The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  The commander of NOROF stood beside the operations officer. Both of them were staring intently out the gigantic observation screen.

  “They’re breaking free,” said the commander.

  “Yes, sir,” Ops returned. “Sorry, sir, but those mooring clamps were never meant to hold under that kind of pressure.”

  “Can engineering lock the tractor beam onto them?”

  “No, sir. We’re faced with the same situation we had when they flew in here. That pilot is damn good. Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s like trying to track a mosquito with a flashlight. We can hit the ship with the beam, but the second we’re ready to lock on, he’s flown out of it.”

  “Very well.” The commander stared back out the viewscreen.

  Ops shrugged, shook his head. “Maybe if we had tracking equipment as sophisticated as those on the big cruisers ...” He shrugged again.

  “Maybe.” The commander agreed. He watched in silence as the hijacked drop ship successfully eluded all attempts to capture it.

  “They’ve jettisoned their spaceplane,” Ops reported. “We’ve got hold of it.”

  “Nice we can do something,” the commander said acidly.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ops. “Hijacked ship has made the jump, sir.”

  The commander could see that for himself. The drop ship had disappeared into the black void of the Lane. The commander returned to his office.

  The debriefings of the Marines who had attempted to stop the hijacking were on his desk. Also the interview with the artificer third class who had been taken hostage. The commander read them, pondered them, read them again.

  Odd, he thought. Damn odd.

  He reflected, then he gave his computer instructions.

  “Put me through to Naval Headquarters, the Lord Admiral. Use the emergency code. Bring them up on-screen.”

  He sat back and waited. It didn’t take long. A pleasant-faced young officer appeared. “I am sorry, Commander, but due to Operation Macbeth, your access has been denied. Please refer to Section 8, paragraph—”

  “I know, Lieutenant,” the commander cut in crisply. “I need to leave a message. The matter is urgent, of the highest importance. I can do that much, can’t I? Belay that,” he added hastily, guessing by the lieutenant’s frown that he was about to cut the commander off. “Tell the Lord Admiral or whoever needs to know that the men he’s after—that cyborg and his commandos—were here on this facility. They hijacked a drop ship. We tried to stop them but failed. Add this, however. And this is important, Lieutenant.

  “The cyborg told one of my men, quote: ‘Tell the Lord Admiral that the king’s life is in danger. Twenty-four hours from now. On Ceres.’ The cyborg risked his life to deliver that message. Do you want me to repeat it?”

  “No, Commander, I copy. Thank you, sir.”

  The screen went dark. The commander sat back in his chair, stared through his own small viewscreen into the patch of black where he’d last seen the drop ship—a bright spark that had suddenly winked out. He stared at it a long time, repeated, “Damn odd,” to himself. Then, heaving a sigh, he went off to console the enraged captain—former captain—of the drop ship.

  Chapter 34

  If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 5, Scene S

  “His Majesty will receive you both in a few moments, Sir John, Commander Tusca. If you would like to walk in the Gallery while you wait, I’m certain it will not be long. His Majesty is just finishing breakfast.”

  The king’s confidential secretary and assistant, D’argent, led Tusk and Dixter down a hallway that had become known as the Gallery, for the works of contemporary art which adorned its walls. The artwork was exhibited on a rotating basis, all pieces personally selected by either the king or queen. It was a rare honor for artists to have their work selected, an honor that guaranteed them fame and fortune.

  Despite their worries, both men found their steps slowed, gazes constantly shifting from one painting to another. The two had differing tastes. Dixter was fond of abstract art, preferring to find his own messages in a painting. Tusk liked, as he put it, “an apple that looks like an apple, not something that my kid barfed up after dinner.”

  All art forms were represented in the Gallery, including sculpture, photography, tapestries, and an example of the new and highly controversial “plant” art.

  “That painting’s a Youll, if I’m not mistaken,” Dixter said, pausing before a portrayal of a spectacular spaceplane battle between a Corasian fleet and Royal Navy forces on the frontier.

