“Not really, Rod,” Dixter muttered under his breath. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me.” Beneath the cover of the console, he rubbed his stomach.
“Mohini was in on it. Had to be. The commandos knew the layout of the place, the routine. And no one except a genius like the major could have so thoroughly screwed up all our computer systems. We’ve just now managed to convince our mainframe that the whole Corasian fleet isn’t parked outside our space station.”
“Damnation.” Dixter swore softly. His fingers drummed the console. “This is one hell of a mess, Rod.”
“Don’t I know it.” The rear admiral was looking worried, as well he might.
“There’ll have to be an inquiry,” Dixter said slowly, thinking as he went. “If it wasn’t the major herself, you’ve got a security leak somewhere. Do you have vids on the commandos?”
“Security cams got some good shots. So did one of our pilots, by the way. He fired one of the new ‘tick’ tracking devices at the spaceplane. Says it was a direct hit on the tail section. We’ll know where and when the commandos come out of hyperspace. Here are the vids. I’ll be standing by.”
The admiral’s face was replaced by a shot taken by a security cam hidden in the ceiling. It showed an attractive woman, wearing a naval uniform, being forcibly escorted from her office by a man in bright yellow coveralls. Several armed Marines had them surrounded.
The man was saying, “I’ve got a 22-decawatt lasgun. It’s set to fire the second the pressure of my finger relaxes. You so much as stun me and the major dies.”
At that point, Dixter said, “Good God!” again.
And this time Tusk joined him.
Both of them stared in shocked disbelief at the vidscreen.
“Sir ... that’s Xris!”
“It can’t be,” Dixter said flatly. “Computer, give me still shots, enlarged, with enhancements, of each second of that vid. I want a voice print, too. Then search the files and see if you find a match for the photos and the voice.”
The computer went to work. Tusk and Dixter watched the vid again.
“It’s the cyborg,” said Tusk after the second time through. “I’d know Xris anywhere. I should. He saved my life, sir,” he added pointedly.
Dixter was grim. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Tusk. Xris and his team have done good work for us. If you remember, he was almost killed trying to protect Her Majesty. But he is a mercenary. He works for money. Maybe someone offered him ...”
He stared at the vid again, then shook his head. “That would explain the security leak. Xris had low-level access. I gave it to him.”
“What good would low-level do him?”
“A lot, apparently,” Dixter said wryly. “Maybe just providing him with the fact that the damn space station has fleas!”
“He wouldn’t do that, sir. Xris wouldn’t betray you. Damn it, I know him!”
“Match,” sang out the computer suddenly, with what Tusk considered an irritating note of triumph. “Photo I.D. Cyborg. Name: Xris. Planet of origin—”
“What about the voice?” Dixter snapped, interrupting the flow of statistics.
“Match. Voice print I.D. Cyborg. Name: Xris. Planet of origin—”
Dixter ordered the computer to be quiet.
Tusk shrugged helplessly. “There has to be some explanation, sir!”
Dixter said nothing, turned his attention back to his rear admiral. “We think we have an I.D., Rod.”
“You do? Damn, that was quick. And we’ve just received a report from the ‘tick.’ The plane’s course will have it coming out of hyperspace in about six hours. The question is, do we shoot to kill, knowing they’ve got Major Mohini aboard? Or do we try to capture them and risk losing them?”
Dixter was silent, thinking.
Tusk was thinking, too, about the time he’d been shot all to pieces, about Xris coming to his rescue, hauling him through heavy enemy fire to safety.
“This is Xris, sir!” Tusk couldn’t help saying.
Dixter cast him a stern glance. “I am aware of that, Commander.”
“Sorry, sir.” Tusk knew he’d gone too far, overstepped the line.
Dixter sighed, stared at the photo I.D. of the cyborg, who had more than once put his life on the line for a number of people John Dixter cared about.
“Major Mohini must not be allowed to remain in enemy hands,” he said slowly. “Give her captors every opportunity to surrender. If they don’t, orders are: Shoot to kill.”
