The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Xris’s infrared vision clicked on; he could see warm bodies. The Marines, on the other hand, were completely blind. The cyborg took out the captain with a blow of his metal hand to the jaw, sent the man reeling. A kick of his steel leg sent another Marine to the floor.

  Grabbing hold of Rowan’s arm, Xris dragged her after him, began running down the corridor.

  Leaderless and unable to see, fearful of hitting each other, the Marines were calling for security to turn on the emergency backup lights.

  Security wasn’t responding.

  “Lights out—your work, too?” Xris asked Rowan. “Taking a chance, weren’t you?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “I know you. I figured you’d have some sort of infrared.”

  They came to a blast door. Rowan punched in a code on the keypad. The blast doors shuddered, slid open. Xris and Rowan slipped through. Rowan hit the controls on the other side, the doors slid shut. This corridor was still brightly lit.

  “The elevators won’t be working. We’ll have to take the fire stairs. Oh, shit.”

  People were milling about in the hallways. One, spotting Rowan, started toward her.

  “Major, what’s going on? We can’t reach secur—”

  “What the devil are you people doing out here?” Rowan demanded. “Don’t you hear the damn alarm? We’re under enemy attack! Get to your posts!”

  Some returned to their offices. Others remained huddled uncertainly in the corridor. But at least her orders gave them something else to talk about.

  Rowan shoved open the fire door, began running down the narrow metal stairs. Xris clattered after her.

  “Were those soldiers serious?” he yelled over the noise they were making. “About shooting you?”

  “Yes!” Rowan yelled back. “I told you. You’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

  He grunted, said nothing, saved his breath for running.

  They exited out into the work area near the bug-’bot station. And there was Harry, looking nervous, lasgun in hand, waiting for them. He was so relieved at the sight of Xris that the cyborg was afraid for a minute Harry was going to hug him.

  “Where is everyone?” Xris cast a swift glance around.

  “Some Marines were all bunched up around the door leading to the loading dock and our plane. I hung around, making myself scarce, wondering how I was going to get past them. Then the floor began to shake and the alarms went off. That commander fellow talked to someone, then said something to his men about the hull being breached and they had to get up there right away. He left a couple of Marines on guard and the rest left. I took care of the Marines. I used the hypno-spray this time,” Harry added hurriedly.

  They ran through the deserted work facility.

  “XP-28’s got the engines warming up,” Harry continued. “But unless you want me to blast that plane through a nullgrav steel door, we’re not going anywhere in a hurry. And then there’s the tractor beam.”

  “All taken care of,” Rowan said briskly.

  Harry looked at the woman running along beside him in considerable astonishment. He nudged Xris. “Who’s that?”

  “Rowan. Dalin ... Darlene ...” Xris gave up.

  “Just Rowan,” she said, with her crooked smile.

  “The person you were gonna kill,” said Harry.

  Xris didn’t see any need to answer that.

  Harry grinned, rubbed his hands. “That’s great,” he said. “Really great! I win the pot.”

  Xris glanced at him, puzzled. “What pot?”

  “The bet. With the others. I said you couldn’t kill her, Xris.”

  Fortunately for Harry, Xris was too busy at the moment to respond. They dashed past the comatose forms of two Marine guards and entered loading dock Lima 28. The spaceplane was lit up, engines throbbing, ready for takeoff.

  “I’ve got Xris, Jamil,” Harry said into the comm. “Lower the ramp and prepare for takeoff.” He cast a dubious glance at Rowan. “I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing, lady.”

  The ramp lowered. They hurried on board.

  Harry went straight to the pilot’s chair, Rowan right behind him. Xris came right behind her.

  “She’s Rowan. I’ll explain later,” he said in response to startled looks from the rest of the team.

  “Strap yourselves in tight,” Harry ordered. “We could be in for a rough takeoff.”

  Rowan sat down in the copilot’s chair. Xris kept as near her as possible, strapping himself into the seat closest to the cockpit. He still held the lasgun in his hand. Rowan glanced at it, then looked away.

