The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  “No.” Raoul was aggrieved. “Now that I think of it, they did not. And not only did the wrinkles not go away, I didn’t get a tan and I developed the most terrible skin condition. Huge purplish splotches—like these bruises, only worse—broke out on my face and arms. No amount of makeup would hide them. I was unfit to be seen in public. I took to my bed for a week.”

  “That’s it,” stated Quong, looking around at the team. “The collagen treatments were, in reality, micromachines being injected into Raoul’s bloodstream. Then Ohme put the Loti in this ‘tanning bed’ that was, in reality, a device designed to blow up the micromachines. If Raoul had been injected with a significant number of micromachines, he’d be dead. All of them would have burst at once, like bubbles in champagne, causing massive hemorrhaging. Death would be rapid and extremely painful. As it was, the small number of micromachines that did explode caused only minor damage—the bruising on the arms and the face.”

  “Xris,” said Rowan excitedly, clutching his hand, “do you realize what this means?”

  He looked at her. She flushed, removed her hand from his arm.

  “I see where you’re headed. But you two can’t be serious! This is .. . ludicrous!”

  “Look at how it fits,” Rowan argued. “Snaga Ohme invented this machine in order to kill Derek Sagan. But Fate intervenes. Snaga Ohme dies before he has a chance to use the machine. Then Derek Sagan dies. All the Blood Royal are dead.”

  “Except one,” Quong added.

  “One,” Rowan repeated. “And while Ohme may be dead, his machine could be very much alive.”

  “Which means—” Quong began.

  “I know!” Raoul cried, ecstatic at having figured it all out. “I know! Bubbles in the blood!” He was pleasurably horrified. “They’re going to carbonate the king!”

  Chapter 29

  “Holmes!” I cried. “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at! We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Speckled Band

  “And, according to the files, they’re going to go through with the assassination in sixty hours. Less than that now, of course. That has to be what this means.” Rowan exhibited the printout, read it aloud.

  “ ‘Synchronize chronometers to Zulu Time—now. Mission go/ nogo will be transmitted in sixty-six hours. Mission completion, barring nogo, will occur by eighty-one hours. You have your orders.’ “

  Raoul nodded his head. “I heard them say that.”

  Xris regarded him skeptically.

  “I did,” Raoul protested. “I remember quite clearly. That dreadful female was, after all, coming at me with an injector full of poison at the time. Such an occurrence does tend to stimulate the cerebral cortex. The message about Zulus and nogos—whatever they are— came over the loudspeaker. Then the ugly man came in and said that God was with them and that dreadful woman asked him why and he said because . .. because ...”

  Raoul’s lashes fluttered.

  Xris, exasperated, sucked in a breath, but Raoul waved his hand.

  “No, no. Just a moment. It’s coming back to me. I have it! No one could stop them, because the Royal Navy was effectively paralyzed!”

  Xris looked swiftly at Rowan. She stared fixedly at him.

  “My God,” she murmured.

  “You can say that again! Son of a bitch!” Throwing down his twist, stepping on it, Xris stalked over to stare gloomily out the Schiavona’s viewscreen at the stars.

  “What the devil do we do now?” Jamil asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Xris said grimly. “Anyone got any bright ideas?”

  Tycho, who had absentmindedly allowed himself to turn the gray color of the metal bulkheads, shook his head.

  Quong might not have heard the question. He had placed his hands on his knees, was gazing at a point in the center of the deck.

  Pleased with the response, though he had no idea what caused it, Raoul pattered on. “The Royal Navy. Something about the military has big problems and those dreadful people intended to take advantage of the situation.”

  “Did they say anything else?” Xris asked.

  Raoul’s brow furrowed in thought, something he never would have permitted—furrowing was bad for the complexion—but the situation appeared grave. At this point, the Little One nudged him with an elbow. They held one of their silent conversations and Raoul’s brow cleared. He assisted the dewrinkling process by smoothing his skin with his hand while he talked.

