“He’s feeling lucky,” Tycho observed.
Xris ignored him.
“Meanwhile, Raoul and Harry and Jamil take over the Olicien facility. Will you need access codes for the spaceplane, Harry?”
“With hyperspace drive and an XP-28, you can bet on it. The bug people won’t want to chance anyone taking joyrides in that baby. XP-28—my favorite computer system.” Harry rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “This is going to be a treat.”
“How long to secure the facility?” Xris looked at Jamil.
“Ten minutes. Twenty if we have to search for code cards and reprogram them.”
“I’ll give you thirty, just in case. Meet us at the plane at oh-nine-thirty. How long do you figure preparation for takeoff, Harry?”
“Not long. Most likely the course will already be laid into the computer. Ten minutes.”
“And we’ve got thirty. That gives us some breathing room. Everyone ready? Then let’s move out.”
Xris motioned to the ‘bot, who trundled up. The amount they owed flashed across its screen. Tycho entered the credit account number. The ‘bot thanked them and hoped they had a wonderful day.
“We intend to,” Xris told it as they left.
They climbed into the hovervan. Harry asked the computer for directions to Olicien Pest Control. A three-dimensional map appeared on the screen. They drove off.
Jamil studied the layout of the facility. Raoul had learned— under duress—how to draw a fairly clear diagram. But he found the task tedious in the extreme and Xris had never been able to break the Adonian of the habit of embellishing the mundane work with fanciful doodles. Jamil was forced to trace his route from the entrance to the manager’s office through several large beetles; two eyes and a smiling mouth had been added to the O of “Olicien.”
Quong worked on Harry’s “contraption”—a device meant to look like a souped-up bug killer, but which had other, far more interesting applications. Xris removed his business suit, put on body armor which had been modified to free up his cybernetic arm and leg, detached the useless cosmetic hand. From a compartment built into the leg, the cyborg removed one of his weapons hands, attached it to the arm.
Quong looked up from his work. “Which one is that?”
“Small rocket launcher.”
The rockets were heat-guided. Xris’s servoelectric eye processed the target’s image and downloaded it to the rocket just before launch. The small rocket would zero in on its prey with unerring efficiency.
“Heavy-duty for this job,” Quong observed.
“I trust I won’t have to use it,” Xris said quietly.
Quong said something else, but Xris pretended he didn’t hear. Once he was outfitted and had done a systems check, he took out a twist, moved over to sit next to the van’s open window for a smoke. He also pretended not to see that the others had exchanged glances all around. They were worried—not about the job, but about him.
Damn it, just let me alone! he told them silently. When this is finished, it’ll all be okay. And this is going to finish it. I know it. I’m due. I’ll be okay.
He watched the smoke from the glowing twist whip out the window, watched the end of the twist burn red in the rushing wind.
Quong finished work on Harry’s bug “contraption,” set it aside, and changed into body armor and fatigues. Tycho was wearing his armor beneath his civvies. A type developed specially by his people, the body armor was completely transparent, to accommodate his changes in skin coloration.
Chameleons are not accustomed to wearing clothing, which interferes with their natural ability to blend in with their surroundings. They are not, therefore, shy or modest. It had taken the other team members a short time to get used to Tycho’s transparent body armor. Now they no longer noticed. But the sight of the naked chameleon often came as a shock to other, more inhibited humanoids.
Once everyone was dressed, they settled back into their seats. Tycho assembled his beam rifle. He and Quong discussed the current rise in Royal Treasury bonds and whether or not Tycho thought the rise would continue and Quong should invest now or wait. Jamil checked his weapons and sang along in his rich baritone with the music from the local radio station. Harry enjoyed the drive. No one attempted to talk to Xris, although he could feel their anxious gazes slide over him, then slide quickly away. He smoked another twist.
They left the central city, buzzed over the suburbs, and entered a large industrial park, which appeared to be trying to hide the fact that it was an industrial park by camouflaging itself with trees, pruned hedges, and a few placid ponds. The buildings housing the various businesses were indistinguishable from one another—long, low warehouses trying valiantly not to look like warehouses.
