The Knights of the Black Earth

by Margaret Weis; Don Perrin

  Good question. Xris hit the comm. “Tycho? You read me?”

  No response.

  “Tycho?”

  Not even a crackle.

  A cold feeling spread from Xris’s stomach up his spine, nudged aside the pain. It was, he realized suddenly, too damn quiet down on the ground. Motioning Harry to move back, Xris took a cautious look over the balcony.

  What was left of Dr. Brisbane was lying on the ground. Tycho stood in the center of a ring of gun barrels, all pointed at him. He was surrounded by soldiers. Xris didn’t recognize the uniforms or the insignias. It didn’t matter anyway.

  Pivoting on his mechanical leg, he stumped across the balcony.

  “We’re going to have company,” he announced to Harry.

  “Huh?” Harry cupped his hand over his ear.

  Xris grabbed hold of the big man’s arm, pulled him into the room.

  “Xris!” Rowan’s voice was frantic, halted Xris where he stood. “We’re reading another signature! I repeat, another signature! It appeared practically the moment the main device went down. It’s weaker than the first, but that doesn’t matter. According to our readings, this device is located in the immediate vicinity of the king!”

  Xris shook his head, sighed. These guys were good. Damn good.

  “Okay, Rowan, you and Quong—”

  “No good, Xris, I’m afraid,” the doctor’s voice chimed in, steady, calm. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re surrounded.”

  Xris heard ominous sounds, knew what was coming.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know the feeling.”

  Heavily armed soldiers, their faces concealed behind helmets, surged into the hotel room. They wore some sort of markings on their body armor, but Xris was too dazed and exhausted to make any sense of them. The soldiers leveled beam rifles at him.

  He raised his hands in the air. Somehow, he had to raise Raoul, warn him, tell him what to do.

  He spoke into the comm. “Raoul—”

  One of the soldiers slugged Xris in the mouth with the butt end of his rifle.

  “Shut down your communications.”

  Harry looked to Xris for orders.

  Xris shook his head, shrugged.

  The soldiers clamped restrainers on Harry’s wrists, fit two more around his ankles.

  The captain of the troop—the one who had hit him—aimed his weapon at Xris.

  “Now shut yourself down, cyborg.”

  No use arguing. Xris didn’t bother to tell them he lacked the energy to fight anyhow.

  “Take it slow,” the captain warned. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Xris reached for his battery pack, touched a button. The LED lights on his arm went out; the entire left side of his body went dead. He could no longer maintain his balance, flopped, helpless, onto a bed.

  The captain regarded him with a look of pity.

  Xris closed his eyes, reminded himself to slug that son-of-a-bitch captain one day. Right now, though, he had other things to do.

  He focused his thoughts. Pictured in his mind a raincoat and a battered fedora. . . .

  Chapter 40

  Assassiner c’est le plus court chemin.

  Assassination is the quickest way.

  Moliere, Le Sicillien, Scene 12

  “Well, my friend,” said Raoul, looking up at the temple looming over him, “we are here. And now we are supposed to alert someone to His Majesty’s danger and advise them that they should remove him from the vehicle.”

  The Little One shook his head gloomily.

  “You are right, my friend. That will not be easy.”

  The chariot had set them down on the temple steps, away from the crush of the panicking crowd below, but not much closer to their goal. Up here, they were just two more dignitaries. And the dignitaries were actually causing more trouble than the mobs, for the dignitaries not only needed to be protected, but reassured, coddled, mollified, soothed, and/or placated. The various governors and parliamentarians and vid stars, mingled with priests and priestesses, all lunged about aimlessly, bumping into one another like ships caught in an asteroid field, never going where they were told, always ending up where they weren’t wanted.

  The king and queen, ensconced in the Royal Limo, surrounded by armed guards and now by a gathering contingent of media, remained as far from Raoul as any star in the firmament.

  “I could attempt to speak to the Royal Guard, but I have grave doubts that they will believe me,” Raoul continued. “In fact, my warning them about the danger to the king would look extremely suspicious. The real Adonian ambassador would be worried about only one thing at a time like this—saving himself.”