  “This is what I’ve done.” She spoke to Harry coolly. “I’ve set the docking bay door controls on automatic. When the spaceplane approaches them, they’ll begin to open. Once they’ve started to cycle, the control tower can’t prevent the blast doors from rising. That’s a safety feature.”

  “Okay, so we can fly out of here. What about that damn tractor beam?”

  “I’ve rerouted all power from the tractor beam to the food processing panels and recycling plants. It’ll take them awhile to figure that one out.”

  “All right,” Harry said slowly, assimilating the information, “so we fly out and away from the tractor beam. Then the Navy locks us on target with the big guns and shoots us down.”

  Rowan shook her head. “The lascannons are all being aimed at the Corasian invasion fleet.”

  Harry gasped. “What? A Corasian invasion—”

  “Never mind!” Xris snapped. “Just get us out of here!”

  “You’re going to fly into a Corasian invasion fleet? Xris, that’s sui—”

  “It’s not real!” Xris shouted.

  “He’s right,” Rowan said soothingly. “It’s not real. I’ll explain later. You can take off safely now.”

  But Harry was not to be rushed. “What about patrol planes? We”—he tapped the cargo plane’s console—”have no shields, no guns.”

  “There’ll be a few patrol planes out there,” Rowan admitted. ‘Not much I could do about those. But most of the squadron pilots have discovered that their docking bay doors won’t open. I activated a maintenance program that—”

  “Skip it.” Xris knew from experience how long some of Rowan’s explanations could last. “Get us the hell out of here now”

  Harry glanced over. “You trust her, boss?”

  “It doesn’t much matter, does it? We can either fly out of here or walk out with our hands on top of our heads. Which is it going to be?”

  Xris had avoided the question of trust and everyone in the plane knew it. The others exchanged grim glances.

  “Well, when you put it that way . . . XP,” Harry ordered, “bring main engines on line and fire maneuvering thrusters.”

  “Excuse me, Pilot Luck,” said the computer respectfully, “but I am programmed to remind you that we have not received permission to leave—”

  “Take over manual control,” Xris commanded.

  “Sorry about this, XP,” Harry said, giving the computer a conciliatory pat. “But switch flight control over to manual. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Pilot Luck. I was only doing my duty. I trust that will be so noted in the log.”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” Harry said absently.

  He was absorbed in his job now, oblivious to all else. The expression on his face even altered from one of almost perpetual befuddlement to intense, focused concentration. He seemed to flow into the spaceplane, almost like the legendary Blood Royal, who had reputedly been able to connect themselves with their own spaceplanes through the micromachines in their bloodstream. Harry had no micromachines in his blood. He connected with the plane by feel and thought, by instinct and intuition.

  The spaceplane lifted off the landing pad, turned, headed for the gigantic metal doors.

  The cockpit speaker crackled to life. “Olicien Two Five Niner, you are not cleared for takeoff. Repeat, not cleared. Return to your assigned parking area.”

  Harry shut off t
he speaker and aimed the nose of the spaceplane at the blast doors. He fired the thrusters. The doors shivered. The plane flew nearer, nearer, picking up speed.

  “As fast as we’re flying,” Tycho observed to no one in particular, “we won’t be able to stop.”

  No one answered.

  Xris glanced at Rowan, who was staring at the doors with a pale, set expression on her face. Maybe this is how she’s going to end it, he thought suddenly, his stomach muscles tightening. Go out in a ball of fire. And this time she’ll make sure of me, as well.

  The plane’s speed was increasing. Harry steered for the bottom of the blast door, planning to swoop out the moment he had enough room.

  If that moment came. . ..

  They were within two hundred meters, rocketing toward nullgrav steel doors that could absorb a direct hit from a meson without buckling. The spaceplane would smash into the blast doors, explode, and maybe leave a black char mark that would probably wash off with a little soap and water.

  One hundred and fifty meters. Jamil’s ebony skin glistened with sweat. Quong’s eyes were closed, his mouth moving, either in prayer or reciting algebraic equations; he did both in emergencies. Tycho’s thin fingers gripped the arms of his chair; his skin had turned a sick pink—not due to color alteration, but to strain.

