The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “The Royal Navy announced a surprise galaxy-wide ‘readiness’ test today. When asked by this reporter what exactly this meant, a spokesman for the admiralty was extremely vague, citing Naval security. She did add that all ships of the fleet were on full alert and would be for the next seventy-two hours.”

  Warden smiled. A sardonic slant to his mouth and a quirk of the eyebrow let the viewer know that “this reporter” didn’t believe a word. He leaned slightly forward, drawing the viewer into his confidence. “This reporter has obtained exclusive information, from a highly placed source in the Cabinet, that this alert is not a test. The admiralty has assured us that no threat of danger exists to the citizens of this galaxy, yet we remind you, viewers, that the Navy has never before conducted such a ‘readiness’ test and one can only ask, why is such a test being conducted now? We understand that members of the Parliament were not informed, that they are demanding an explanation from the prime minister, and that a protest has been lodged by the Loyal Opposition. We will keep you apprised of this situation as it develops.

  “In what may be a related matter, a galaxy-wide manhunt is under way for this man”—a photo of Xris flashed across the screen—”and other members of a commando team calling themselves Mag Force 7.

  “Described as well-trained mercenaries, these men are wanted ‘for questioning concerning the alleged break-in of a Naval establishment.’ The leader is a cyborg, known only as Xris. A former federal agent under the old regime, he left that job to form his own mercenary unit, which has done work for—so we understand— some extremely high-ranking people.”

  Warden paused to allow the audience to catch his meaning, then continued. “These men are considered armed and highly dangerous. If you see any of them, you are urged to take no action yourselves, but to contact your local law enforcement agency.”

  James M. Warden leaned forward again in his chair, placed his hands on the table. “A Naval establishment attacked, a crack team of mercenaries wanted for ‘questioning,’ the surprise ‘readiness’ test of the Royal Navy. Coincidence, viewers?”

  Warden closed with his standard line. “I think not.”

  “You see there!” Olefsky waved at the vid. “By my bowels and spleen, you are the most notorious criminals in the galaxy!” His gaze narrowed. “I could summon my soldiers. You should be cooling your heels in my dungeons.”

  Xris started to say something to the effect that it would take an entire regiment of the Bear’s soldiers to capture him, if he decided to fight. But he wouldn’t fight and Olefsky knew it, so why bother? Xris kept his mouth shut.

  “You still won’t tell me what is going on,” Bear said, his tone grim.

  Xris stared moodily out the window. “It’s all a mistake. A misunderstanding.”

  The Bear frowned, tugged at his beard.

  “I can explain everything to the Lord Admiral,” Xris added. “Ten minutes with Dixter and we’ll be in the clear.”

  The Bear was shaking his head.

  Rowan appeared in the doorway. “Xris,” she said excitedly, “I think I’ve found something.”

  Xris was about to follow her when he discovered he wasn’t going anywhere. Bear’s massive hand had clamped down on the cyborg’s good shoulder.

  “I’m going to call Dixter right now,” Xris promised.

  “It is not as easy as that, I am afraid, my friend,” Olefsky replied. “You heard this news about the Naval ‘readiness test.’ I’ll tell you what is truly going on. I have been informed. Operation Macbeth, it is called.”

  “Macbeth!” Rowan repeated, stunned. “Good God!”

  “Operation Macbeth”—the Bear rumbled on—”is designed to thwart a revolution. All communication between ships is silenced. Anyone who tries to communicate with a ship of the line will be fired on.”

  “It’s because I know the codes,” Rowan murmured, looking dazed. “Of course. I never imagined that they would go this far, but I don’t suppose they have any choice. I could take over the fleet! Macbeth would be the only way to stop me.”

  “But we’re not trying to take over the damn fleet,” Xris said impatiently. “And if I can just talk to Admiral Dixter—”

  “That’s the point, laddie,” said the Bear. “You can’t talk to Dixter or anyone else in the Royal Navy. No one can, not even myself. Not for seventy-two hours.”