A sign posted at the entrance to the park warned that space vehicles took off and landed on this site. Hovercraft were advised, for their own safety, to keep close to ground level and stay in the marked lanes.
“According to the map, we’re coming up on it, Xris,” Harry reported, peering intently at the various signs adorned with various company logos.
Xris left his seat in the rear of the van, came to sit beside Harry.
“You can’t miss it. The building’s painted bright yellow and there’s a giant plastic bug on the front lawn. By the way, the spaceplane’s painted the same color.”
Harry shook his head. “Hell of a thing to do to an XP-28. They’re sensitive, you know.”
“I know.” Xris was sympathetic. “You two can commiserate over it.”
Harry slowed the van. The others stared with interest out the window.
“Keep going,” Xris advised. “The airstrip is another kilometer on ahead, at the end of this tarmac. You can see the hangar—”
“It’s hard to miss,” Jamil said dryly.
“I’ve seen some ugly shades of yellow, but that’s the worst,” Quong stated. “Don’t you go turning color to match.” He poked Tycho in the ribs.
“I don’t believe that would be possible.” Tycho shuddered.
The van flew along the marked route past the Olicien facility, heading for the hangar.
“The takeoff site’s about a kilometer from the hangar, which puts it two kilometers from the main building. The hangar sits between the building and the spaceplane, so there’s not much chance that anyone happening to look out a window of the main Olicien building would see anything funny going on with their spaceplane. Just in case anyone did see us and took it into his head to report us to the local cops, Quong’s going to disrupt their communications, both phone and vidnet.”
“Just as long as the Doc doesn’t disrupt ours in the process,” Jamil said. “Remember the Guaranty Fidelity Bank security job?”
Quong stiffened. “That will not happen again, I assure you, Major Khizr! The device I have with me blocks microwave transmissions only. Our comms work on the VHF band. Therefore, Major—”
Xris was quick to intervene. When the doctor got formal, trouble loomed.
“Look”—Xris pointed—”they’ve got the spaceplane out.”
The others could barely see the plane. Jamil produced binocs. Xris adjusted the lens in his cybernetic eye, brought the distant plane into sharp focus.
“I can see four people from this angle. Here’s where we leave the marked route, Harry. Take us to that low rise over there, the one that overlooks the tarmac.”
Harry peered through the windscreen, nodded.
“Drop us off there,” Xris ordered.
Harry steered the hovercraft for the hill, brought the vehicle down for a gentle landing. Quong produced his scanner, did a quick search for other craft. They were alone. No other vehicles nearby.
Xris opened the back end of the van, climbed out. Quong, from inside, handed the equipment to him. Tycho—rifle in hand— jumped to the ground and immediately began studying the area, looking for the best possible site. When everything was unloaded and Xris had run through the checklist, he looked at his chronometer.
“Oh-e
ight-forty-five.” He turned back to the van. “On your way, Harry. Communications inside Olicien go down at oh-nine-hundred. We’ll see you at the spaceplane at oh-nine-thirty. Jamil— remember the code cards. Good-bye and good luck.”
Xris slammed shut the double doors. The van lifted off, headed back in the direction of the bright yellow building that was Olicien central.
“Move out,” Xris ordered Tycho. “Keep us covered. Stun setting.”
The tall alien nodded. He was already beginning to alter skin color, was now a mottled brown to match the brown bushes and scrub trees that dotted the barren hillside.
Xris and Quong gathered up their equipment, started walking down the slope. They headed for a creek that ran at an angle between the small hill and the spaceplane. The two splashed into the shallow water, proceeded upstream toward the tarmac and the spaceplane.
Xris stopped every few meters or so, scanned the area. He had lost sight of Tycho, but that wasn’t unusual. The alien was probably hunkered down in the brush. He’d be the exact color of the hillside itself by now.