  One hundred meters.

  “Ah!” Harry breathed softly in satisfaction.

  The blast doors shivered, began to rise—at a crawl.

  “Come on, baby,” Harry said to the doors. “Faster.”

  The doors were now a little over a quarter of the way up.

  “I’m going for it,” Harry shouted. “Hang on.”

  The plane shot through the opening and soared into the black vacuum of space.

  “Did you hear a scraping sound?” Tycho asked, his translator squeaking. “I heard a scraping sound. I’ll bet we’ve left a streak of yellow paint on that damn door.”

  “I think I left a streak of yellow down my pants leg,” Jamil muttered.

  “We’re not out of this yet,” Harry cautioned. “There’s a Katana fighter coming for us. Not on visual yet, but you can see it on the screen.”

  Xris looked—a blip on the sighting screen was converging on them.

  “Where’s the nearest Lane?”

  “The one we took coming in. Out past the thousand-kilometer marker.” Harry glanced at the screen. “We’ll be in range before then. And this cargo plane has all the maneuvering capability of a Solosian elephant. No offense,” he added, for the computer’s benefit.

  “None taken, Pilot Luck,” responded the computer. “I am aware of the plane’s limitations. And it is my duty to report that the Navy fighter is requesting us to shut down our engines and stand by for towing.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. In the meantime, increase speed. Give me everything you’ve got.”

  “Yes, Pilot Luck,” said the computer, adding, after a moment, “I must admit, I find this rather exhilarating. I was once assigned to a short-range Scimitar myself, when I was in the Navy.”

  “Were you?” said Harry, his gaze divided between the thousand-kilometer buoy, blinking up ahead, and the Katana itself, which could now be seen through the viewscreen. “Then perhaps you could tell me why it’s not firing at us. We must be dead in the pilot’s sights.”

  “Pilots are not permitted to fire this close to the station, sir, unless under enemy attack.”

  “And maybe the soldiers were bluffing back there,” Xris said, eyeing Rowan. “Maybe they don’t want to blow up Major Mohini.”

  “It’s possible.” Rowan appeared thoughtful.

  Tracer fire flashed past the viewscreen.

  “Warning shot across the bow,” Harry said. “XP, plot the jump. I want to be ready the moment we hit the Lane.”

  “What course?” XP asked.

  Harry looked questioningly at Xris.

  “Olefsky’s system. The rendezvous site. If Raoul manages to extricate himself from whatever predicament he’s in, he’ll know to meet us there.”

  Harry nodded, provided the computer with the coordinates. Another shot from the Katana streaked past the viewscreen, this one so close that it seemed to blaze right through the cockpit, temporarily blinding all of them.

  “Coming up on the thousand-kilometer marker,” Harry reported calmly.

  “Pilot Luck,” the computer said, “the Katana warns that it has orders to attempt to disable us.”

  “Fine, fine.” Harry waved his hand vaguely. “You ready for the jump?”

  The thousand-kilometer marker flashed past.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Start cycle. In four ... three ...”

  The plane shuddered, rocked. Everyone held on for dear life.

  “We have been hit, Pilot Luck,” the computer said unnecessarily. “Ending jump cycle.”

  “Damn it! What damage?”

  Rowan looked at the screen where a model of the spaceplane was being displayed. “Tail section, but it’s minimal. Nothing else hit.”

  “Thank the Creator it wasn’t the engines. Restart jump cycle. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

  A sickening sensation of being turned inside out. A momentary horrifying notion that all your guts have been sucked out through your nose and mouth and are now twisting in the air outside your body. And then just before you pass out—or, in some cases, right after you come to—you look out the viewscreen and notice that someone has switched off all the starlight.

  But they’d made it.

  “Questions,” Xris said, endeavoring to unstrap himself from his chair. “Have to ask . . . questions.” He was dimly aware of lights flashing on his arm, warning alarms, then he felt heavy. Far too heavy. “Questions . .. Rowan . . .”