“Yes, my lord.” The rear admiral signed off.
Dixter looked suddenly old, tired. “Now we wait.”
Tusk was studying the still photos, staring in bafflement at Xris and the attractive, intelligent-looking woman he was holding at gunpoint.
“Who is this Major Mohini, sir?” Tusk asked. “And why is she so damn important?”
Dixter told him.
Chapter 19
. . . because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved. . . .
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Raoul was not happy. He was not enjoying himself—an unusual and alarming state of affairs for a Loti.
Lying naked on a bed, his hands and feet locked in steel paralyzers, was a situation that—under different circumstances—might have afforded Raoul a certain amount of pleasure. The room in which he was incarcerated was actually quite charming, tastefully decorated, with ambient lighting and a view of the stars outside his window. The bed was comfortable, the sheets delicately scented. But even these amenities—and the interesting situation in which he found himself—could do nothing to raise the Loti’s spirits.
“I attribute this, first, to the large and undoubtedly unsightly bump on my forehead.” Raoul mourned aloud. “And second, to the fact that I have been deprived of sustenance for a period which must surely exceed four-and-twenty hours.”
By sustenance, he did not mean food. He had, in fact, been given a meal, watched over by an extremely ugly man, who had removed the paralyzers long enough to permit Raoul to spoon down something that seemed to be an excuse for soup. The man would not speak and he refused to bring Raoul wine with his meal. Raoul, therefore, had been unable to eat. Accepting this with philosophical indifference, the ugly man had replaced the paralyzers, taken the food, and left the room, sealing the door shut behind him.
“I am grounded, my friend,” Raoul lamented. “I am a cold chicken. Or is it turkey? I am forced to confront reality. The horror,” he added in a shuddering whisper. “The horror .. .”
One might have questioned just how “grounded” the Loti truly was, considering the fact that he was talking to the Little One, who was light-years away. But Raoul had to talk. He was accustomed to talking and he was accustomed to talking to his friend. Now he was bereft of his companion, alone, and extremely puzzled. Why in the name of all that was hallucinogenic had someone done this to him?
Perhaps he had enemies .. . perhaps there were people out there who didn’t like him.... Poisoners do not make friends easily. Raoul knew this as a sad fact. It was a long time before Harry Luck could bring himself to eat a sandwich comfortably in Raoul’s presence. But surely he had never done anything bad enough to merit such treatment! And the Little One hadn’t done anything at all. And yet they’d hurt him. Hurt him badly.
Thinking of his small friend, wondering what had happened to him, Raoul couldn’t stop himself from sliding into the darkness of depression.
Or reality, whichever came first.
Desperate to escape by any means possible, Raoul altered history, invented the comforting fantasy that the Little One was still with him. This achieved several key objectives. First, Raoul was able to apologize profusely to the rest of the members of Mag Force 7.
“Tell them I was undevoidably attained,” he begged solemnly, too sober to make sense.
Second, and most important, he took comfort in the knowledge that the Little One was with him. And by the ti
me Raoul had spoken to his friend for a while, fantasy tiptoed across Raoul’s admittedly blurred lines. In what remained of Raoul’s mind—a mystery to everyone, Raoul included—the Little One was listening to him and perhaps even responding.
“I wish I could tell you where I am, my friend,” Raoul murmured. “But I cannot. All I know is that I am on board some type of spacegoing vessel and I know this only because I can see nothing but a black void punctuated by stars outside a window. The stars are moving. I am moving. I therefore consider it likely that I am moving through space.” He was arrested by a sudden thought. “Either that or the bump on my head is worse than I thought.”
He sighed a dismal sigh.
“I am sorry, my friend. I became distracted. To continue, I am apparently being flown through space with a bump on my head. It is due to the bump that I have no recollection of where I am, very little of what happened to me. The entire night last night was a ghastly experience. Now I know why you”—here Raoul swallowed—”my poor Little One, were upset a great portion of the evening. You were undoubtedly aware of the dark thoughts being directed against us. But being unable to define your fears—these men were quite clever in concealing their evil designs—you, my unfortunate friend, were not able to warn me.
