The Knights of the Black Earth (51 page)

The king and queen
would arrive just as the last of the others were being seated. It was during
the interval of these few minutes that Warden would conduct his interview.

He was just
conceding to his director, via commlink, that it seemed unlikely he’d have a
chance to talk with anyone else, when he caught sight of the Lord of the
Admiralty making an unexpected—to judge by the reaction of the Royal Guard— inspection
tour.

Warden advanced to
meet Dixter. The two came together in the midst of the fray, like enemy
generals meeting on a hillside above a battle. They had known each other for
years, had mutual respect for each other, if not mutual regard.

“Delighted to see
you, my lord,” Warden said, shaking hands. “Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”

“I happened to be
in the vicinity,” Dixter parried, “and thought I’d stop by.”

Warden went in
from another angle. “Any truth to the rumor that Operation Macbeth was put into
effect in response to the discovery that rebellion was fomenting among the
members of the armed forces?”

Warden obliquely
motioned his assistant, a cam-wielding young man, to switch on his vidcam, get
a good shot of the two of them, just in case the Lord Admiral happened to let
anything slip.

Dixter smiled. “No
truth to that rumor at all, Mr. Warden. We are, as we said, conducting Naval
exercises.”

Warden gazed
intently at the Lord Admiral’s face. “Do you always find Naval exercises so
stressful, my lord?”

“When you detest
spaceflight as much as I do, yes,” Dixter returned mildly. “That’s public
knowledge, by the way. You won’t get any mileage from seasick admiral stories.”

Warden grinned
amiably. “There goes my lead for tonight’s broadcast. Now what about the rumors
that your top code breaker has disappeared and that Naval security has been
breached? Anything to that?”

“I can assure you,
Mr. Warden, and the public, that galactic defenses remain strong.” Dixter added
politely, firmly, “And now, I’m certain you will excuse me. The other guests
are arriving.”

James M. Warden
straightened his tie, motioned the young assistant to pan the crowd. He cast a
bored glance at the first arrivals; these would be local government officials
and their wives—small fish, not worthy of notice.

Warden spoke into
his commlink. “Something’s up. The Lord Admiral’s here and he’s not supposed to
be. Contact your sources in the Navy and find out what the devil’s going on.”

It was hot
standing here in the sun. Warden did not want to be seen sweating; he walked
over to stand in the shade of the purple bunting. Someone found a chair for
him. His makeup artist swooped down on him, began to make minor retouches.
Warden watched the continuing procession of dignitaries with bored eyes. The
cameraman was filming a group of children armed with flowers to be presented to
the queen.

“Cute, aren’t
they?” Warden said to his producer.

“Yeah.” The woman
didn’t glance at them.

“It will make a
nice opener.”

“I’ll see that it
feeds to editing. Any idea why the Lord Admiral’s here?”

“I’ve got someone
on it.”

The producer
nodded and left.

The dignitaries
were becoming increasingly important. The cameraman switched his cam from the
children to the new arrivals. Warden nodded affably at these, occasionally
waved his hand. The greetings were either returned warmly or not returned at
all, depending on what he’d last reported about the individual in question.

Many people
remained yet to be seated, when Warden noted heads turning, the minor
officials—relegated to the back—craning their necks to see what was going on.
Whispers swept through the crowd.

“The king and
queen are arriving,” reported an assistant.

Warden had already
glimpsed the sleek limojet with its massive armor plating and steelglass
windows. A private area for the interview had been set up beneath a canopy. It
was provided with comfortable chairs and even a refreshment table. The Royal
Guard had the canopy cordoned off, was now scanning the chilled fruit for
poison. Warden could hear the faint hum presaging a break in the electronic
net. Other members of the Royal Guard went prowling through the stands.

Warden strode
leisurely over to meet Their Majesties. The queen was beautiful, radiant. The
king was smiling, dignified, coolly aloof and detached, but not offensively so.
He was what his subjects wanted in a king, someone sublime, perfect, set apart.
He was all of that and more and yet he had the rare gift to be able, on
occasion, to descend from his lofty throne and remind his subjects that he was
mortal—as were they.

