The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Xris thought about it, said no. They’d have to find out the king’s traveling and speaking schedule, especially where he’d be at the end of fifty-eight hours. Olefsky could do that for them.

  Nodding, Harry went back to confirm the course before he went to bed. The others had already climbed into the hammocks and were soon at rest, rocking slowly back and forth with the motion of the spaceplane. Raoul remained where he was, curled up on one of the steel benches, his head on the Little One’s lap. The Little One remained awake, one small hand gently stroking Raoul’s shining black hair.

  Xris paused, stood in front of the Little One. The empath stared up at him with that one bright gleaming eye.

  “She’s telling me the truth, isn’t she?” Xris asked in a soft undertone. “About Armstrong, about the explosion, about everything. She’s telling the truth.”

  The single eye closed, opened again. The fedora bobbed up and down.

  “And I’ve put her life in jeopardy. I’ve blown her cover. I’ve killed her just as surely as if I had shot that poisoned needle into her.”

  The Little One made no response. The single eye flickered. Perhaps he hadn’t understood a word Xris had said.

  It didn’t matter. Xris knew the truth now anyway.

  He found his hammock by the lambent light shining from the cockpit down below, where the computer was awake and working. No one else was, except him. The silence of their sleep was thick and warm.

  That wouldn’t last long. Harry snored; Jamil ground his teeth. Tycho made a weird bubbling noise in his chest, like a teakettle coming to a boil, while Quong occasionally performed surgery in his sleep, talked himself through the operation. But for now, the plane was quiet.

  Xris lay in his hammock a long time, staring into the silence.

  Chapter 30

  One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

  Will stick more close than a brother . . .

  But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

  To the gallows foot—and after!

  Rudyard Kipling, Rewards and Fairies, “The Thousandth Man”

  “Xris,” said Harry, shaking him by the shoulder. “Xris. Wake up. We got trouble.”

  Xris was awake immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “We came out of hyperspace and contacted Olefsky on that special channel he gave us. He says that your house is under surveillance. Guys in suits. They’re monitoring space traffic. I did a long-range scan. There’s some sort of big ship around on the far side—”

  “Who’s got us under surveillance?” Xris tried to wake up.

  “Darlene says that it’s probably the bureau. Likely they got a make on us from the Navy before communications were shut down.”

  Xris fumbled for a twist. He eyed Harry. “Darlene?”

  Harry blushed. “Major Mohini.”

  “Rowan.”

  “All right, then. Rowan. Anyway, I jumped us back outta there. We’re in the Lanes again. A short hop. I didn’t know what you wanted to do.”

  Xris didn’t, either. He’d planned on communicating their information to Bear Olefsky, but that now appeared to be impossible, what with the bureau crouching in front of the hole, waiting for the mice. Besides, Xris reflected, what could I really tell Olefsky? That he’d believe? Or that would be at all helpful to the king or those guarding him?

  Keep on the lookout for a bunch of radical knights wielding a deadly microwave oven?

  He started to follow Harry, noticed a red light flashing on his arm. His battery was running low. Opening his leg compartment, he switched packs, put in a fresh charge. When that was done, Xris glanced at his chronometer. The assassination was scheduled to take place fifty-nine hours from when they’d left the Canis Major. Subtract ten hours for sleep and travel. They were down to forty-nine hours now.

  Xris went forward, descended into the cockpit. He found Rowan awake, looking rumpled and bedraggled. She was sitting in the copilot’s chair, staring bleakly out at the unending blackness of hyperspace. She looked depressed, unhappy. Harry looked guilty.

  “So what have you two been up to?” Xris demanded.

  Harry flushed again. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  “Come off it, Harry. You can’t lie your way out of a paper bag.” A Tychoism.

  “Don’t blame Harry, Xris.” Rowan rested her head on her hand. “I asked him to try to put me through to Dixter.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind.” Harry was defensive.

  “I had to, Xris,” Rowan continued. “Don’t worry. I didn’t put us in any danger. The call was brief.”

  “How brief?”