  The Little One scanned the crowd from beneath the rim of the fedora. He jabbed one small finger in the direction of the Royal Guard.

  Raoul lifted a plucked eyebrow. “Ah, yes. Captain Cato. True, he would undoubtedly recognize us in connection with our erstwhile employment with our erstwhile employer, Snaga Ohme. I have the distinct feeling, however, that such recognition would result in our being immediately incarcerated.”

  The Little One, standing on one foot, weighed the force of this argument and was evidently inclined to agree. He crossed his small arms over his chest and shook his head.

  “The king and queen know us and have reason to feel kindly toward us,” Raoul continued. “But to reach Their Majesties, we have to penetrate the ranks of the Royal Guard, who do not know us and who have no reason to feel anything whatsoever about us except that we are, perhaps, better dressed than most people here. Still, we must do what we can. I—”

  The Little One began hopping up and down, pointing frantically.

  Raoul peered through the crowd. He grabbed the Little One’s hand in excitement. “General Dixter! I mean—Lord Admiral Dixter. He knows us! And he actually likes us!”

  Raoul pulled his handkerchief from his handbag, began to wave it in the air. “General Dixter! Yoo-hoo! I mean Lord Admiral Dixter! Xris sent us! We—”

  The Little One whipped around, trod hard on Raoul’s foot.

  Raoul clapped his hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Dixter had heard the Adonian’s shrill cry—as had everyone in the immediate vicinity. And he had heard the name Xris.

  “I forgot—we are wanted men!” Raoul also forgot to lower his voice, causing several people near him to stare at him in horror and begin pointing at him.

  Dixter was saying something to two of the Royal Guard, who started toward Raoul, shoving their way through the crowd, politely but firmly elbowing people out of their way.

  “You’re right!” Raoul gasped. “They undoubtedly think we’re the assassins! In which case,” he added gravely, “I deem it unlikely that they will honor our request to speak to the king.”

  The Little One pulled Raoul to one side, tugging him underneath the maze of scaffolding on which the dignitaries’ platform had been built. People surged around them. Raoul tried his best to blend in with the crowd—not an easy feat, considering that he outshone the sun.

  He heard his name, recognized Dixter’s voice. “Don’t leave! You’re not in any danger!”

  Raoul paused, half turned, and saw the Royal Guard drawing their lasguns.

  A drawn lasgun—in Raoul’s mind—constituted danger. He ducked under a piece of royal purple bunting.

  The guns caught the dignitaries’ attention, as well. They swirled away from the guard like leaves in a storm. The news media, catching sight of the action, immediately dashed after the Royal Guard. Even James M. Warden, news anchor for GNN, who had been in a heated discussion with Captain Cato, paused, turned to see what was going on. Warden said something to his cameraman, who lifted the vidcam, focused in on the Royal Guard and Lord Admiral Dixter.

  Glancing through a dangling drape, Raoul caught a glimpse of the expression on Dixter’s face—helpless, frustrated.

  Raoul knew just how the man felt. “How will we ever get to the king now?” he asked his small companion.

  The Li
ttle One had some idea in mind, perhaps, for he dragged Raoul out from under the opposite end of the scaffolding and plunged back into the crowd. Raoul tripped mincingly along behind his friend, keeping up a running stream of apologies.

  “I beg your pardon, madam. So sorry, sir. We must get through. Urgent information. I adore your dress, my dear. Is it an original or a copy? Are you quite sure? It’s a copy,” he said in an undertone to the Little One.

  His friend growled impatiently, pulled Raoul along so fast that he nearly stepped out of his pumps.

  “Where are we going?” Raoul demanded.

  The Little One pointed, indicated his plan. Raoul blinked, astounded at the idea. The more he considered it, the better he liked it.

  “GNN! News anchor James M. Warden. His Majesty undoubtedly has a vid machine in the limo. We will get ourselves on camera and issue the warning that way! James M. Warden will certainly not allow anyone to shoot us—at least until after the interview.”

  The two hastened ahead.

  “Mr. Warden!” Raoul called, once again waving the hankie. “Mr. Warden! You don’t know me, but—”

  James M. Warden faced them.