Xris turned his attention to the van, which was just pulling into the parking lot of the Olicien facility. Harry and Jamil both climbed out, straightened their ties. Briefcases in hand, they entered the main door of the building.
0855.
Quong halted, took off his backpack. He removed a collapsible metallic dish, placed it on the ground on the edge of the creek bank, aimed the dish at the vidnet antenna on top of the Olicien building. Using a spectrum analyzer, he scanned the communication airwaves for the frequencies in use, downloaded the information into the dish.
Looking back at the analyzer, he said, “All blocked.”
0901.
Xris removed a grenade from his leg compartment, set its delay for six SMT hours, activated the detonation mechanism, and placed the grenade beside the metallic dish. He made it a practice to always take out the garbage.
Xris spoke into the commlink.
“Tycho, this is Xris, do you read me?”
“I read you loud and clear. I am in position. There are four targets on the tarmac in front of you.”
“I see them. I’m going to give them five minutes. With luck they’ll move to the far side of the plane. If not, you’ll have to take them out.”
“Understood.”
Xris didn’t want to have to cross the tarmac in full sight of God, the giant plastic beetle, and the crew of the spaceplane. He didn’t want a bunch of comatose bodies littering the ground, either. The sight of fellow crewmen dropping over was almost certain to cause someone to panic and then all hell would break loose.
“Come on,” he said to the crewmen under his breath. “Leave, damn it.”
Almost as if obeying his order, three men walked around to the far side of the plane. A fourth remained, however, working on a maintenance panel on the winglet.
“Go along, kid,” Xris told him. “Go follow after your buddies.”
Quong stood beside him, squinting against the sunlight, unable to see anything more than the plane itself.
“Oh-nine-oh-five, Xris.”
The doc was holding a short-barreled autogun. It could fire two hundred bursts per second and was known as a “corridor broom” for its capability of making a clean sweep of any small area. It had no stun capabilities, but it was Doc’s favorite weapon. Xris could trust Quong not to use it unless there was absolutely no other way out. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Xris was feeling lucky.
The mechanic shut the panel. Bending down, he picked up his tool kit, started walking away.
“Xris!” Tycho was back. “Go for it! I’ve got you covered!”
Xris began running across the tarmac. Running was not an easy task for the cyborg, and one he generally tried to avoid. The metal part of his body worked faster and better than the physical; the flesh-and-blood half seemed a drag on the artificial. Consequently, his run was awkward and ungainly. He felt uncomfortable, unstable, and off balance. In the back of his mind lurked the fear that he might stumble and fall and something vital inside him would short out. He had visions of himself lying helpless on the tarmac.
Not today, said a voice. Today’s the day. After all these years, it’s finally coming together.
Xris relaxed, let the physical part of his body glide into synch with the metal, and loped across the landing strip. Quong was at his left, keeping pace easily. The middle-aged doctor wasn’t even breathing hard.
The spaceplane stood on a tripod landing system. The plane was a new model based on an old design dating back to the dawn of spaceflight, but over the centuries no one had come up with anything as reliable and efficient. Two wings swept back from the fuselage, forming the delta-wing configuration necessary for in-atmosphere travel. It was big enough to accommodate passengers and cargo, was equipped with shields and reinforced superstructure to withstand the rigors of hyperspace.
Xris gestured. Quong headed for the nose of the spaceplane. Xris ran to the tail section.
The four crewmen were bunched together, gathered around a large maintenance ‘bot, cheerfully discussing something being displayed on a computer screen. None of them was armed; not surprising.
This was all so easy. So damn easy.
Xris rounded the plane’s tail, eased to a walk. He raised his weapons hand, aimed.
“Good morning, friends.” Xris shouted above the conversation to make himself heard. “If you all keep very still, no one will get hurt.”
At the sound of a strange voice, four heads jerked around. One of the men, who recognized Xris from their talk yesterday, grinned as if he thought this was a joke. The grin slid from his face when he got a good look at Xris’s arm, noticed the metal projectiles that had replaced the cyborg’s left hand.