  “Very.” Her mouth twisted in that lopsided, sad smile. “Oh, well.” She shrugged it off. “I didn’t expect anything else.”

  But it was eating at her. And it occurred to Xris, for the first time, that Rowan had enjoyed life at RFComSec. She had worked long and tirelessly, gained the respect, esteem, and trust of her superiors. It was what—he knew suddenly—she had lived for. That, too, was ruined. Gone, beyond reclamation.

  Xris chewed on a twist, but even that noxious weed couldn’t eradicate the bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe, just maybe, this was one way he could make things good for her again.

  He rested his hand, his good hand, on her shoulder. The movement was awkward, clumsy. But her face was illuminated. She looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Her eyes dimmed with tears. She placed her hand over his, paused a moment to clear her throat. “I’m not. I hadn’t realized ...” She stopped, swallowed, started over. “I was in prison, Xris. A comfortable cell, but it was prison. Now I’m free. I’m free.”

  She swiveled the chair to move herself out from beneath his touch, briskly wiped her eyes and dragged her hand across her nose. “If we can’t talk to Dixter or Olefsky, we’re going to have to go it alone. The first thing we need to do is find out the king’s schedule of public appearances. We need to know where he’s going to be in two days’ time. Because that’s where the assassination attempt will take place.”

  “Ask Raoul,” Harry suggested. “He’s a Royal watcher. He reads all those gossip mags. If anyone would know, he would.”

  That was true. Raoul knew everything there was to know about the Royal Family, plus nine-tenths of what there wasn’t. Last year, Raoul and the Little One had been honored by a personal visit and commendation from Their Majesties for bravery and valor during the Ghost Legion incident. Raoul now considered himself a friend of the family and deemed it his right and duty to listen to every bit of gossip about their private lives, to know and criticize every dress in Her Majesty’s wardrobe, and to comment freely (and severely) on His Majesty’s taste in neckwear. The Adonian’s fondest dream was to emulate the queen’s ability to apply her eyeliner in a subtle, yet highly effective, manner.

  Xris climbed back up the stairs to the Schiavona’s living quarters. The rest of the team was awake and moving. Tycho and Jamil were both gone and, by the sounds of it, one of them was in the head, the other in the shower. Quong was in some sort of meditative state, his hands folded ceremoniously across his chest.

  The Little One was rummaging around in a pack, probably searching for something to eat.

  Raoul lay in a relaxed pose across the metal bench. The Loti’s eyes were heavy-lidded. He was smiling at nothing, lost, blissful. It wasn’t sleep he was drugged on, though where Raoul could have come across anything else was beyond Xris’s understanding. Then he glanced at the Little One, at the raincoat, with those capacious pockets. . .. Stupid question.

  Xris shook the Loti roughly by the shoulder.

  Raoul’s smile widened. His eyelids fluttered.

  Xris shook him again, dragged Raoul to a sitting position.

  Raoul leaned back against the bulkhead, opened his eyes, looked at Xris without apparent recognition.

  “Come off it, Loti,” Xris snapped. “I need information. Have you been keeping up on all your gossip mags?”

  Raou
l’s eyes blinked, semifocused. He sat up straight, looked down at the flight suit he was wearing, sighed deeply, and said in bored tones, “Of course.”

  “Is there any big event coming up that His Majesty is attending? Something that’s being well publicized? Think about it. This is important.”

  Raoul concentrated. His eyes narrowed, as if he were searching inside a crowded and confused closet. At that point the Little One emerged from the pack holding two bars of chocolate. He handed one to Raoul.

  “Ah, yes,” the Loti said softly, and lifted his gaze to Xris. “Perfect for them. Absolutely perfect.”

  “Perfect for who?”

  “The knights, of course. You said they were opposed to alien religions. In three days . . .”

  The Little One grunted, shook his head.

  “Beg pardon.” Raoul corrected himself solemnly. “In two days’ time, both Their Majesties will be on Ceres to celebrate their wedding anniversary and prepare for the forthcoming birth of the heir to the throne. It is rumored that the king and queen will then participate in the ritual to dedicate the unborn child to the Goddess.”