  Raoul had the sudden impression that he’d been mistaken; that the news anchor did indeed know them and that they weren’t at all a welcome sight. Warden’s expression was cold, dire.

  The Little One halted so abruptly that Raoul tumbled over him.

  “Hostile? Why should he be hostile—”

  Warden turned to Cato. “Captain, those two men over there. I recognize them. They are members of the cyborg’s mercenary team!”

  Cato looked, saw them, recognized them. The captain shouted for his men, started forward.

  Raoul was caught out in the open, nowhere to run.

  This called for desperate measures. He reached into his handbag for his lipstick. . . .

  At that moment, the limo’s jets fired.

  Captain Cato whipped around, began issuing orders. “Clear the area! Get His Majesty to safety!”

  The Royal Guard instantly sprang to action. The ring of steel expanded outward, firmly, determinedly pressing people out of the way. The Royal Limo started to lift off the ground.

  Raoul and the Little One thankfully mingled with the excited crowd, let the mob pick them up and sweep them away, back to the relative safety of the scaffolding.

  The Adonian heaved a sigh of relief. “Ah, nothing to worry about now. Xris Cyborg must have disabled the device. We can— What is it?”

  The Little One was leaning forward, his head cocked, as if he were listening to a distant call.

  Raoul followed his companion’s line of sight. “News anchor James M. Warden appears exceedingly displeased. Well, he’s obviously just realized he’s missed his chance to interview us. Oh, that’s not it? He’s contacting someone. Trying to contact someone. They’re not answering. He’s trying to contact his news crew! The people in the hotel! You don’t suppose—”

  The Little One suddenly stiffened; his gaze became unfocused, abstracted. He put his hands to his head, shook it in confusion.

  Raoul stared at his friend worriedly. “What—”

  The Little One stomped on Raoul’s foot.

  Raoul took the hint, fell silent, though he mourned over the black mark on his golden pumps.

  Spinning around, the Little One grabbed hold of Raoul to ensure his complete attention, and transmitted his message.

  Raoul sucked in a breath. “You were talking to Xris Cyborg! We’re supposed to look for a backup assassin, carrying one of the negative wave devices! Somewhere near the king! Possibly a GNN crewman. A GNN crewman? Are you sure? What else? What else did he say?”

  The Little One clasped one small hand over his own wrist.

  “They’ve been captured.” Raoul sighed. “It’s up to us.”

  He gazed around. GNN news crew were everywhere. A quick count garnered about twenty. And everyone of them seemed to be either holding or standing next to some sort of machine. And every machine, as far as Raoul could judge machinery, had the potential of being deadly.

  “One of these people is going to murder the king,” he murmured. “And there is nothing the Royal Guard or anyone can do to stop the assassin, because they will never see it coming. The young king will die, horribly, painfully, and no one will ever know how, why. The assassin will simply walk away.”

  “Get a shot of that limo!”

  The voice belonged to news anchor James M. Warden, instructing his cameraman. The man shifted the vidcam to the limojet.

  The engines shut off. The limo fell back to the ground, with what must have been a bone-jarring jolt for those inside.

  “Now,” Warden was saying. “I want a shot of the king.”

  “That’s it! The device!” Raoul cried. “Stay here,” he ordered the Little One.

  Raoul pulled out his lipstick, flipped off the cap. A tiny needle flicked out of the tube. Holding the tube in his hand, careful not to touch the needle, he ran toward the cameraman.

  No one, with the possible exception of Xris, would have now recognized the Loti. Raoul’s gaze was concentrated, absorbed, intent on his target. He ran lightly, swiftly, his black hair streaming out behind.

  He reached the cameraman, could see—in the vidcam’s lens— red-golden hair. Dion was facing the camera, looking right into it. The vidcam hummed. ...

  Raoul jabbed the needle deep into the cameraman’s back. The man cried out in astonishment and pain. He dropped the camera, tumbled down to the ground, and lay there—unconscious.

  And then the Little One’s voice sounded in Raoul’s mind.

