The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Quong studied the screen. “A possibility. We don’t know the right modulation, so we couldn’t shut the device down completely, but we might be able to force them to boost more power, which would take time.”

  Xris shook his head. “Out of the question. Marines will storm this drop ship in a matter of minutes. You stay here and you won’t be boosting anything.”

  “But you’ll need longer than fifteen minutes to reach the device,” Rowan argued. “Look at this, Doctor.”

  They huddled over the computer, talking excitedly. Xris didn’t understand a word, but he realized that in order to get them to leave, he’d have to physically assault both of them. Besides, if they could jam it, buy him more time ...

  He rested his hand on Rowan’s shoulder, touched the Doc on the arm. “All right. You stay. But listen to me. When the Marines show up, you surrender. That’s an order. No heroics.”

  “That was always my plan,” Quong said gravely, not taking his eyes from the screen.

  Rowan looked up at Xris. She was smiling, but her eyes were shadowed. “Don’t worry about us. You take care of yourself. And the others.”

  “Sure thing,” he said easily, then added, more somberly, “Once again, I’m sorry about all this.”

  “I’m not,” she answered. For a brief instant, her hand rested on his good hand. Then she turned back to the computer.

  Xris straightened. Raoul, a vision in gold sequins and bangles, fluttered excitedly around him.

  “What about me, Xris Cyborg? Do I get to surrender to the Marines, too?”

  “I know that’s always been a fantasy of yours, but not this time.” Xris took hold of the Adonian by a bracelet-covered, bejeweled arm, headed in the direction of the rumbling PVC. “Grab your purse. You and the Little One are coming with me.”

  Chapter 38

  Thus, at first you are like a maiden, so the enemy opens his door. . . .

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  “What the devil is the delay, Captain?” The Lord Admiral angrily confronted Cato. “Get His Majesty the hell out of here!”

  Cato saluted, looked grim. “We’re trying, my lord. The limojet is experiencing engine difficulty. It might be a faulty fuel line.”

  “Faulty fuel line, my ass!” Dixter swore. “Has that engine ever been known to fail?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Damn odd it should fail now, don’t you think, Captain?”

  “I understand your meaning, Admiral. We’re doing all we can.”

  “Transfer the king to another vehicle. Use my car. Call in the hovercraft.”

  “I’ve done that, my lord.” Cato was carefully patient. “But in those instances, the king and queen would have to leave the limojet. At least inside there, they’re safe.” The captain looked over at the drop ship. “The limojet’s shields could withstand a hit even from those lascannons.”

  Dixter stared at the drop ship, then cast a swift look around. It was all chaos: milling, panicked crowds; sweating police attempting to contain the mob; confused, bewildered dignitaries; and infuriated Baroness DiLuna; shoving, determined media. The Royal Guard provided an island of calm. Drawn up in a cordon surrounding the Royal Limo, the guardsmen and women were protecting the already well-protected vehicle with their own bodies. And there was the mysterious, potentially deadly drop ship squatting squarely in the middle of a hotel parking lot.

  Naval hovercraft converged on the scene; the sky was dotted with them, the air filled with their buzzing whine. But they only circled the drop ship.

  “Why haven’t they fired on it, my lord?” Cato carried the battle into the enemy camp, so to speak.

  Dixter, realizing this, offered a brief apology. “Sorry, Captain. You know your job. And—unfortunately, at times like this—I know mine. That drop ship is designed to withstand enemy attack from the ground or the air. The shielding is damn near impenetrable. You can drop bombs on it all day long and maybe put a dent in the damn thing.

  “Oh, sure,” he added, in response to Cato’s frown, “we could destroy it with a few plasma missiles, which would also fuse together in one gigantic metal lump every single civilian vehic in that parking lot. Not to mention the civilians themselves.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Cato rubbed his smooth-shaven chin.

  “Besides”—Dixter spoke softly, almost to himself—”I’m not certain we should do anything to that drop ship.”

  “Sir?” Cato was clearly appalled.

