The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

“As an example”—Rowan was in lecture mode—”as commander, the code word I would issue to every ship in the fleet might be ‘Raoul.’ The correct response for one ship is ‘Loti.’ For another it would be ‘Adonian.’ For a third, ‘the Little One.’ Naturally, it’s far more complex than that.”

  “Naturally,” Xris muttered on his way back to the bridge. No need ask what would happen when they couldn’t return the code. “We’ll be ordered to shut down our engines. The tractor beam will lock on to us, drag us ignominiously onto that dreadnought. Any attempt to flee and we’ll be blown out of the stars. And fleeing isn’t going to save the king.”

  Of course—the thought came to him—being taken prisoner would give us a chance to talk to someone, warn them about the danger. ...

  Once we are tractored on board. Xris went over it all in his mind. Once the commander makes certain our ship is secure, isn’t going to try to escape. Once the guards have boarded and made us all prisoners. Once we have given our names and voice prints and hand prints. Once the sergeant turns our request over to the lieutenant, who might or might not see fit to mention it to the captain, who would have to get it approved through channels ...

  “Fuck it!”

  Xris arrived back on the bridge. “How much time ...” He paused. “What are you doing? Have you found it?”

  “I didn’t look.” Rowan was wearing that smug, self-satisfied smile that always sent a tingle up Xris’s spine. She was on to something. “The codes are all in my files back at RFComSec.”

  “They would have shut those down—”

  “The front door,” she answered, her hands busy on the keyboard, her eyes scanning each screen as it flashed past. “They shut the front door. Not the back. There!” She glowed with pleasure and triumph. “I’m in! Now ... ship’s name.” She was talking to herself as she entered the information. “Registration number. Come on. Come on.”

  Lines of type flashed past in a blur. Suddenly the scrolling stopped. A white bar began to flash.

  “This is it!” Rowan hit a key, laughed, jubilant. “You have it on your computer now, Harry! Give them that when they ask for it!”

  She was inside the machine. Xris recalled the old days. Why hadn’t he ever noticed? Dalin Rowan had never come alive except when he was hooked up to that machine.

  A lot alike. Xris flexed his mechanical hand. A lot alike ...

  “Dear God!” Rowan was on her feet and moving away from the computer as if it were a bomb, ready to explode. “Oh, dear God!”

  “They accepted our stand-down code,” Harry announced.

  Xris was at Rowan’s side. “Now what?”

  “A trap.” She was white to the lips. “It was a trap. They’ve put the worm on me.”

  The worm. A computer trace that had latched on to Rowan’s transmission and would race like a heat-seeking cybermissile through the convoluted paths of cyberspace until it found her.

  “Shut it down!” Xris urged.

  Rowan appeared to be in shock. She stared at the computer as if it had physically assaulted her. A blow from a trusted friend, a lover ...

  “Shut the damn thing down!” Xris repeated, shaking her.

  Rowan blinked, sprang suddenly back to the computer. Feverishly, she issued verbal commands. When that didn’t work, she struck keys. At length, she struck the keyboard.

  “Harry, cut the juice!” Xris commanded.

  Harry spread his large hands, helpless. “I can’t, Xris.”

  “We’d lose everything,” Rowan said in a shaking voice. “Engines. Life-support. Everything. I used the central computer. I didn’t think— There.” She fell silent.

  Nothing happened onscreen that Xris could see; he’d had wild visions of a blinding flare of glaring white light. But apparently Rowan could read the signs.

  “They have me.”

  Only minutes, perhaps, before the word went out. Glancing at the viewscreen, Xris saw the destroyer suddenly begin to come about. It might be coincidence. ...

  “Rowan, get down below. Harry, set the controls to release the launch module. Now! Let’s go.”

  Rowan cast Xris a look—an apology, pleading, he didn’t know. He didn’t have time to care. Taking her gently but firmly by the arm, he guided her down into the launch module.

  “Launch release set,” Harry reported.

  “You’re next. Down the hatch.”