  The wrong man! He’s not the one! The assassin is—

  A clenched fist slammed into Raoul’s jaw, spun him around. He fell on all fours, dazed and groggy from the blow.

  In front of him, on the ground, lay the camera, still humming, lights still flashing.

  Raoul flung his body on top of the vidcam, fumbling for the switch in a desperate attempt to shut it off. A savage kick drove into his rib cage. Bones cracked. Pain shot through him. A hand grabbed hold of him, flung him up and backward.

  James Warden picked up the vidcam, aimed it at the king.

  The Royal Guard were closing in—on Raoul. No one was paying the slightest attention to the news anchor.

  Raoul tried to sit up, but the pain of the broken ribs was intense. It hurt too much to breathe, let alone move. He was vaguely aware of the Little One standing over him, saw the small hand emerge from the raincoat, carrying a blowgun.

  The Little One put the blowgun to his lips.

  Warden clapped his hand to the back of his neck, as if he’d been stung by an insect. He gave a cry of fury and outrage, fought to hold the camera steady. But the poison from the feathered dart worked swiftly. His body jerked. He staggered. Dropping the vidcam, he clutched at his throat. Then he fell to the ground, dead.

  The Little One bent anxiously over his friend.

  “The camera!” Raoul choked, clasping his side. The pain was horrible; he felt sick and faint. “Shut it off!”

  The Little One stared in baffled consternation at the vidcam. Even if he hadn’t been terrified of the mechanical thing, he had no more idea how to shut it down than Xris had of how to apply lipstick. The little Tongan, member of a primitive race, from a primitive planet, searched for and found one of mankind’s very first tools. This he knew how to use.

  Lifting a large rock, the Little One held it over his head, brought it down with all the force of his small body on the negative wave device. Again and again, he bashed the machine with the rock.

  It worked quite as effectively as the on/off switch. The device died.

  But the Royal Guard was, in the interval, thundering down on them, lasguns raised, aimed.

  “I don’t think they will be disposed to listen to our story,” Raoul murmured. “I believe, in fact, that they are about to shoot us—”

  “Raoul!” A voice called. “Over here!”

  Raoul manage
d to weakly lift his head.

  The door to the Royal Limojet stood wide open. Its engines had fired; it was ready to depart.

  Lord Admiral Dixter gestured. “Quickly!”

  The Little One took hold of his friend’s hand, helped him to his feet.

  Tottering on weak knees, Raoul stumbled toward the limo. Only a step away, he fell, unable to walk farther. The Lord Admiral caught hold of him, eased him into the vehicle, where Raoul collapsed thankfully onto one of the leather seats. The Little One clambered inside after his friend.

  “Your Majesties,” said Dixter gravely. “I have the honor of presenting the Ambassador from Adonia and his aide.”

  Lying sprawled across the seat, Raoul waved a graceful hand to the king, smiled charmingly at the queen, and fainted.

  Dion looked at Raoul, looked back at Dixter.

  Dixter nodded, grimaced, jerked a thumb at the crowd, the news media.

  “I understand,” Dion said gravely. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The Lord Admiral slammed shut the limo door.

  “Drive on,” His Majesty commanded.

  Chapter 41

  Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

  Sir Winston Spencer Churchill, The Malakand Field Force

  Xris woke to the touch of a soft hand on his good hand.

  “Marjorie,” he said dreamily, and gave the hand an affectionate squeeze.

  Then pain burned through the ragged edges of whatever drug he’d been given; memory returned. He jerked his hand away. The other hand released his.

  Xris opened his eyes and stared into the widely grinning, hairy face of Bear Olefsky.

  “My friend!” said the Bear, slapping both his hands on his knees, “by my ears and eyeballs, it is good to see you!”

  But that soft hand hadn’t belonged to Olefsky, who was seated on Xris’s left. Xris glanced over to his right, saw Rowan. Her face was averted. Her cheeks were stained crimson. Her hands were now clasped in her lap.

  Xris turned back to peer bleary-eyed at Olefsky.

  “The king?” The words came out a parched croak.

  “Fine, laddie, fine. The Peacock and the Small One acted with enormous courage and much good sense.”