  “I like that,” Tusk said emphatically. “Makes you feel like you’re right there.”

  “Doesn’t it?” said Dixter dryly. He had never enjoyed spaceflight. “I prefer this.”

  “The Gutierrez.” D’argent nodded. “Quite exquisite. A commissioned piece, actually. Presented as a gift to His Majesty by a group known as the Knights of the Terra Nera. Have you ever heard of them?”

  Tusk and Dixter indicated that they had not.

  “The name means Knights of the Black Earth.” D’argent translated the Latin, and such was the secretary’s charm and skill that he managed to impart the knowledge without sounding condescending. He seemed to imply that the other two knew the translation all along, were merely testing him. “Gutierrez is known for his planetscapes. This is a representation of Earth, along with its moon.”

  “Doesn’t look much like it,” Dixter said, eyeing the painting. “The last I saw of old Earth, it was all kind of gray and mottled.”

  “This is ancient Earth,” D’argent explained. “When it was known as the ‘Blue Jewel’ of the galaxy. Actually, this painting came with rather a strange message: ‘One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also rises.’ That’s the translation. From the Holy Bible, of course,” he added off-handedly, confident that they had both recognized it. “Ecclesiastes.”

  Tusk nodded, said, with all seriousness, “Ecclesiastes. I think he was one of my old drill sergeants.”

  D’argent smiled politely.

  Dixter wasn’t smiling. “ ‘One generation passeth away.’ That sounds like a threat.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” D’argent agreed. “We ran it through security.” He gave a delicate shrug. “At least it was more original than most, I’ll give them credit for that. And His Majesty is quite taken with the painting.”

  A servant appeared, opened double doors that led to an outdoor terrace. Catching sight of D’argent, the servant gave a slight nod.

  D’argent acknowledged the signal. “His Majesty will see you now. This way, gentlemen, please.”

  The morning was beautiful, as always on Minas Tares, home planet of the galactic government. The weather was rarely inclement and when it was, even the rain fell in a gentle and picturesque manner. This day dawned bright and clear. The young king and queen were relaxing on their patio, taking advantage of the few precious moments of privacy and relaxation accorded them by their hectic schedules.

  An abundance of flowers and plants gave the patio a rustic, homey look, filled the air with fragrance. The Glitter Palace housed an enormous botanical garden made up of rare and exotic plants brought from all over the galaxy. Hordes of experts and gardeners labored in it, made it a showplace. By contrast, all the plants on the patio had come from either the queen’s home planet of Ceres or the desert world of Syrac Seven, which had been Dion’s home. Both of them tended the plants, which ranged from roses to sagebrush and were grown in clay pots or cedar boxes—the patio was twenty-five stories off the ground. The plants appeared to be thriving in their disciplined, constrained environment, perhaps because of the care lavished on them.

  This patio had come to be a favorite sanctuary for the royal couple. Very few people were permitted entry—only those considered close friends.

  “We hope you don’t m
ind the informal setting,” Dion said, smiling and rising to his feet, as he always did when in Dixter’s presence.

  “On the contrary, I am honored,” the Lord Admiral responded.

  Tusk glanced around, sniffed the air. “That smell, the sage. Always reminds me of that night on Syrac Seven. The night Sagan came after you, kid. I mean—Your Majesty.”

  “The night you sat on my chest and slammed my head into the dirt,” Dion recalled, smiling.

  “Had to keep you quiet. You would have gotten us both killed. Well, maybe just one of us.” Tusk shook his head. “Sagan wouldn’t have killed you, at any rate. Not that we knew that at the time. We didn’t know much of anything. Sort of like now.”

  Dion appeared somewhat startled at this off-the-wall remark, waited for Tusk to explain himself.

  Tusk raised his eyebrows, cast a significant glance at Dixter, then walked over to investigate the sage.

  Further perplexed, Dion turned to the Lord Admiral. But Dixter was talking to the queen.