  “Yes, that is correct. My friend reminds me that the dreadful woman mentioned something to the effect that the number of hours stated didn’t give them a great deal of time. The ugly man replied that the ‘device’ was completed. They merely had to transport it to the location and set it up. And then he said that my termination order was canceled. But I don’t see how—”

  The Little One climbed up beside his friend and shook his arm. Raoul listened to the unspoken voice. His eyes widened; his gaze went to Xris.

  “Dear, dear,” he said. “I’m beginning to understand. We do have a problem, don’t we?”

  “Well, I don’t understand.” Harry was bewildered. “You guys always do this to me! What’s going on?”

  “Just this,” said Xris, turning around. “If something does happen to the king, we’re the ones who’re going to be blamed for it.”

  “Huh?” Harry was baffled. “Why?”

  “It will look as if we kidnapped Rowan in order to disrupt the communications of the Royal Navy in order to assassinate the king.”

  “Oh,” said Harry. “Gotcha.” The news sank in. “Wow!”

  “But we’re still not sure that’s what they intend,” Jamil argued. “Who are these people? What is their motivation? How did they get hold of the plans for Snaga Ohme’s machine? And are they really serious about this?”

  “They’re serious, all right,” Rowan said, studying the computer printout. She looked at Raoul. “Did you know someone called Bosk?”

  “Oh, yes.” Raoul and the Little One exchanged glances and nods. Raoul sniffed. “We never liked Bosk, personally. He thought far too highly of himself. Everyone knew his hair wasn’t his own. And what he did have, he bleached. Yet, for some reason, our late employer, Snaga Ohme, took a fancy to the man.”

  “Bosk was in Ohme’s confidence,” Rowan continued.

  “His confidence, his bed, you name it.” Raoul flipped his own long hair languidly over one shoulder.

  “And if anyone in that household knew Ohme’s secrets, it would be Bosk.”

  “Yes. Not a doubt. He was the one who could have used the collagen treatments,” Raoul added in an undertone to the Little One.

  “Bosk is dead, Xris,” Rowan said. She handed him the printout. “They murdered him to get the plans for the device. It’s all right here.”

  It was: a detailed report on the murder of the wretched Bosk, related in a completely professional, detached manner that chilled the blood.

  I shot the subject through the head, read one portion. I then proceeded to cut out the subject’s eyeball. Holding it to the scanner, I was thus able to obtain the necessary files.

  Yes, there was no doubt these people were serious. They’d murdered once. And, judging by the beating they’d given the Little One and the threats they’d made to kill Raoul, they were prepared to murder again. Xris read through the rest of the material. It was disjointed, incomplete, the downloading of the files having been interrupted by the Canis Major’s unexpected jump to hyperspace. But he was finding enough to make him start to believe that the young king’s life was truly in danger.

  Xris had been one of the envied few invited to attend the coronation. Dion Starfire, the embodiment of hope for a war-torn galaxy, kneeling at the foot of the archbishop, pledging himself to serve the people, to dedicate his life to that service.

  And Xris remembered another time—a time tinged with smoke, hot with fire, soaked in blood. The time he’d seen Dion Starfire work a miracle
.

  And then there was the king’s wife, the beautiful Astarte.

  Xris shook his head irritably. He was spending far too much time these days tromping down memory lane.

  “But who are these people?” Jamil sounded irritated. “I’ve asked twice now.”

  “The Knights of the Terra Nera,” Xris read, flipping through the printout.

  “Sounds pretty hokey to me,” Jamil observed.

  “Nothing on them,” Xris said. “I wonder—”

  “I can still get into the bureau’s files,” Rowan offered.

  Xris regarded her silently. She flushed beneath his gaze.

  “I needed to keep track of the Hung,” she said defensively. “What they were doing. Who was in prison. Who was out.”

  “I take it the bureau doesn’t know you’re rifling through their secret files?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go ahead, then. See what you can dig up on these knights—if anything.”

  Rowan went down to the bridge. A moment later, he heard her conversing with the computer.