  “Just a hunch, Captain. Just a hunch. And of course we’ll do something.” Dixter was soothing. “Just as soon as we figure out what.”

  “Good God, my lord! Look!”

  One side of the drop ship opened wide. A hulking machine— large and massive and mottled gray-green in color—lurched out. The thing was belching great quantities of black smoke. People in the vicinity began shrieking in terror.

  “Analyze that gas,” Cato ordered over the comm. “Could be poisoned,” he added for Dixter’s benefit.

  The Lord Admiral said nothing, just shook his head.

  The answer came back sounding slightly puzzled. “Chemical analysis reads .. . exhaust fumes, Captain.”

  “I’ll be damned. That’s an old PVC-28 Devastator,” Dixter said, squinting into the sunlight.

  “And it’s headed this way, my lord. Civilian casualties or no, we’ve got to—”

  “No, it’s not.” Dixter pointed. “It’s turned. It’s heading for the ... hotel?”

  Both men watched, bemused, as the PVC crunched and mangled its way over the vehics in the parking lot, firing bursts of tracer fire to clear people from its path. It smashed through a retaining wall, rolled down a culvert, disappeared for several long moments—when it must have come to a halt. Then it surged up the other side and trundled on, continuing its relentless drive toward the Ceres Towers.

  Dixter was on the comm. “Commander, alert the local police to immediately evacuate that hotel and seal off the surrounding area.”

  “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Cato remarked. “At least the king and queen appear to be safe enough.”

  “Captain,” said the Lord Admiral grimly, his gaze fixed intendy on the PVC, “I have a hunch about this, too. Do whatever it takes to get that damn limo going!”

  The PVC clanked and thundered its way down the side of the culvert. Xris rode in the gun turret; Jamil steered from down below. Harry and Quong, Raoul and the Little One were jammed shoulder to shoulder in the middle. The insides smelled oddly of gardenia and burning oil. When the Devastator reached the culvert’s bottom, Xris ordered Jamil to stop.

  “Rowan!” Xris was forced to shout into the comm over the rumbling of the engine. “Has the king been evacuated yet?”

  “No, Xris!” she returned. “They’re keeping him inside the limojet.”

  It made sense. Under any other circumstances, the shielded, specially designed limo would be the safest possible place. Unfortunately, ironically, it was likely to become the safest possible steel-lined coffin.

  “Any luck jamming the negative wave device?”

  “We confused them for a few seconds, but they were able to outmaneuver us. The knights know we’re on to them now. You better hurry, Xris.”

  Sliding down out of the turret, the cyborg almost landed in Raoul’s lap. The Loti had a handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth with one hand, the other held fast to the hem of his golden cape, attempting to keep it out of the grease on the floor.

  Xris stood practically on top of the Adonian, shouted to be heard.

  “Try to reach the Royal Guard! Tell them that they have to get the king out of the limojet! The knights are using the limo as their target. The king would be safer in the crowd than he is in that damn car! You got that?”

  Raoul nodded, cautiously removed the handkerchief, and shrieked, “Do you have any ideas on how I’m supposed to get close enough to tell anyone anything?”

  Xris shook his head, reached for the controls that opened the hatch. “No, but you’ll figu
re something out! You always do.”

  “I do, don’t I?” Raoul remarked calmly.

  Clasping hold of the Little One’s hand, the Adonian stepped over Harry, fell over Quong, and headed for the open hatch. A trickle of muddy water ran through the culvert. Raoul gazed at it, looked back at Xris reproachfully.

  Xris shrugged. “It’s only water. You won’t melt.”

  Sighing, Raoul took off his shoes, gathered his cape around him, and jumped. The Little One flung himself out afterward. They were almost immediately lost in the smoke from the PVC’s exhaust.

  At least they’ll be out of view of the hovercraft circling overhead, Xris reflected. He ducked back inside the PVC.

  “Let’s go!” Xris shouted to Jamil, and the lumbering vehicle lurched forward, began rolling up the side of the culvert. “Full throttle! Don’t stop for anything now!”