“The last thing I remember is these dreadful hulking beasts bursting into our room at an ungodly hour, dragging me bodily out of my bath, and .. . and hurting you.”
Raoul blinked back tears. The memory was blurred, but it was terrible. He recalled hearing a thin, high-pitched wail, remembered seeing a shadowy hand smash down on a small and defenseless figure. The wail abruptly ceased. Despite this, the hand descended again and again, several times. It was at this point that Raoul rather indistinctly recalled feeling an unpleasant but oddly stimulating emotion.
“Rage. Anger. Fury. I hurled myself at the attackers,” Raoul reported with quiet pride. “They ripped my silk kimono, but I persevered. And it was then, I rather imagine, that I received the blip on the headbone. Because the next thing I remember is waking up here, with an ugly hairy man bending over me.”
Raoul shuddered again at the recollection.
“I am telling you all this, my friend,” Raoul continued plaintively, “because I need you to explain to Xris why I did not arrive at the Olicien Pest Control factory in my yellow coveralls. It was the first time I have been where I was not supposed to be instead of where I was.”
That statement momentarily confusing even Raoul, he paused to try to figure it out, gave it up as a bad effort.
“Ah, but I am certain Xris went in search of me. I am certain he found you, my friend, and that you are all right. Yes, I know you’re all right!” Raoul repeated, his lips trembling. “You must be. I can’t bear to think of you lying there, hurt, alone... .”
It seemed to Raoul that he heard a voice, a whisper, inside his head. It was familiar, reassuring, and it even provided instructions.
“Find out the name of the ship,” Raoul repeated to himself. “Very well. If you think it will help.”
The door slid open and the ugly man walked inside.
Raoul turned his head into the pillow. “Really, my friend,” he whispered to the Little One, “this person is simply too frightful to bear! I am surprised he has the nerve to show such a face in public!”
The ugly man said nothing. Crossing the room to the bed, he removed the paralyzers that bound Raoul’s ankles and wrists.
“Would you do me the favor of informing me why I have been absconded with?” Raoul asked pleasantly, keeping his eyes averted. His stomach was queasy enough as it was. The voice in his head prodded him. “Ah, yes. And what is the name of this ship?”
The ugly man did not answer. He grabbed hold of Raoul roughly by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet.
The room tilted. Raoul tilted with it.
The ugly man held out a hospital gown. It was gray, many times washed, pressed, and sterilized. It was held together with three ties and a snap. “Here, Loti, put that on.”
Raoul laughed politely.
“I said put it on.”
Raoul regarded the alleged garment with shock. “You can’t be serious.”
The ugly man tossed the gown at him. “We don’t have much time. The doctor’s waiting. If you don’t put it on, I will.”
“Go ahead, by all means,” Raoul said, returning the gown. “You can’t possibly get any uglier. And by the way, while you’re undressing, what is the name of this ship?”
The man growled and took a step forward, and then Raoul understood.
“Ah, you mean you would dress me! Thank you,” he said, snatching the gown, “but no.”
Fumbling at the ties, accidentally ripping one off, struggling to separate the sleeves, which adhered to the gown as though they’d been glued to it, Raoul was at last semi-dressed.
The unsightly garment was the ultimate torture, and the experience almost shattered him. At the sight of himself in the mirror, Raoul suffered excruciating pain, very nearly gave way to despair.
The ugly man shoved Raoul toward the door.
Whether due to the erratic motion of the spaceship, the bump on his head, or his lack of what the Loti usually referred to as “support,” Raoul discovered that walking was an adventure in itself. Attempting to locate the door, he wandered into a corner. The ugly man was forced to place hairy hands on Raoul again, steer him back on course.