  “Which,” Rowan added, coming to stand behind Xris, “would infuriate the Knights of the Terra Nera. The king is formally acknowledging a religion established and developed on an alien planet. Not only that, but he’s giving his child—who is a descendant of Earth, so to speak—over to this alien culture.”

  Xris thought it over. “It sounds plausible, but remember—we only get one chance. If we guess wrong—”

  “It’s more than guessing. It fits with the time frame, doesn’t it?” Rowan looked at Raoul, who inclined his head in assent. “The knights have the motive and they’ll have the opportunity. The crowds on Ceres will be enormous, plus every reporter in the galaxy will be in attendance. They’ll get the publicity they seek.”

  “Live coverage,” said Raoul, “on all the major networks.”

  “Is there anything else on the king’s schedule?” Xris asked. “Anything near that time?”

  Raoul devoured the chocolate bar, considered, consulted the Little One by tugging on the sleeve of the raincoat. The Little One responded in the negative.

  “All right, everybody,” Xris called, “listen up.”

  Jamil emerged from the shower, stood wrapped in a towel. Tycho left the head, grumbling at Harry’s inability to jump into hyperspace without making everyone on board sick as something the cat dragged in. Quong sat up carefully, hung his feet over the edge of the hammock. Harry came from below. Rowan sat down on the edge of the seat beside Raoul. The Little One ceased rummaging.

  Xris explained the situation. “This is our one and only shot. If we blow it, we’ll never get another. I’ve got the beginnings of a plan, but it’s not subtle. It can’t be; we don’t have time. The knights, as well as everyone else in the galaxy, will see us coming.”

  “What if the knights figure we’re on to them already and stop the countdown?” Jamil asked. “After all, we did damn near take over their ship.”

  “All the more reason for them to act immediately,” Rowan argued. “Besides, I don’t think they’re on to us. Look at it from their point of view. We were after our friend. We found him and took him away. What did we see while we were there? Well-armed soldiers on board a research vessel. Okay, it might make us curious. We might figure they’re pirates or something, but we’re outlaws ourselves. We’re not likely to go running to the authorities.”

  “But we raided their computer—” Jamil protested.

  “I erased all my tracks. They’ll never be able to tell I was ever in there,” said Rowan.

  Jamil looked dubiously at Xris.

  The cyborg took out a twist, nodded. “If she says she did, she did.”

  Jamil appeared satisfied.

  “Any other questions? No? Then I guess it comes down to this: Do we go for it on Ceres? It’s not,” Xris added grimly, “going to be easy. You saw those guys on board the Canis Major. They’re professionals. Fanatics. They’re willing to kill for their cause and to die for it, as well. To make matters worse, the whole goddamn universe is out to get us, not them. I think we’ll be damn lucky if any of us—including the king—come out of this alive. I want you all to know that, up front. And finally— What?” he demanded.

  They all looked bored.

  Jamil yawned. “Cut to the important part. How much does it pay?”

  “The usual.”

  Jamil grunted. “I don’t know. Those guys are awfully good—”

  “All right, double.”

  “Your own personal account, not the corporation’s,” Tycho said.

  Xris shook his head. He was trying to keep from smiling.

  “My account.”

  “Before taxes,” Tycho insisted.

  “Before taxes,” Xris agreed.

  Jamil thought it over, raised a hand, thumb up.

  Tycho, doing some rapid calculating, indicated he was satisfied by turning a rosy shade of pink.

  Harry, confused, said, “What’s before taxes?”

  Raoul, his eyes closed against the boredom of discussing business, nudged the Little One, who tipped his fedora in response.

  Quong removed a small pocket computer, made a notation, studied it, pursed his lips, then, returning the computer to his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest—an indication that he accepted the deal.

  Rowan stared at them, shocked, disapproving. “This is your king! And for that matter, Xris is your friend—”

  Xris laid a hand on her shoulder, silenced her.