  “I’ll . . . just go along with her. See if she needs some help,” Harry added, blushing.

  “Damn!” Xris took out another twist. He stared at it gloomily, thrust it back into the case—the case the king had given to him. “If only I could get hold of Dixter!”

  “Maybe we’re worried about nothing,” Jamil argued. “With the Navy on alert, expecting revolution, the Royal Guard will certainly be taking extra precautions to protect the king.”

  “Unfortunately, they won’t be able to protect him against this type of device,” Quong pointed out. “Since it must use an energy beam to explode the micromachines, the device doesn’t have to look like a weapon. It could look as innocent as . . .” he paused, shrugged, “a microwave oven.”

  “That’s sort of what the damn thing is,” Xris said, scanning the file. “Here”—he tossed the file to Quong—”see if it makes sense to you. It reads like a lot of scientific voodoo to me.”

  Quong read. The more he read, the graver his expression. “It is not voodoo, Xris.” He looked up. “They’re talking about building a phase-modulated maser with a tungsten core guide in the ten-point-two-hundred-twenty-eight-gigahertz-band transmitter. If they have truly developed such a device, it will do exactly what Snaga Ohme intended it to do. It will kill anyone with micromachines in the bloodstream. It will kill the king.”

  “How? Explain in words of three syllables or less.”

  Quong gathered his thoughts. “I said it could look like a microwave oven. That is basically how it works. A microwave oven resonates water molecules when tuned to the correct frequency. This device—they call it a negative wave device—both transmits and pulses energy waves. These waves are designed to cause the crystal power lattice of each micromachine in the king’s body to resonate. The resonation causes the lattice to become unstable, the pulsing causes the lattice to shatter. The process takes just over a minute.

  “At that time, all of the micromachines in King Dion’s body will explode. The explosions will perforate every vein and organ, causing the young man to bleed to death. The pain would be excruciating, a terrible way to die. No matter how quickly medical help arrived, no one could save him. Once the explosions go off, there is no way possible to repair such massive damage.

  “I would say these knights are quite serious,” Quong added.

  “They have gone to enormous expense to produce such a device. They intend to use it.”

  “We can send a message to the king,” Jamil offered. “Warn him to cancel all his plans for the next few days. Certainly that would get through.”

  Xris almost laughed. “Do you know how many warnings like this Dion gets every day? His Majesty has a secretary who does nothing but handle death threats. Dion’s never let it stop him before. Why would he do so now?”

  “We have a saying, ‘One who lives in fear of death has already died.’ He is a wise young man,” Quong remarked.

  “He may be a dead young man,” Rowan said, climbing up from the cockpit. Harry trailed along behind her. “I found that group. They’ve got quite a thick file, dating back a good long time. Here’s the gist of the report.

  “The organization is known as the Knights of the Terra Nera. Translation: the Knights of the Black Earth. This group dates back to the time when Earth—through overpopulation, pollution, and a few local nuclear wars—was starting to become uninhabitable. That was when humans took to the stars.

  “Originally, the knights began as a group of environmentalists. They disapproved of space travel. They tried to convince people to remain on Earth, use their talents and money for improving the planet, not abandoning it. But, of course, no one listened.

  “At about this time, the knights turned violent. They went from holding passive sit-ins to blowing up rocket-launching sites. But they were unable to stop progress.”

  “So what’s their problem now?” Harry asked. “Are they still against spaceflight?”

  “Hardly. Over the years, their organization changed, evolved. That’s what has kept them going. According to the information the bureau was able to gather, the Knights of the Black Earth now see their mission as one to preserve mankind’s heritage. All things related to Earth are held sacred. The knights’ home base is on Earth.” Rowan glanced at Tycho. “Anything produced on other, alien planets is considered corrupt. This goes for everything: food, customs—but especially religion.

  “To most of us, Earth is a world of skeletal cities, rotting garbage, unbreathable atmosphere. But to the knights, the Terra Nera is holy ground. Only those humans who are born on Earth or who can trace their ancestry back to someone born on Earth are permitted to enter the knighthood.”