“Whoever is flying this ship must be swilling jump-juice,” Raoul said thickly, careening through the half-open door and out into a brightly lit corridor. “I don’t suppose he’d share?”
The ugly man did not answer. He did not appear to be having any difficulty walking the undulating, heaving, and twitching deck, but guided Raoul’s floundering steps with a rough and uncouth touch.
It was when the walls started to throb, pulsing to the rhythm of a gigantic beating heart, that Raoul began to fall apart.
“Something’s wrong with the engines!” He came to a giddy stop, looked around in terror. “Can’t you hear it? Ka-thump. Ka-thump.”
The ugly man paid no attention. Another shove started Raoul moving, brought him to a sealed door. The ugly man opened it with a touch on the controls, then retrieved Raoul, who had drifted off down the corridor. Returning with the Loti, the ugly man herded Raoul in through the open door.
The name of the ship! said the insistent voice inside Raoul. Find out the name!
“I can’t.” He moaned, weak and barely conscious. He’d caught another glimpse of himself reflected in a large steelglass window. “I can’t.”
A woman clad all in white, with a white cap over her hair, white rubber gloves, and a white sterile mask over her face stood beside a medicbot.
“Put him here,” said the woman.
The ugly man did as requested, forcibly seating Raoul in a chair.
Raoul stared at the woman in the mask. “What happened to your mouth?”
The woman’s eyes, visible above the mask, narrowed. “Loti!” she muttered in disgust. “Leave us alone.”
The ugly man protested. “He’s been given the detoxifiers and he’s on a real downer. You might need help with him, Doctor.”
The woman sniffed, shook her head. “I can manage this wretch. And I don’t want to risk contaminating the samples. Wait outside the door. You can carry the Woodwork to the lab.”
The man nodded, left. The door slid shut.
The woman turned to the ‘bot. “You may begin. Start with the blood, then do the bone marrow.”
The medicbot went to work. Raoul sat back in the chair. The ‘bot produced a laser extractor, placed it into position, switched it on. The woman watched closely, then sat down at a computer terminal, began to make voice entries. The voice inside Raoul was sympathetic, but demanded action.
“Speaking of names”—though no one had been—”what is the name of the ship?” Raoul asked the ‘bot.
It did not answer.
Raoul watched, fascinated, as his own red blood
flowed into the extractor. From there it was deposited into various tubes and vials, all of which the ‘bot carefully labeled and arranged on a tray.
At length, growing light-headed, Raoul allowed his gaze to wander.
“I am in a room, my friend, in which there are several white beds, separated from each other by curtains hanging from tracks on the ceiling—”
The woman with no mouth, absorbed in her work, glanced up. “What did you say?” she asked irritably.
“What is the name of the ship, madame?” Raoul was extremely polite. It was, he thought, a reasonable question.
The woman snorted, returned to the computer.
Raoul shrugged, continued. “They are taking my blood away from me and putting it into little tubes. I don’t have the slightest notion why. Unless I am being held prisoner by vampires. . ..”
This fascinating and titillating thought carried him through the next few moments by providing certain entertaining fantasies. Then a particularly nasty jab from the ‘bot returned him to what passed for reality.
His gaze—which had been wandering aimlessly around the room, flicking over various serious-looking machines—landed on a cabinet made of steel with a code-key locking device. Raoul blinked, focused both his eyes and his attention. He lurched forward in his chair, occasioning a scolding from the medicbot.
The woman with no mouth turned. “Please sit still,” she ordered. “The extractor is very sensitive equipment.” Then she noticed Raoul’s fixed and rapt expression.
“What is in the cabinet?” he asked.
“Supplies,” the woman answered, frowning.
“Ah ...” Raoul sighed, sat back in the chair, and stared at the locked cabinet.
“Test samples completed,” announced the ‘bot.
The woman collected the vials, finished the labeling, and called the ugly man back into the room.
“Take these to the lab,” she said.
The ugly man took the vials and disappeared.
The woman approached Raoul. She had pulled down her mask.
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 21