  Coughing, choking, hanging on to his shoes with one hand, the Little One with the other, and trying to keep his golden cape from dragging in the mud, Raoul trudged up the side of the culvert. His spirits were as low as it was possible for the spirits of an Adonian Loti to get, which put them somewhere in the vicinity of the golden sash that encircled his slim waist.

  Reaching a concrete wall—put there to keep children and other members of the populace from tumbling into the drainage ditch— Raoul paused to watch the Devastator slam right through that same wall, go crunching over the wreckage.

  Raoul sighed. “They have all the fun.”

  He gazed at the concrete wall. He would have to climb over it—no jolly smashing through it—and he sighed again.

  He only hoped he didn’t rip a seam.

  Raoul placed his shoes—low-heeled, since he was going into action—carefully on the wall. Reaching down to his friend, he lifted the Little One and swung him up onto the top of the wall, which was about level with Raoul’s shoulders.

  Noting the dirt on the top, Raoul sighed a third time. Really! Xris expected the impossible!

  “I trust I will be fully compensated,” he remarked, then put his hands on the wall and, closing his eyes to the grime, pulled himself up.

  He climbed over, lowered himself to the ground, and was almost immediately elbowed, kneed, and rudely mauled by the crowd. Some people were trying to escape, others were clambering to get a better view, while still others were fighting simply to keep from getting crushed or trampled.

  Raoul, who had been about to lift the Little One down, now thought better of it. He climbed hastily back up onto the wall, gazed at the mob in disgust.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” he remarked to the Little One. “With the possible exception of the night our late former employer, Snaga Ohme, was murdered and Lord Sagan spread the false report that the space-rotation bomb was about to detonate. But even that didn’t compare to this because we had only a few hundred panic-stricken people stampeding about the mansion, while here . . .”

  He couldn’t go on. Words were simply not adequate.

  At that moment, the pressure of the mob eased. The hole punched into the side of the concrete wall by the PVC had opened up an alternative route—at least so most people appeared to believe, for they were streaming through the opening and running down into the culvert with no very clear idea of where they were going or why.

  “Bizarre,” said Raoul. “And just think of it. Most of these people are probably sober.”

  The Little One nodded gloomily, tugged on his friend’s sleeve, and pointed.

  The Royal Limojet could not be seen, surrounded as it was by the Royal Guard. But Raoul knew what his friend meant.

  “Ah, yes. The king.”

  Raoul contemplated the sea of humanity roiling between them and His Majesty and, for the first time in his life, the Adonian was subject to a feeling of helplessness.

  “There is simply no way, my friend,” he said to the Little One. “We are doomed to failure.”

  This feeling made him uncomfortable. Raoul hated feeling uncomfortable. He wondered if he’d brought along anything to alleviate the stress. Opening his handbag, he began searching for relief. Several sheaves of stiff, folded paper, tucked into the side of the purse, hampered his rummaging. He took the papers out, glanced at them—vaguely curious to see what they were—and started to toss them away.

  And then he had an idea.

  He clutched at the papers, held them fast, as if they were the most precious objects to come into his possession in a month: new diamond earrings, perhaps, or a jar of thigh cream.

  “This is it!” Raoul breathed softly.

  The Little One, reading his thoughts, clapped his hands and began to jump up and down—a perilous move on top of the wall. Raoul was quick to calm his friend’s joy.

  “We have to find a policeman,” Raoul said, and was immediately cheered and delighted by the oddity. Generally policemen were out trying to find Raoul, not the other way around.

  The Little One, standing on the wall, tapped his friend on the head, drew Raoul’s attention to several small hovering vehicles known as chariots because they purportedly resembled the chariots of ancient times—minus the horses and the wheels. Designed for police use, the chariot was nothing more than a round section of metal floor plating surrounded by a steel railing and equipped with anti-grav plates and blast jets. When activated, the chariot rose into the air, carrying the police in rapid—albeit breezy—transit above the congested sidewalks of the city.

  Police chariots were zipping around overhead, endeavoring to funnel the crowd out and away from the immediate vicinity of the hotel.