  “What a bizarre situation!” Rowan spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “The Navy shuts down communications because I could betray them, and because communications are shut down I can’t communicate with the Navy to let them know I’m not a traitor. What do we do?”

  The Bear gazed at them from beneath thick, lowering brows. “Turn yourselves in to the authorities.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Xris.” Jamil spoke up. “We could go to the nearest land-based army unit. Walk in the front door with our hands in the air. Then they’ll have to listen to us.”

  “And what happens to Raoul in the meantime?” Xris demanded.

  Olefsky was immediately concerned. “Raoul? What have you done with the Peacock?”

  The Bear was fond of the Adonian and of the Little One and would frequently invite them both to the castle. Raoul’s burning goal in life was to instill a sense of fashion consciousness in the Olefskys and, although the Adonian found the task daunting, he bravely and resolutely refused to shrink from the challenge. He was constantly carrying over various ensembles, spending fatiguing hours endeavoring to convince Olefsky that smelly deer hide— while practical—was not suitable for formal dinner invitations to the Glitter Palace. All of which the Olefsky family found highly diverting and hung the new clothes up on the walls as curiosities.

  “Where is the Peacock?” Olefsky peered around.

  “Someone snatched him. Beat up the Little One. We don’t know why. We don’t think it has anything to do with .. . this other.”

  The Bear glanced at the Little One, who was clinging to Rowan’s uniform jacket. Olefsky noticed, for the first time, the bloodstained bandage. He growled, frowned, paced about thoughtfully, trampling a small end table.

  Xris took out a twist, tapped it on his knee. “I won’t abandon a member of my team. I signed contracts with all of you and I’ll keep my end of the agreement. I’ll go after Raoul myself if I have to.”

  Jamil was defensive. “Damn it, Xris, I didn’t mean we should abandon him! You know I’m with you. I was just being—”

  “I know.” Xris interrupted, softened his tone. “I understand. You were just being logical. I’m sorry, guys. I’m tired. We’re all tired. I got you into this. What Jamil says does make sense. Go with him, take his advice. He’ll know how to handle it. You’ll probably get reduced sentences.”

  Harry said “No!” loudly and glared at Jamil.

  Jamil looked grim and uncomfortable and muttered something to the effect that it was a sound idea and they should consider it.

  Quong, his eyes closed, was apparently approaching this as he might have approached the solution to a mathematical equation, even to the point of absently working calculations with slight movements of his fingertips.

  Tycho yelled something unintelligible; he’d grown so flustered he’d accidentally switched off his translator.

  Jamil and Harry both loudly told him to turn it on.

  “Bear,” Xris said quietly, talking beneath the confusion, “I know Dion, remember? Hell, I helped put him on the throne! I swear to you on ... on what’s left of me”—he held out his flesh-and-blood arm—”that we’re not fomenting a revolution. We’re not intending to overthrow the king or assassinate him or anyone. May this arm be cut off if I’m lying.”

  “Yes,” the Bear said, “go on.”

  Xris drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Give me these seventy-two hours to find Raoul and do what I can to straighten out this mess. By the end of that time, no matter what happens, I’ll turn myself in.”

  “You are in great danger, my friend,” Olefsky observed. “Not only is the Royal Nav
y after you, every law officer and bounty hunter in the galaxy will be out to capture you, bring you in—dead or alive.”

  Xris said nothing, had nothing to say to the obvious.

  Olefsky stared at him, ruminated. Suddenly the Bear leaned forward, smote Xris on the back, a blow that jarred every rivet in the cyborg’s body.

  “I trust you. I believe you. You have seventy-two hours. What’s more, if you need a spaceplane other than that yellow monstrosity in which you landed”—the Bear grinned—”you may borrow one of mine.”

  “Thank you, Bear,” Xris said, offering to shake on it. “You won’t regret this.”

  “I do not think I will.” Bear heaved a sigh. Then, clasping firm hold of Xris’s good hand, Olefsky added solemnly, “The good God help you if you are lying, laddie. In that instance, I myself will be the one who takes this arm.”