The children were
being shepherded forward to deliver their flowers. They were frightened by the
commotion, overwhelmed by the prospect of being this near the king and queen.
All made it, except one little boy, who dropped his flowers and burst into
tears. The king knelt to the child’s level, ruffled the hair on the small bent
head with a gentle hand. Then, picking the flowers up from the dust, the king
offered them to the queen, who accepted them with a gracious smile, a
comforting word.

“That’s the Blood
Royal in him,” Warden remarked to his cameraman.

“This will have
them in tears,” the cameraman predicted, his cam following the little boy, who
was looking bewildered but happy, not certain what had happened, yet
realizing—from the fuss the grown-ups were making—that he’d done something
remarkable.

“Poor kid’ll
probably develop a phobia about flowers,” said the producer.

The dignitaries
continued to arrive. The king and queen had come early for the interview in
order to be on time for the opening ceremonies. King Dion was noted for his
punctuality, made it a point to always be where he was supposed to be on time,
insisted on doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing on time. This was
undoubtedly due to the king’s tight schedule—a minute late here could mean
hours late somewhere else. And so no longer was it considered appropriate to be
“fashionably late.” The fashionably late often discovered that His Majesty had
started without them.

King and queen
were accompanied by Archbishop Fideles, whose religion was once viewed as being
a rival to that of the Goddess. The archbishop had worked hard to close the
gap, was doing everything possible to make the two differing faiths compatible.

Baroness DiLuna
was also in attendance. This was her moment of triumph and she was just brazen
enough to exhibit it. She would have some choice remarks today.

Captain Cato, who
had once served the late Derek Sagan, kept near the Royal Couple, watchful eyes
scanning the crowd. John Dixter was also on hand.

“That man hasn’t
slept in seventy-two hours,” Warden said to himself.

His comm buzzed in
his ear.

“What’ve you got?”

“Operation Macbeth
has been canceled.”

“Did they find
that missing major? What was her name— Mohini?”

“No, sir. Or if
they have, my source doesn’t know about it. The Navy’s changed all the codes.
Everything appears to be back to normal.”

“Not from where I
stand,” Warden said, eyeing the obviously nervous Lord Admiral. “Something’s
up. Keep digging.”

The king’s
secretary, D’argent, appeared at Warden’s elbow. The secretary announced that
they were ready for the interview, hinted that His Majesty wasn’t to be kept
waiting.

Warden advanced,
bowing, the cameraman following every move. The king and queen turned to greet
him. Pleasantries were exchanged; offers of fruit, champagne were politely
refused. Their Majesties sat down. Warden—on invitation—sat down. Cams zeroed
in. Warden had opened his mouth to ask his first question when his quick eye
noticed Admiral Dixter suddenly go rigid with attention. The admiral’s gaze
became the abstracted look of a man listening to a commlink connection.

The Lord Admiral
spoke only a few words, then touched Cato’s arm, said a few brief words to him.
The captain’s face remained impassive. He gave a sharp nod, gathered his men
about him with a gesture, and walked up to the king.

“Your Majesty.”
Cato’s tone was low, cool, urgent. “You and the queen must return to the
limojet now.”

Warden watched
attentively. The king glanced swiftly at the Lord Admiral. Expression anxious
and grim, the admiral nodded, confirmed whatever silent question the king had
asked. Dion rose, gave his hand to the queen. Astarte extended her apologies
calmly, managed to make this all look as if she were returning to the limojet
to retrieve a forgotten lipstick.

Warden was on his
feet, hastening after the king, the cameraman at his side.

The Royal Guard
closed their ring of steel around the Royal Couple, husded them back to the
safety of the limojet.

“What’s happening?”
Warden demanded, frustrated.

A ripple of motion
and a collective gasp from the crowd attracted his attention. His commlink
buzzed.

“You’re right, Mr.
Warden. Something is up. The Navy’s gone on red alert around this planet! My
source doesn’t know why.”

“I do,” said James
M. Warden.

He stared in
astonishment as a drop ship plummeted out of the blue, cloudless sky, thrusters
firing to slow its descent.