  Rowan looked over at Xris. “The bureau had a heck of a time finding someone who was capable of infiltrating.”

  “They sent someone in?”

  “Yes.” Rowan nodded. “The bureau takes this group very seriously. Here’s what they found out. And, unfortunately, here’s where our theory starts to break down. The knights were pleased when Dion Starfire became king. It seems that his ancestry can be traced back to Earth.”

  Xris caught on. “So the knights have no reason to kill the king.”

  Rowan shrugged. “Maybe he did something to make them change their mind.”

  “You said they were fanatics about Earth-based religions. The queen is a High Priestess of a religion that got its start on another planet. The king’s been promoting that religion pretty heavily these days. Maybe that’s what got them pissed off,” Xris said thoughtfully.

  “And maybe that is what this means.” Quong referred back to the printout. “ ‘The king’s death will serve as a warning to all non-believers. The galaxy will be thrown into chaos, but, since our Knight Commander is a well-known person in a highly visible position, he will arrange for one of our own to take over the government.’ “

  “It is revolution, then,” said Jamil grimly. “What the Navy is afraid of happening is going to happen.”

  “And the Navy will figure that we’re the ones making it happen,” Xris said.

  “And when this machine goes off and the king drops down dead, our lives won’t be worth the paper they’re printed on.” Tycho added darkly, if somewhat obscurely.

  “Does the bureau have any idea who this Knight Commander is?”

  Rowan shook her head. “The infiltrator couldn’t find out. Apparently no one in the knighthood knows for sure. His identity is kept a closely guarded secret, even from his own people.”

  “Well, what do we do now, boss?” Harry asked.

  The others regarded Xris expectantly. He took a twist from its case, stared at it, not them.

  “The way I see it, there’s only one logical solution. I go to the nearest Naval base. I turn myself in. I tell them this was all my doing, you guys were just obeying orders. I cut a deal.”

  The others were silent.

  Xris didn’t see what they were doing; he was
looking at the twist. “As for His Majesty, I’ll tell them what we know—”

  “That’s good,” Jamil growled. “Plead insanity.”

  Xris glanced up.

  “It won’t work, Xris.” Rowan shook her head.

  He started to argue, but Jamil waved a hand.

  “I can see it now. You stroll onto a Naval base, apologize for breaking into their top-secret facility and kidnapping their number-one code expert at gunpoint. Then you tell them that it was all a mistake and you’re sorry and oh, by the way, ‘you’ve discovered a bunch of knights from old Earth who are planning to microwave the king.”

  “And they send you to the loony planet for twenty years or so,” Harry added, grinning. “Not much of a plan, Xris.”

  “It won’t save His Majesty,” Quong pointed out. “You yourself said he gets threats like this every day. We’re the only ones who know that this threat is real. That these people are both willing and able to put it into action.”

  “And it may not save you, Xris,” Rowan added softly. “Especially if what you predict actually comes to pass. They’ll blame you—and they’ll execute you.”

  “I suppose you want to go after these characters yourselves,” Xris said, looking around.

  One by one, they all nodded.

  “I will abide by the decision of the majority.” Raoul yawned. Pillowing his head on the Little One’s small lap, the Adonian was almost immediately asleep.

  Xris suddenly realized how tired he was, bone-hurting, muscle-aching tired. The rest of the team, he guessed, were in much the same condition. They were all casting envious glances at the slumbering Raoul.

  “How much time have we got?”

  Rowan consulted her watch. “Fifty-eight hours. About two and a half days.”

  “String up the hammocks,” Xris ordered. “We’ll get some rest while we can. Odds are we won’t be getting much later.”

  Jamil pulled the rolled-up hammocks out of storage, handed them to Tycho, who strung them across the living quarters. Harry went down to check on the computer. He returned to announce that they’d be coming out of hyperspace in about eight hours, near Olefsky’s home planet, and did Xris want to change that?