  “She’s been in the Navy seven years,” Xris said, in apology.

  The others solemnly nodded.

  Patriotism, loyalty, the last full measure. Crap. For the team, it all came down to plastic credits. Or so they made it seem. They were doing this for him. But they had to make it look good—in front of strangers.

  Someday, Xris thought, I’ll have to explain things to her.

  He glared around at the now-grinning group, pretended to be angry. “You characters drive a hard bargain. I’ll have to think about it.”

  Jamil waved a negligent hand. “Sure, take your time. Tycho here’ll draw up the contract. Oh, and, speaking of time, how much do we have?”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “You said you had a plan.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it some, yes,” Xris admitted, taking out a twist and lighting it.

  “What’s our first move?”

  Xris took a drag on the twist. “We go shopping.”

  Raoul opened his eyes.

  Chapter 31

  I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

  Edward FitzGerald, The Rubalyat of Omar Khayyam

  The long-range Schiavona slid out of the Lane and into the warm glow of Rengazi, an orange-yellow star circled by ten bustling, self-important planets. Located near an intersection of several highly traveled hyperspace lanes, Rengazi had been one of the first systems reached by human explorers. The climates of the various planets had not been at all suitable to human habitation, but the humans, noted among the galaxy’s races for their energy, ambition, and eagerness to make money, had either adapted to the mineral-rich planets’ environments or forced the planets to adapt to them.

  Consequently, Rengazi boasted the first major settlement to be established off-Earth. The fact that the settlers had all perished in a bioplague—caused by an attempt to cross Earth and native plant species, resulting in the creation of several amazingly deadly viruses—was beside the point. A statue had been erected to the intrepid humans, who looked particularly prehistoric and clunky in their bubble-shaped headgear and bulky space suits. A small matter such as lethal viruses had not kept the humans away long. Now space traffic in the area was crowded, congested. One long-range Schiavona with official Naval markings went unnoticed.

  The tenth planet, Zen Rengazi, was the most distant from the sun and, consequently, the least populated. Primarily a mining planet, it was also home to a large pen
al institution—a fact Jamil noted with grim irony—and its most important feature, as far as the team was concerned, was a NOROF, or Navy Orbital Rebuild and Overhaul Facility.

  Harry set the Schiavona’s course for that destination.

  “Not quite the shopping trip I had in mind,” Raoul remarked, sniffing.

  Xris gave the Adonian a soothing pat in passing, entered the cockpit.

  “Malfunctions working?” he asked with a wry grin.

  Harry gazed intently at the instrument panel; he’d shut down the computer’s shocked warnings and frantic squawks of alarm.

  “Yeah.” Harry wiped sweat from his face. “We now have no shields. Of any sort.” He gazed out at the enormous orbital platform—shining like a metal moon—emerging from the far side of the planet. “I hope to hell you’re right about them not having any guns.”

  Xris smiled, gave Harry a soothing pat. “Relax. That’d be like arming your neighborhood garage.”

  “Where I grew up, the mechanics carried more’n grease in their guns,” Harry muttered, gloomily watching an array of angry red lights begin to flash on the console. “Should I transmit the distress signal now?”

  Xris looked around. Jamil, Rowan, Quong, Harry, and himself were in Naval uniform. Rowan wore her own, which she’d been wearing when she took this unexpected trip. The rest were outfitted from the team’s extensive “wardrobe,” as Raoul termed it. Impersonating Naval personnel was highly illegal, of course, and if captured, they could all be executed as spies, but since, if captured, they were all likely to be executed anyway, Xris didn’t figure it much mattered. When flying a long-range Schiavona with military markings, it made sense to dress the part, and he’d ordered the uniforms brought on board against just such a contingency.

  If anyone at NOROF bothered to check, they’d find out that the Schiavona was registered as belonging to Olefsky’s “home guard” and that the uniforms should also be “home guard,” but with communications shut down because of Operation Macbeth, NOROF wouldn’t be able to check.

  “At least this damn Macbeth’s turned out to be good for something,” Jamil had remarked irritably.