  Doc’s face floated above Xris. He heard the word, “Malfunction—”

  Then it seemed that the empty, silent, and immensely comforting black blanket of hyperspace wrapped around him, tucked him in for the night.

  Chapter 18

  Incoming fire has the right of way.

  Murphy’s Military Laws

  The adjutant strode rapidly into the Lord Admiral’s chambers, banging the heavy ornate door and causing the eyebrows of the admiral’s aide—one Sergeant-Major Bennett—to lift in disapproval.

  “Where’s Dixter?” the adjutant demanded unceremoniously.

  “Good morning, sir,” Bennett said with a withering stare. “If you are referring to Sir John Dixter, he—”

  “Never mind, I spotted him. Thanks.”

  The adjutant sprinted across the large office, knocking askew several antique pieces of furniture. This offense brought a shocked Bennett to his feet.

  “Really, Commander Tusca!” Bennett entered the race, moving to intercept the adjutant before the adjutant could intercept the Lord Admiral.

  “General Dixter! I mean, my lord! Sorry, sir, I forgot there for a moment.”

  The adjutant—a well-built human male, small-framed, with black skin and tightly curled black hair—brought himself up sharply in front of the Lord Admiral.

  “What is it, Tusk?” Dixter smiled. He didn’t mind being reminded of the old days—the days when he’d been a leader of a band of mercenaries. It was one reason he’d invited a former mercenary to serve as his adjutant. That and the fact that Mendaharin Tusca—or Tusk, as he was known—was Dixter’s closest friend.

  “An urgent call from RFComSec, sir.”

  “My lord, your appointment with His Majesty,” Bennett murmured, hovering.

  Dixter hesitated.

  “Epsilon Red, sir,” Tusk said. “Top priority. Urgent.”

  Not even Bennett could argue with an Epsilon Red. “I’ll inform His Majesty that you’re dealing with an emergency situation, my lord.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Dixter frowned. Turning, he accompanied Tusk back through his office, out a door, down a corridor, and into the comm. A startling contrast—coming from the lemon-scented, highly polished oak-desk environment
of the admiral’s office to the cold bright electronic buzz of the central communications operations for the Royal Navy.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Dixter asked Tusk.

  “No, my lord.” They had just entered the comm and Tusk always made an effort, when around other members of the Lord Admiral’s staff, to use the correct form of address. “The commander insisted on speaking to you personally. It must be somethin’ big, though. They’ve run up every flag they could find: Epsilon Red, level one, top priority, urgent, most secret. And the transmission’s being scrambled from Hell’s Outpost back again. They sure as hell don’t want any eavesdroppers.”

  Dixter fished around in a pocket for his antacid tablets. Finding them, he gulped down two. “RFComSec never has emergencies. They’re not supposed to have emergencies. They’re out in the middle of an uncharted region of space for the sole purpose of not having emergencies. Which comm station?”

  “Over here, my lord.” A captain rose to her feet, made room for the Lord Admiral. “RFComSec standing by, my lord. Admiral Lopez.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  She moved discreetly away. Tusk was about to make himself scarce, but Dixter indicated that his adjutant was to stay.

  A harried-looking face appeared on screen. The stars on his uniform indicated an admiral, a rear admiral.

  “John. Good to talk to you again. It’s been too long. A damn shame it’s like this, though.”

  “Good to see you, Roderigo. You’re right. It’s been too long. Pardon me for saying I wish it was longer. What’s up? What’ve you got? Corasians?”

  The rear admiral grimaced. “Funny you should mention that. It’s not the Corasians. I almost wish it was. It’s Major Mohini. Major Darlene Mohini. She’s been taken hostage, kidnapped.”

  Dixter stared in silence at the screen, scanning the name in his mind, trying to remember. Then, “Good God!” he said, and sat down in a chair. “How did it happen?”

  The rear admiral ran his hand through his thinning hair. “It was a professional job. You know that damn flea problem we have? A team of five commandos disguised themselves as exterminators, broke through our security. They went straight for Mohini, so they knew who they were after and how to find her. You want to hear the real kicker, John?”