Quong appeared from around the plane’s nose, the autogun leveled.
The crewmen began to yammer. Typical Aurigans, they wanted to discuss the matter. A motion from Xris’s metal hand silenced them. They raised their arms in the air.
Quong kept the men covered. Xris hurried to the hangar, looked inside. The hangar was extremely dark, especially after the brightness of the sunlit tarmac. His natural eye went temporarily blind, but his artificial eye instantly refocused and adjusted filters.
Only one man was in the hangar, and he was seated before a small computer, shouting commands at it. In addition, some sort of machine with a loose bearing was making a deafening racket. The man hadn’t heard anything that had gone on outside, apparently. Xris walked right up to him, poked the hard steel of his weapons hand into the base of the man’s skull.
“Don’t say a word,” Xris ordered. “Move your fingers away from the keyboard. Now.”
It was possible the computer was tied to a central system inside Olicien. A verbal or typed warning could sound the alarm. The mechanic was too shaken by the sudden feel of cold steel on his flesh to do anything, however. He went rigid with fear. Xris eventually gave up trying to get the mechanic to raise his hands. The poor guy couldn’t move.
Xris motioned. “Bring ‘em inside.”
The other four crewmen marched into the hangar, their hands on top of their heads. Quong dragged the fifth man out of the chair, added him to the group, and herded them into the center of the hangar.
Xris was back on the comm. “Tycho, this is Xris. All is secure. Move in.”
“I’m on my way.”
Xris left Quong on guard duty, went back outside. He touched a control on his arm. A door on the side of his mechanical leg popped open, revealing a holding rack for tools and weapons. Xris detached his weapons hand, placed it in the correct slot, and replaced it with a tool hand. The compartment door closed.
Making some minor adjustments, Xris walked to the maintenance ‘bot, read the message on the monitor: Maintenance check complete. All systems within operational parameters.
“Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried!” Xris gloated, and actually laughed.
He looked out over
the tarmac, searching for Tycho. A flash of sun off the barrel of the beam rifle was the only clue to the alien’s location. Tycho’s skin had turned black, in order to blend in with the tarmac.
0910. Smooth. Very smooth.
Xris moved to the loading doors located on the other side of the spaceplane. They were sealed shut, locked. He found the security keypad, studied it. The numbered and ominously glowing pad was designed to allow access only to those who had authorized fingerprints and punched in the correct code. An alarm would sound if anyone else so much as breathed on the wrong key.
Xris touched a control on his mechanical hand. A durasteel cutting drill extruded from the center digit. He activated the drill, plunged the whirling bit into the “9” button on the keypad. The drill cut through wires and into a metal plate behind. Sparks flew. The keypad went dark. He held his breath.
No siren howled. Slowly, the hatch began to rise.
Tycho appeared at Xris’s side, seeming to materialize out of the tarmac itself.
“Nice work, boss.”
“It’s a standard Morubundi K-33 Keypad. Any teenager with a screwdriver could have taken it out. Navy probably required them to install some sort of security system and Olicien bought the cheapest on the market.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Tycho. “What are the odds that something like this would happen to them?”
“I guess this is just their lucky day,” Xris said, grinning.
He headed back into the hangar, rejoined Quong and his prisoners, who were now slumbering peacefully on the cement floor. Quong exhibited a can of hypno-spray. Xris nodded.
Tycho set up his rifle on top of a storage bin, aimed the weapon at the double doors leading into the Olicien facility. Quong began to strip off the crew’s yellow, bug-adorned coveralls.
0915. All going according to plan.
And then his comm buzzed.
Quong and Tycho looked up, faintly alarmed. “Xris here,” Xris answered briefly.
“Is this Mr. Borg’s office? Is that you, Mable?” Harry’s voice. “Uh, put me through to Cy, will you, sweetheart?”
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 14