  Harry climbed down. Xris was up above, his hand on the airlock controls, set to seal off the launch module from the command module. Harry was halfway down when a thought struck him. Xris had been wondering how long it would take the big man to figure things out.

  “Uh, Xris.” Harry halted in mid-descent, peered back up. “If I go ... and you go ... who’s left to pilot the command module, bring us all back up?”

  “No one,” Xris said grimly.

  Harry shook his head, slowly assimilating. “But that will mean—”

  “Damn it, I know what it will mean! Get your ass down there!”

  Xris took one last look through the viewscreen. The dreadnought was most definitely headed in their direction. A red light was flashing on the console. Xris didn’t wait to hear what they had to say. It could all be perfectly innocent.

  “Yeah. And I’m going to model nude for the cover of Celestial Bodies.” Xris chomped down on a twist, bit it clean in two. Part of it fell into the launch module below.

  He shut the hatch, sealed it, slid down the ladder to land on the deck with a thud.

  “Time?”

  “Six and a half hours. We’re off schedule by thirty minutes,” Doc pronounced worriedly.

  “Can’t be helped.”

  Everyone was at his post except Rowan, who sat huddled in a corner, staring bleakly at nothing.

  Xris headed forward, to where Jamil sat at the controls of the launch module. He passed Rowan, but said nothing. He had no comfort to offer, knew it wouldn’t be welcome even if he did. Let her alone for now. She’d be back to normal once they landed on the planet’s surface, once they began to track the negative wave device.

  Jamil was at the helm, Harry alongside. Screens filled the wall, but there were no windows anywhere. All the seats were high-backed, with multiple straps to hold the Special Forces teams in place during the descent.

  “Jeez.” Harry looked at the crude and simple controls, and was shocked. “You call this flying?”

  “No,” Jamil said shortly. “We call it dropping. Don’t worry. It’ll get us there in one piece and that’s all it was meant to do.”

  “Ready, Xris?” Harry glanced over his shoulder. He looked and sounded reluctant.

  Xris didn’t blame the big man. Once the launch module let go, they would be hurtling down to the planet’s surface with no defenses and only minimal guidance systems to get them there.

  The “Elevator Ride from Hell,” Jamil had called it.

  And there would be no going back.

  Chapter 36

  The Great White Mountain Man said, “The reason deception is valued in military operations is not just for deceiving enemies, but, to begin with, for deceiving one’s own troops, to get them to follow unknowingly.”

  Commentary on Sun Tzu’s The Art of War

  The Temple of the Goddess on the planet Ceres was an enormous edifice. Built on the steppes of a mountain held sacred to the people of Ceres, the temple dominated the landscape, as it dominated the lives of its people. The complex was enormous, housing the priests and priestesses as well as the numerous acolytes and novices who served the Goddess.

  The inner portion of the temple was sacrosanct, could not be entered by the uninitiated, with only a few exceptions. Today’s private religious ceremonies would be performed within the temple confines, but the public ceremonies preceding would be held outside the temple, on a specially built platform raised above the temple steps.

  As Dion had told Dixter, months of planning and preparation had been devoted to today’s ceremony. It was vitally important not only for religious, but for po
litical reasons as well. The Baroness DiLuna, mother of the queen, ruler of Ceres, and a powerful force in the galaxy, had forced this marriage on the young king in return for helping him attain the throne.

  The young king and his queen had both been desperately unhappy in the marriage, which had very nearly ended in a divorce.

  The rift threatened the political stability of the galaxy, almost toppled the young king. Disaster had been averted, but at great cost. The near tragedy brought king and queen together as husband and wife. The birth of a Royal Prince was to be their reward.

  This day would celebrate the anniversary of the Royal Couple’s wedding and, most important, they would enter the temple together to dedicate the unborn child to the Goddess—an important ritual in Ceres. Thus, the king would officially sanction the religion of the Goddess throughout the galaxy; their child would be raised in the religious beliefs of both parents. And Baroness DiLuna would no longer threaten to take away her fleets, her armies, her systems, her shipping routes, and all the immense wealth these generated.

