to his office, he said quietly, “Yes, maybe I was.” Then, shaking his head, he added, “But I shouldn’t have been.”

  With that, he entered.

  “Bennett, I will be holding a holo-conference with my flag officers.”

  Bennett’s gaze flicked over the Lord Admiral’s uniform. The aide counted two coffee stains on the sleeve and what appeared to be the remnants of a bran muffin on the breast.

  “I’ll send to your quarters for your other uniform, sir.”

  “No time for that!” Dixter snapped, heading for the conference table.

  Bennett planted himself in front of the Lord Admiral. The aide said nothing, but stared pointedly at the bran muffin crumbs.

  Dixter looked down.

  “Do what you can, then,” he said impatiently.

  Bennett moved in, brushing and buttoning and straightening seams.

  Caught, Dixter waved his hand toward the vid panel. “Tusk, get everything set up.”

  “That is the best I can manage under the circumstances, my lord,” Bennett said severely. “I suggest you keep your hands folded and your arms on the table.” He indicated the coffee stains.

  “I wish that was the worst I had to worry about.” Dixter grimaced, tugged at the constricting collar. “How are we coming, Tusk?”

  “Taking roll call now, sir.”

  “If you will excuse us, Sergeant-Major.”

  The aide left the room. Tusk, seated at the console, nodded, indicated they were ready. Dixter sat down at the large conference table. Clasping his hands together, he placed his arms on the desk.

  The holographic images of fifty-one officers of rear admiral rank or higher appeared around the conference table. Some looked sleepy, had obviously been dragged out of their beds. One alien was still fumbling with her translator. Others, sensing that something big was up, looked alert, apprehensive. One of them—Admiral Lopez—looked sick.