Knights Of The Black Earth

by Margaret Weis

  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 barred 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 groul> 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 offhandedly, 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 clean 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 mind 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 longawaited 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 absentmindedly 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, t
he 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 nullgray-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 end.

  "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?"

  "God is with us. The mission is go."

  The Knight Commander ended communication.

  The Knight Officer paused a moment, waited for the seconds to blink down. Then he was on the comm.

  "Zulu time--sixteen hours. Mission is go. I repeat. Mission is go."

  "We have sixteen hours, by my calculations," said Xris. "What's our status?"

  The team had assembled in the launch module. The drop shity--intruder shields up--had come out of hyperspace, was now lurking about the far fringes of the Ceres system, avoiding any vessel that looked the least official. Fortunately, most space traffic traveled in from a major Lane located near Ceres itself. And if any Navy ship would happen to mn across them, Operation Macbeth gave the team a perfect reason to sit tight and keep quiet.

  "I've been monitoring the newsvids," Raoul reported. "According to news anchor James M. Warden, who is reporting live from the location... Have you ever noticed the whiteness of that man's teeth? It is said that they are all his own, down to the last bicuspid. He must use--" "Back on track, Raoul," Xris said patiently.

  The Loti rerouted himself. "Ah, yes. Where was IT"

  The Little One reminded him.

  "Opening ceremonies. They will take place on the steps of the Temple of the Goddess. The same place"--Raoul waved a hand at Xris--"in which we had our most stimulating, albeit terrifying, adventures. A viewing stand has been erected to accommodate the king and queen and the numerous dignitaries during the ceremony. After that, Their Majesties will retreat inside the temple for a private religious service, which will not be made public. As you know, my friend, it is extremely difficult to get inside the temple. Security has been tightened since the attempted kidnapping of the queen."

  "So if the knights are going to assassinate the king, their best plan would be to strike during the opening ceremonies."

  "His Majesty would be an ideal target," Rowan said thoughtfully. "Seated on a platform out in the open. His bizarre and mysterious death witnessed by millions. Yes, that would be the time I would kill him."

  "When do the ceremonies begin?"

  "High zenith two descending," Raoul replied promptly. "Ceres time."

  Xris glared at him. "Put that in real time."

  Raoul's eyelids fluttered. "Real time. What an extraordinary concept. When time itself is an arbitrary device, inflicted upon events by those who--Oh, very well." Sighing, he began counting on
his fingers. "Ten hundred hours. Eleven hundred hours. Twelve hundred... I always get confused after that. Twelve hundred is high zenith. Thirteen hundred would be high zenith one descending. High zenith two descending would be--Where was I?"

  "Fourteen hundred," Xris said grimly. "Jamil, doublecheck that. Next: locating the negative wave device. Did the computer files we stole from the knights give us any clue what it looks like or how it's going to be disguised?"

  "Sorry, my friend," Quong said. He and Rowan both shook their heads. "We've been over it and over it and nothing."

  "How do we locate the damn thing, then?" Jamil demanded. "Sniff it out?"

  "We use this." Rowan tossed a long thin sheet of paper, which curled around Xris's arm like a flat snake.

  He stared at it curiously. "Looks like my EKG the last time my battery malfunctioned."

  To his astonishment, Rowan cast him a hurt and angry glance, irritably snatched the tape back.

  "So what is this?" Xris asked, wondering what he'd said to upset her.

  "A spectral analysis of the power source of the negative wave device," she returned, her voice cool.

  "But we don't know what the power source is," Jamil protested.

  "We don't need to, do we, Dr. Quong?"

  The Doc smiled, nodded complacently. "I will explain. Because of the power band the device uses, it emits a bizarre wave pattern that can be picked up if you know what you're looking for. If not, you'd never notice it. That wave pattern is, effectively, the signature of the negative wave device. Once the knights turn it on, that signature will show up on our monitor. We set it to locate the source, and we have them."

  "There will be a time lapse while they bring the machine up to full power in order to activate the device," Rowan added. "Unfortunately, we can't be sure how long that will take, but hopefully enough to enable us to find them and stop them."

  Harry, completely lost, scratched his head. "What's to keep us from blowing up some microwave pizza joint?"

  "That would be one well-cooked pizza," Rowan told him, smiling. She was obviously growing fond of Harry. "No other microwave on the planet--on any planet, for that matter--would be this powerful or have quite this same configuration."