  Raoul put his golden shoes on, stood on top of the concrete wall, and began waving his hands, crying shrilly.

  “Help! Help me! Help! Police! Help!”

  The Adonian was a dazzling spectacle in his glittering doublet and golden hose and breeches. His golden cape caught the wind, billowed around him. Jewels and sequins glittered in bright sunlight. He might have been another sun, fallen to the ground.

  Just when it seemed to the harried police that they were finally getting the situation under control and the mob was starting to disperse, they noticed a crowd beginning to form around a flamboyantly dressed Adonian screaming for help on a concrete wall.

  The police moved in quickly.

  “Get down from there!” one policeman demanded, bringing his chariot level with Raoul. “Move along or you’ll find yourself in jail!”

  Raoul shoved the sheaf of papers at the startled cop.

  “I’m the Ambassador from Adonia!” Raoul gasped breathlessly. “My aide and I were supposed to be among the dignitaries attending the king, but we became separated from the group when the revolt started.”

  “There’s no revolt,” the policeman said swiftly. Too swiftly.

  Raoul nodded gravely. “My lips are sealed. But you must understand that I fear for my life and that of my aide. I demand that you take us to a place of safety. The nearest would be the temple, I presume.” Raoul’s painted eyelids fluttered. “I request the protection of the Royal Guard.”

  The policeman examined the credentials, which appeared authentic, down to the silver wax seal and the red ribbons. The crowd, drawn by the sight of the police, rather than dispersing, grew larger. At that moment, a burst from the PVC’s lascannon split the air like a thunderclap. The crowd gasped, screamed, and surged toward the wall.

  Raoul blanched in terror, threw his arms around the policeman, nearly strangling the man.

  “Officer, please! Our lives are in your hands. If anything happens to us, you will be held personally responsible! This could well cause a breach between our two governments!”

  “What the hell is going on?” A policewoman in another chariot sailed over.

  “He’s the Adonian ambassador, Sergeant. Wants to be taken to the Royal Guard. His credentials check out.” The policeman endeavored unsuccessfully to pry Raoul loose.

  “Then let them protect him, by all means. We don’t need any more trouble. The Goddess knows we have en
ough to deal with. We’ve been ordered to evacuate and seal off the area surrounding the hotel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The policeman opened a gate. Raoul hopped inside, dragging the Little One with him. The chariot took off, soaring over the heads of the crowd, heading up to the very steps of the temple itself.

  Raoul could see the Royal Limojet clearly now. Looking back, he could also see the PVC Devastator, blasting its way toward the hotel.

  Raoul held his golden purse over his head, endeavoring to keep his hair from getting mussed in the wind.

  “Thank heaven,” he remarked to the Little One, “I was dressed for the occasion.”

  Chapter 39

  . . . then you are like a rabbit on the loose, so the enemy cannot keep you out.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Laser fire burst around the PVC, but even the high-powered beam rifles carried by the local cops couldn’t penetrate the massive tank’s nullgrav steel armor. Xris kept up a steady stream of lascannon bursts that effectively cleared their path. Most of the police, seeing that their weapons had no effect, turned and ran, with the exception of one stalwart cop—either more courageous than his fellows or crazier—who leaped bodily onto the PVC as it roared across the hotel parking lot.

  Once he was there, the cop clung to the glacis plate of the speeding, rocking tank, practically eyeball to eyeball with Xris in the turret. The cop brought up his handheld lasgun, aimed it directly at Xris. The blast, which would reflect off the shields, was liable to do more damage to the cop than it would to the cyborg.

  Xris swiveled the lascannon around sharply, brushed off the cop as if he’d been a candidate for Olicien Pest Control services. Looking through the rearview cam, the last Xris saw of the cop, he was lying dazed on the pavement, muzzily shaking his head but otherwise unhurt.

  The PVC rolled without further obstructions—at least that it couldn’t climb over—up to the hotel. Fortunately, someone’d had sense enough to evacuate the area. Terrified guests were being herded out of the main entrance. A line of cops kept them moving—an easy task when the PVC roared into plain view.