  The Bear squeezed his bulk back through the door. Alerting his two sons to his presence with a playful blow on the back of each shaggy head, he thudded down the stairs, strode off into the woods. His lumbering sons and the dog crashed along behind.

  The Bear’s final threat had been emphasized by a crushing grip. Xris could still feel the ache. He had his seventy-two hours. Just what the hell he was going to do with them was currently open to question.

  He turned to Rowan. “Yes? What have you got? Did you find Raoul?”

  She nodded, gently placed her hand on the Little One’s small shoulder.

  “He gave you the clue. A research vessel, registered to a university. The name is Canis Major Research I.”

  The Little One made some sort of guttural, almost feral sound, and nodded so vigorously that the fedora toppled off, revealing the bandaged face. Moving with remarkable swiftness, the empath retrieved his hat, clapped it back on his head.

  “And how the hell did you figure it out?” Xris asked.

  Rowan grinned. She was actually enjoying herself.

  “When the Little One hugged the dog, it occurred to me that what he was trying to tell us had something to do with dogs. What could it be, except the name of the ship?

  “Once I knew that, I went into the files of the local spaceport on Auriga, downloaded the names of vessels that had requested landing permission during that particular time period—”

  “Wait a minute. You just waltzed in?”

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that easy” Rowan looked modest. “I’m dead, so far as computer access is concerned. All my passwords have been wiped clean. I can’t even log on to my own personal computer in my apartment. But people are always leaving back doors open. It was fairly simple, actually, given what I know. Anyhow, once I had the names, I did a search through the list. Nothing with the word dog turned up. But I was certain it had to be there.

  “So was he.” She gestured to the Little One. “He was practically glued to me. I knew I was on the right track. So I tried dog in other languages, merged that list with the list of ship names and there was the match—Canis Major. I asked the Little One if that was the name and he indicated yes. I asked him if his friend Raoul was on that ship and he nodded yes again.”

  The Little One was still saying yes. Whenever anybody looked at him sideways he would nod and pound his two small fists together.

  Xris glanced at Quong for confirmation. “How reliable is this, Doc? How would a Tongan know the word Canis had anything at all to do with dogs? Unless, of course, Raoul is teaching his little buddy dead languages in his spare time.”

  “It is very much possible,” Quong replied. “Many telepaths use mental imagery to convey their thoughts and read the thoughts of others. They do not need words. For example, Raoul hears the name ‘Canis Major,’’ thinks ‘the dog star,’ thinks of dogs, bringing up an image in his mind of a dog. The Little One brings up the image of a dog in his mind and attaches that to Olefsky’s animal. Major Mohini”—Quong bowed to Rowan—”searches for names having to do with dogs and, finding one, produces a very strong mental image of a dog in her mind, which is picked up by our small friend.”

  “I can track the ship, Xris,” Rowan offered. “It is a Verdi-class vessel, the kind typically used for research or short hops between planets. It has no hyperspace capabilities, no weapons, no shields. A long-range spaceplane could catch it in, say, eight hours.”

  Xris took a drag on the twist. “A research vessel. You mean the kind colleges use to go out and chart star systems and study insect life on other planets and all that?”

  “That would seem so, given the name,” Rowan responded. Xris snorted. “Then this makes no sense. What the hell are a bunch of egghead professors doing with Raoul? Writing a thesis on the correct shoes to wear with knee-high velvet pants after five?”

  “Judging by what they did to the Little One, my friend, this is not a joking matter,” Quong observed gravely. “The beating he took was a professional job. They intended to kill him.”

  “Yeah, I know. I found him, remember?” Xris considered, then made up his mind. “Very well. I’m going to pay a little visit to this Canis Major Research I.”

  “We’re with you, Xris,” said Jamil. He looked uncomfortable. “And, uh, about what I brought up earlier, about turning ourselves in. I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it. You made sense.” Xris massaged his arm. It still ached. “I know everyone’s exhausted, but since we only have seventy-two hours, we need to leave right away. We can catch some sleep on the plane. Gather up your gear and let’s move out.”