  “It’s good to see you, my lord.” Astarte was widely acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful women in the galaxy and her pregnancy had added to her beauty, not detracted. Within a month of her time to deliver the long-awaited and much anticipated heir to the throne, she looked radiant and, most important, happy— both in her pregnancy and in her marriage.

  The time had been, not long ago, when that could not have been said. But that is another story and it was now in the past. She and her husband were friends, if not precisely lovers. Each held a genuine regard and respect for the other. Nourished and tended with the same care they gave their plants, love might yet take root and grow.

  “How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” Dixter asked, bending down to kiss the queen’s hand.

  Astarte caught his hand in hers, pulled him close, tilted her face to be kissed. “Come, Sir John.” She laughed. “No such constraints between us. You are the baby’s godfather and that makes you my father, in a way.”

  Dixter kissed the petal-soft cheek. His face was flushed, uncomfortably warm. “I am truly honored and flattered, Your Majesty, but I really think you should reconsider that decision. I’m too old—”

  “Our minds are made up,” Dion interrupted. “It has all been discussed, written down, documented, officially stamped, sealed, and stowed away. Even the prime minister agrees. If something were to happen to me, sir”—the king fell back into the old way of talking, as if he were once more the kid Tusk had rescued from Warlord Sagan, Dixter once more the outlawed mercenary general—”my last moments will be easier knowing you are there.”

  “Thank you, son,” Dixter said, a huskiness in his throat. “This is the greatest honor, the best compliment—” He stopped, coughed, and, frowning, turned away to pretend to contemplate the magnificent view from the balcony.

  “Coffee, my lord?” D’argent was pouring.

  Dixter shook his head.

  “Coffee for you, Commander?”

  “No, thanks, D’argent.” Tusk, nervous and moody, had absent-mindedly begun to pull leaves off the sage.

  Dion and Astarte recognized the symptoms. They exchanged glances. The queen rose, rather cumbersomely, to her feet.

  “I will bid you good morning, gentlemen.”

  “If you could stay a moment, Your Majesty.” Dixter turned around. “This concerns you both, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, it has something to do with what we’ve just been discussing.”

  Astarte resumed her seat, sat with her hands resting on her swollen abdomen.

  “I thought that might be the case,” Dion said calmly. “You have more information about the Mohini kidnapping?”

  “Not precisely.” Dixter ran a hand over his chin, noticed that he’d missed a spot shaving this morning. “If anything, the situation’s grown more confused.”

  “According to Olefsky,” Dion said, “Xris told him it was all a mistake. Have you heard Xris’s side of the story?”

  Dixter was mildly exasperated. “Olefsky! You’re not supposed to be in contact with anyone, Your Majesty.”

  Dion smiled ruefully. “You know the Bear. When he couldn’t get through to me via the usual channels, he flew here to see me in person. ‘Attempts against your life are a compliment, laddie.’ “ Dion imitated, as best he could, the Bear’s rumbling baritone. “ ‘It means your enemies take you seriously. Be worried when they don’t threaten you!’ “

  “And then he laughed, broke a vase, and demolished an antique book stand.” Astarte sighed, shook her head.

  “It is not a laughing matter, Your Majesty,” Dixter said gravely. He looked over at Tusk.

  “Yes, sir.” Tusk sat bolt upright. “A report came in that one of our NOROFs was attacked by a group whose descriptions match those of Xris and his commandos. They hijacked a drop ship.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Dion asked.

  It was Dixter who answered. “No, Your Majesty. Xris is apparently going out of his way to avoid harming people—”

  “Just like I said. He’s on our side,” Tusk added. He caught Dixter’s grim gaze, looked abashed. “Sorry, sir.”

  “According to the report, Xris passed along this message. Here, let me read it.” Dixter removed a small computer notepad from his pocket. “ ‘Tell the Lord Admiral that the king’s life is in danger. Twenty-four hours from now. On Ceres.’ That report came in eight hours ago.”

  Again the king and queen exchanged glances. Beyond that, neither reacted. Astarte asked, in quiet tones, for D’argent to pour her another cup of tea.