  Press coverage of the day’s events was unparalleled. So many reporters had converged on the planet that they almost outnumbered the populace of the capital city. Restrictions and regulations had been issued in regard to the ceremony itself and were being strictly enforced. Only the major nets could cover the event for vid broadcast; all others had to tie in to these.

  Galactic Network News was present, with its highly sophisticated off-world beaming and image enhancement equipment. It would, as promised, make the viewer half a galaxy away feel as if he, she, or it were seated beside the king. In addition, GNN news anchor James M. Warden was the envy of every journalist from Ceres to Hell’s Outpost for having landed an interview with the Royal Couple immediately prior to the opening of official ceremonies.

  Back when Dion was Dion and not His Majesty, Warden had been the first journalist to actually predict that this young upstart with the intense blue eyes and red-gold mane of hair would someday become a powerful force in the galaxy. Warden’s first interview with the would-be king was seen by political analysts today as being a major factor in the ascendance of Dion’s star. The young king never forgot those who had helped him in his rise.

  Warden and his cam crews were on the dignitaries’ platform, trying to set up their equipment and getting in the way of the fevered workmen. A last-minute potential disaster had occurred—a swathe of bunting, draped above the royal thrones, had torn loose in an overnight windstorm and now appeared ready to tumble down and engulf both Their Majesties in billowing purple silk.

  To Warden’s mind, the workmen were interfering with his cam crews, who were positioning cams for the best angles and attempting to untangle and anchor down the masses of cable that wound, like the sacred snakes of Ceres, up, down, and around the platform’s stairs and supports.

  Warden guessed what must be going on in the mind of Cato, head of the Royal Guard. To him, all these people were damned nuisances at best, potential assassins at worst. No one was allowed this close to the king and queen without security clearance. Every living being on the platform or on the steps leading up to the platform or on the road leading to the steps that led to the platform was supposed to be wearing ID tags emitting impulses that permitted them entry into the electronic surveillance net surrounding the area.

  Anyone entering without the tag would cause a break in the net, bring the guards down upon them with a swiftness that rivaled a jump into hyperspace. There had been, at last count, ten such incidents in a twenty-minute period. Four badges had fallen off. Three badges had malfunctioned. Two drunken college students, acting on a dare, had been caught without badges, as well as an elderly priestess, who had forgotten to wear her badge and was highly indignant at being detained and searched.

  Warden was active in the proceedings, keeping a critical watch on his team, though he left the placement of cams and crews up to the producer and director. Frequently, he would indicate—with a wave of his hand, a nod of his head—a change, such as getting a shot of the priestess slapping at the hands of one of the Royal Guard. Warden’s wishes were always accepted as commands; he was known to have an eye for such things.

  He checked camera angles, tested sound levels, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for anyone of interest who might flutter into his web. Not that this was likely. The dignitaries would not arrive until they were scheduled, each being driven up to the base of the platform in official limojets in order of their rank and position.

  The king and queen would arrive just as the last of the others were being seated. It was during the interval of these few minutes that Warden would conduct his interview.

  He was just conceding to his director, via commlink, that it seemed unlikely he’d have a chance to talk with anyone else, when he caught sight of the Lord of the Admiralty making an unexpected—to judge by the reaction of the Royal Guard— inspection tour.

  Warden advanced to meet Dixter. The two came together in the midst of the fray, like enemy generals meeting on a hillside above a battle. They had known each other for years, had mutual respect for each other, if not mutual regard.

  “Delighted to see you, my lord,” Warden said, shaking hands. “Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”

  “I happened to be in the vicinity,” Dixter parried, “and thought I’d stop by.”

  Warden went in from another angle. “Any truth to the rumor that Operation Macbeth was put into effect in response to the discovery that rebellion was fomenting among the members of the armed forces?”

  Warden obliquely motioned his assistant, a cam-wielding young man, to switch on his vidcam, get a good shot of the two of them, just in case the Lord Admiral happened to let anything slip.