  The rest left. Xris found himself alone with Rowan. At least as alone as they could be, considering that the Little One was hanging on to Rowan’s slacks like a lost child.

  Xris decided the best way to go about this was quick, cool, businesslike. “You can’t stay here by yourself. It wouldn’t be safe. I’ll take you over to Olefsky’s—”

  She was smiling, shaking her head. “I’m coming with you, Xris. I know you don’t trust me, but—”

  “I told you once,” Xris interrupted coldly, “I need you alive. Besides, it’s not your problem. Raoul’s my man and—”

  “And he’s the only way I have to prove to you I’m telling the truth.” Rowan rested her hand again on the Little One’s shoulder. “He can’t tell you what I’m thinking and feeling. I’m not sure he understands. But his friend Raoul will. He will tell you. And you’ll believe him, won’t you?”

  Xris believed already. He couldn’t help himself. He was having to work very hard at not believing.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll believe him.” He snubbed out the twist. “Well, now I guess we go see a man about a dog.”

  Chapter 26

  Therefore those who skillfully move opponents make formations that opponents are sure to follow, give what opponents are sure to take.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  “Unknown spaceplane, this is Canis Major Research I. You are in violation of intergalactic safety regulation number 2158-B3, which requires a five-kilometer exclusion zone between—”

  Harry cut in. “We’re going to be in violation of a helluva lot more safety regulations unless you shut down your engines now and prepare for boarding.”

  Momentary silence, then a human voice replaced the digitized one. “This is the captain speaking. You are in flagrant violation of intergalactic law. Our vessel has no weapons.”

  “We do,” Harry returned. “You can either shut down your engines now or we’ll shut ‘em down for you.”

  More silence. Then, “Due to modulation frequency wave interference, your last message did not come through—”

  “Fire on them,” ordered Xris from his place in the copilot’s seat. “Don’t hit anything vital. Just show them we mean business.”

  “You hear that, Tycho?” Harry asked over the comm. The alien was ensconced in the Schiavona’s gun turret, located in a bubble above the cockpit.

  Tycho’s answer was a well-aimed precision blast from the lascannon that took out a condenser coil on the ship’s stern.

  “You’ve lost th
e air-conditioning,” Harry said cheerfully. “The next shot, you lose the air.”

  “It’s this way, Canis Major,” Xris added, “you have no weapons. We do. You have no shields. We do. You’re holding a friend of ours hostage on board your vessel. We intend to get him back. Shut your engines down and prepare for boarders.”

  The Canis Major had no response.

  “But they’ve done it,” Harry reported, studying his instrumentation. “They’ve shut down their main engines. They’re dead in space. Computer, how long before they can start up again?”

  “Main engine startup on a Verdi-class requires six hours to recycle.”

  “They won’t be going anywhere soon,” Harry said in satisfaction.

  “We have shut down our engines,” came the captain’s grim-sounding voice. “We have no choice. We consider this a criminal action. We feel obliged to inform you that we have activated our automatic distress signal. All vessels in our vicinity are required by law to respond.”

  Xris glanced at Rowan.

  “We know we don’t have to worry about the Royal Navy,” she said. “They’re under orders not to respond to distress signals. But a civilian vessel could and probably would. At least, they’d come take a look.”

  “How long?” Xris asked.

  She shrugged. “This is a busy sector. A lot of traffic. But I didn’t see anything in the vicinity when I was tracking this ship, so I’d guess we have at least an hour.”

  “It shouldn’t last that long. Not with a bunch of professors on board. Take us in for docking, Harry. Can everyone hear me?”

  Xris stood up, climbed the ladder to the living quarters. The cockpit of a long-range Schiavona fighter-bomber is located below the spaceplane’s main deck area, separated by a metal railing, accessible down a four-runged steel ladder. Designed for interplanetary flights—unlike its short-range counterpart, which is used mainly for ship-to-ship or ship-to-planet operations—the standard long-range Schiavona is self-sustaining. It provides adequate, if not particularly luxurious, living facilities for a two-man crew on a longer flight, short-term accommodations for a larger number of people on a brief haul.