At first Warden
thought the ship was intending to land in the midst of the million or so people
gathered to watch the ceremonies—in which case the carnage and death would be
horrendous. He was directing his cameraman not to miss that shot, when he
realized he had misjudged the entry. The drop ship was actually landing in a
parking lot about one kilometer from the platform.

An assassination
attempt? Armed uprising? A publicity stunt?

The king and queen
were being hastily and unceremoniously bundled into the limojet. The
dignitaries were bewildered, incensed, indignant, or hysterical; the Royal
Guard swarmed the platform.

Warden was in
contact with all his camera crews, which were positioned at various sites
throughout the city. “All of you, switch over to pick up that drop ship, except
you, number twelve.” That was the main GNN long-range image enhancer camera. “You
stay focused on the king.”

Warden lifted his
left hand, shoved back his suit coat and shirtsleeves, looked at his watch. He
depressed a small button located on the side of the dial, saw a tiny flash of
white light. He smoothed his suit coat, turned to his assistant.

“Bring your cam. I’m
going to try to get close enough for an interview.”

When opponents
present openings, you should penetrate them immediately. Get to what they want
first, subtly anticipate them. Maintain discipline and adapt to the enemy in
order to determine the outcome of the war.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

“Touchdown in
five, four, three—”

Two
and
one
were lost in the ear-shattering, spine-jamming, metal-screeching,
bone-crunching landing. The drop ship rocked precariously, during which Xris
could hear the PVC, strapped down in the center of the vehicle, shake and
rattle. He had sudden visions of several metric tonnes of armor-plated tank
breaking loose from its moorings, hurtling through the bulkheads, and careening
about the cramped confines of the launch module.

At least no one
would worry about recovering the bodies. They’d just wash out the module’s
insides with a fire hose.

The shaking
stopped. All was suddenly very silent, except for the hissing of the hydraulics
attempting to level the tilting floor.

Xris gave himself
a moment to recover from the shock, took time to make a few minor adjustments
to his system—red lights were going off up and down the length of his arm.
Then, unstrapping himself, he pushed himself out of his seat, was amazed at the
effort it took.

“Everyone okay?”
he asked.

He had heard of
people scared speechless, but this was the first time in his life he’d ever
encountered that phenomenon. No one said a word, not even a bad one. Most sat
in various frozen poses, white-knuckled hands clutching the arms of the chairs,
sweat beaded on their faces, eyes wide and staring. Two, however, appeared to
have enjoyed the ride.

Jamil swiveled
around to face them. “We’ve landed,” he announced. His handsome face was
grinning; he rubbed his hands. “God! I miss my days in the Army sometimes. I’d
forgotten what a rush that was!”

Apparently Raoul
agreed with him. The Loti was lying back limp in his chair. He looked up at
Xris with lustrous eyes.

“Wow!” Raoul
whispered dreamily.

But Xris had to
help Tycho stand. The alien was in a deplorable state, shaking so badly he
could barely get up out of his chair.

“Not healthy for a
sharpshooter,” Xris said. “Doc, can you give him something to calm him down?”

“What do you
suggest?” Quong demanded coldly. “A golden-beaded handbag or a string of
pearls? I have both in my medical kit.”

“Ah. Right. I
forgot.” Xris started to take out a twist, noticed his own hand was far from
steady. He went to check on Rowan.

She was up and out
of her chair, tottering but walking. She was headed, naturally, for the
computer. She gave Xris a wan smile.

“Now you know why
I joined the Navy,” she said faintly.

Quong came to
assist her. He sat beside her at his own console, and they began to coordinate
their search for the telltale negative wave signature.

Xris glanced at
the chronometer. They had arrived earlier than planned, earlier than the
appointed time—according to the knights’ own countdown. But their unexpected
and dramatic appearance might jolt the knights into action. Certainly Xris
hoped it had jolted the Royal Guard.

“Jamil, fire up
the PVC Devastator. Hopefully we won’t need to use it. We can just blast the
negative wave device to hell and back with the launch module’s lascannon.
Tycho, go up in the turret, check the cannon out. Make sure it wasn’t damaged
in the landing.”