  Dixter smiled. “No truth to that rumor at all, Mr. Warden. We are, as we said, conducting Naval exercises.”

  Warden gazed intently at the Lord Admiral’s face. “Do you always find Naval exercises so stressful, my lord?”

  “When you detest spaceflight as much as I do, yes,” Dixter returned mildly. “That’s public knowledge, by the way. You won’t get any mileage from seasick admiral stories.”

  Warden grinned amiably. “There goes my lead for tonight’s broadcast. Now what about the rumors that your top code breaker has disappeared and that Naval security has been breached? Anything to that?”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Warden, and the public, that galactic defenses remain strong.” Dixter added politely, firmly, “And now, I’m certain you will excuse me. The other guests are arriving.”

  James M. Warden straightened his tie, motioned the young assistant to pan the crowd. He cast a bored glance at the first arrivals; these would be local government officials and their wives—small fish, not worthy of notice.

  Warden spoke into his commlink. “Something’s up. The Lord Admiral’s here and he’s not supposed to be. Contact your sources in the Navy and find out what the devil’s going on.”

  It was hot standing here in the sun. Warden did not want to be seen sweating; he walked over to stand in the shade of the purple bunting. Someone found a chair for him. His makeup artist swooped down on him, began to make minor retouches. Warden watched the continuing procession of dignitaries with bored eyes. The cameraman was filming a group of children armed with flowers to be presented to the queen.

  “Cute, aren’t they?” Warden said to his producer.

  “Yeah.” The woman didn’t glance at them.

  “It will make a nice opener.”

  “I’ll see that it feeds to editing. Any idea why the Lord Admiral’s here?”

  “I’ve got someone on it.”

  The producer nodded and left.

  The dignitaries were becoming increasingly important. The cameraman switched his cam from the children to the new arrivals. Warden nodded affably at these, occasionally waved his hand. The greetings were either returned warmly or not returned at all, depending on what he’d last reported about the individual in question.

  Many people
remained yet to be seated, when Warden noted heads turning, the minor officials—relegated to the back—craning their necks to see what was going on. Whispers swept through the crowd.

  “The king and queen are arriving,” reported an assistant.

  Warden had already glimpsed the sleek limojet with its massive armor plating and steelglass windows. A private area for the interview had been set up beneath a canopy. It was provided with comfortable chairs and even a refreshment table. The Royal Guard had the canopy cordoned off, was now scanning the chilled fruit for poison. Warden could hear the faint hum presaging a break in the electronic net. Other members of the Royal Guard went prowling through the stands.

  Warden strode leisurely over to meet Their Majesties. The queen was beautiful, radiant. The king was smiling, dignified, coolly aloof and detached, but not offensively so. He was what his subjects wanted in a king, someone sublime, perfect, set apart. He was all of that and more and yet he had the rare gift to be able, on occasion, to descend from his lofty throne and remind his subjects that he was mortal—as were they.

  The children were being shepherded forward to deliver their flowers. They were frightened by the commotion, overwhelmed by the prospect of being this near the king and queen. All made it, except one little boy, who dropped his flowers and burst into tears. The king knelt to the child’s level, ruffled the hair on the small bent head with a gentle hand. Then, picking the flowers up from the dust, the king offered them to the queen, who accepted them with a gracious smile, a comforting word.

  “That’s the Blood Royal in him,” Warden remarked to his cameraman.

  “This will have them in tears,” the cameraman predicted, his cam following the little boy, who was looking bewildered but happy, not certain what had happened, yet realizing—from the fuss the grown-ups were making—that he’d done something remarkable.

  “Poor kid’ll probably develop a phobia about flowers,” said the producer.

  The dignitaries continued to arrive. The king and queen had come early for the interview in order to be on time for the opening ceremonies. King Dion was noted for his punctuality, made it a point to always be where he was supposed to be on time, insisted on doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing on time. This was undoubtedly due to the king’s tight schedule—a minute late here could mean hours late somewhere else. And so no longer was it considered appropriate to be “fashionably late.” The fashionably late often discovered that His Majesty had started without them.