The Knights of the Black Earth (44 page)

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?”

Raoul’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.

I came like Water,
and like Wind I go.

Edward FitzGerald,
The Ruba
ly
at 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 penal
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.

Tycho wasn’t
wearing a uniform—no human-issue type would fit the alien’s tall, slender
physique. But he had obligingly changed skin color in order to blend in. Raoul
had tucked his long hair up under his hat, was dressed in uniform, sort of—if
one discounted the glittering rhinestone earrings and other pieces of gaudy
jewelry he’d added to “liven things up.” Since the Adonian was to remain on
board the plane, with orders to participate in the raid only in case of emergency,
Xris hadn’t wasted time in arguing. Raoul was applying his lipstick with
particular care—it was the poisoned variety. Xris watched a moment, turned
away. He hoped to God it wouldn’t come to that.

As for the Little
One’s disguise, Raoul had pinned commander’s bars onto the fedora—with what
intent or purpose Xris had no idea and knew better than to ask. He started to
pull out a twist, decided against it, stashed the case in his pocket. He might
be picked up on visual and he had to look the part.

“We’re ready.
Begin transmission.”

Harry flipped a
switch, activated the distress signal. He sat back, wiped his face again.

The response was
immediate.

“Navy Four Four
Lima Three, this is Zen Rengazi Naval Control. Do you receive me?”

Harry opened a vid
channel. “Zen Rengazi, this is Navy Lima Three. We are declaring an in-space
emergency. We require landing clearance at your facility.”

The female ensign
whose face appeared on the screen didn’t blink, didn’t pause. “Navy Four Four
Lima Three, you are
not
cleared for docking. Repeat:
Do not dock.
Proceed to the civilian facility at Veer Rengazi.”

“Damn it, Zen
Rengazi!” Harry banged his fist on the console. “Your own fuckin’ censors
should tell you that we can’t survive a planetary landing! Our goddamn computer’s
malfunctioning and our goddamn shielding’s down and that includes our goddamn
heat shields! Ma’am,” he added belatedly.

Harry’s anger and
frustration weren’t all play-acting. His sweat was real. He’d actually shut the
shields down and there was nothing more vulnerable in space than a Schiavona
with no shields.

Rowan had warned
them that the Naval facility wouldn’t dare countermand the orders given under
Operation Macbeth. Xris’s contention was that the commander of one
insignificant NOROF post—which, since it was unarmed, couldn’t possibly be
considered a threat to anyone—would be likely to make an exception in the case
of a dire emergency. He waited tensely to see which of them had been right.