  “Are you certain you won’t have any coffee, my lord?” Dion inquired.

  Dixter heaved a frustrated sigh. “Your Majesty—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, sir.”

  The king rose to his feet. He walked over to where the sage grew in its large clay pot and, like Tusk, plucked several of the leaves. Dion ground them between his fingers. The air was suddenly filled with the sharp, pungent odor.

  “You’re going to say that this is one threat I should take seriously, either because Xris is involved in it or”— Dion looked up, smiled; the Starfire blue eyes were clear and sunlit and dazzling— “or because he isn’t. You don’t seem to know which.”

  Dixter, feeling somewhat foolish, started to speak.

  The king raised his hand. He was suddenly cool and imperious. He had retreated into his formal self; even his appearance altered. He was, unquestionably, the king.

  “We want you to know, sir, that we take all these threats seriously. We take sensible precautions.”

  “I am well aware of that, Your Majesty,” Dixter argued earnestly. “I’m not suggesting you cancel this trip, but you could alter your plans. Change the date, perhaps.”

  “Would that really help? Speaking of Lord Sagan, what was that dictum of his?” Dion reflected. “ ‘If a man is truly determined to kill you, he will. There is nothing you can do to stop him.’ In order to be completely safe, we would be forced to move to a nullgrav-lined bunker a hundred kilometers below ground. And even then, I suppose someone could blow up the planet.”

  He tossed the crumpled sage leaves back into the soil, much in the manner of a man scattering flowers over a grave. Then, wiping his hands and clasping them behind his back, he turned around.

  “We thank you for your trouble, my lord, Commander Tusca. But today’s trip to Ceres is most important, both to Her Majesty and myself. We will not cancel it, nor can we alter arrangements that have been months in the planning and preparation. The diplomatic consequences alone would be disastrous. We will, however, pass your concerns on to the captain of the Royal Guard. Captain Cato will be in contact with your office to receive the details.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of details, Your Majesty,” Dixter said ruefully. “That’s part of the problem. I’d feel better if I knew what we were up against. But ... we still have sixteen hours. . ..”

  He motioned to Tusk. The two prepared to leave, well aware that the interview was at e
nd.

  “Keep a lookout, kid,” Tusk said in an undertone, gripping Dion’s arm.

  “I will, Tusk,” Dion said softly. “Thanks.”

  “God bless and keep both Your Majesties.” Dixter bowed.

  “He does, my lord,” Dion responded. “He does.”

  “The king’s death will appear extremely mysterious. The weapon will leave hardly any trace. Not even the most careful autopsy, performed by someone who is familiar with the unusual genetic makeup of Blood Royal, would reveal the true cause of death, since the micromachines will all be destroyed. It will look as if the hand of God has struck the king down.” The Knight Officer was making his report.

  “It is God who strikes, Knight Officer. We but work His divine will,” the Knight Commander reminded his subordinate. “Once the king is dead, we will claim responsibility through divine intercession.”

  “Yes, Knight Commander.” The Knight Officer’s response was subdued; he was sensible of being reprimanded. He continued.

  “As for the primary negative wave device itself, it functions well, far beyond expectations. It is easily disguised. The waves are not visible, nor are they detectable by any means. They are completely harmless to everyone but the king. He will drop down dead. The people standing around him will suffer absolutely no ill effects. The waves penetrate all shields, including laser-proof steelglass. Only divine intervention could save His Majesty.”

  “Unlikely. Still, we will take no chances. You have completed the construction of the smaller, handheld device?”

  “Yes, Knight Commander. It has been made to your specifications, but...” The Knight Officer’s voice trailed off. What he had been about to say amounted to criticism of the head of his order.

  “What is it, Knight Officer? Is there a problem?”

  “The unit requires a power source, Knight Commander. The device itself is disguised as you required. It looks innocent enough, but the power source—”

  “All is arranged. You have your orders. Proceed.”

  “The mission is go, Knight Commander?”