Knights Of The Black Earth

by Margaret Weis

  Tusk breathed a soft, relieved sigh.

  Dixter glared at him.

  "Sorry, sir," Tusk said, half ashamed of himself. "I know this is serious, but--damn it--Xris must have some logical explanation."

  "I can hardly wait to hear it!" Dixter muttered. "But this leaves me no choice. Captain?" He turned to the communications chief. "I am calling a holo-conference with all flaggrade officers in the fleet now--Alpha One pfiofity."

  Everyone in the comm room exchanged glances. No one even pretended to work. Dixter started for his office, Tusk in accompaniment. Once they were alone, in the small corridor that separated Dixter's office from the comm room, Tusk leaned near.

  "You were relieved, too, sir. Weren't you?"

  "In case it hasn't occurred to you, Commander," Dixter said grimly, "we may be facing armed rebellion, a revolution. Or a mass assault from the Corasian Empire. The next order I'm about to give will throw the fleet into disarray, disrupt Naval operations in every sector of the galaxy."

  Dixter fumbled in his pocket, produced more antacid tablets, threw them in his mouth, and crunched them down.

  Pausing at the door to his office, he said quietly, "Yes, maybe I was." Then, shaking his head, he added, "But I shouldn't have been."

  With that, he entered.

  "Bennett, I will be holding a holo-conference with my flag officers."

  Bennett's gaze flicked over the Lord Admiral's uniform. The aide counted two coffee stains on the sleeve and what appeared to be the remnants of a bran muffin on the breast.

  "I'll send to your quarters for your other uniform, sir."

  "No time for that!" Dixter snapped, heading for the conference table.

  Bennett planted himself in front of the Lord Admiral. The aide said nothing, but stared pointedly at the bran muffin crumbs.

  Dixter looked down.

  "Do what you can, then," he said impatiently.

  Bennett moved in, brushing and buttoning and straightening seams.

  Caught, Dixter waved his hand toward the vid panel. "Tusk, get everything set up."

  "That is the best I can manage under the circumstances, my lord," Bennett said severely. "I suggest you keep your hands folded and your arms on the table." He indicated the coffee stains.

  "I wish that was the worst I had to worry about." Dixter grimaced, tugged at the constficting collar. "How are we coming, Tusk?"

  "Taking roll call now, sir."

  "If you will excuse us, Sergeant-Major."

  The aide left the room. Tusk, seated at the console, nodded, indicated they were ready. Dixter sat down at the large conference table. Clasping his hands together, he placed his arms on the desk.

  The holographic images of fifty-one officers of rear admiral rank or higher appeared around the conference table. Some looked sleepy, had obviously been dragged out of their beds. One alien was still fumbling with her translator. Others, sensing that something big was up, looked alert, apprehensive. One of them--Adnfiral Lopez--looked sick.

  Dixter drew in a deep breath. "Ladies and gentlemen. As of this moment, I am implementing Operation Macbeth."

  Drowsy officers woke up. Those who had been waiting for something big obviously hadn't been expecting anything as big as this. Around the table, expressions went from startled to amazed to baffled.

  "This is not a drill," Dixter continued. "I repeat, not a drill. You will immediately relay the order for the implementation of this operation to all ships and units under your command. I--"

  Admiral Krylyn, commanding the Komos Sector, interrapted. "What the hell's going on, John? I've got some of my ships on a pretty dangerous mission into Corasia and I can't just--"

  "I'm sorry, Souchmak." Dixter gave a small shrug. "No exceptions."

  Several others started to speak, to ask questions, to protest. Dixter cut them off. "One final command will be issued from HQ within the next thirty minutes. You have your orders. Transmission closed."

  The images winked out, leaving behind an odd, empty impression.

  Dixter sat in the conference chair, staring at the table. Tusk looked at him worriedly.

  "Are you feeling all right, sir? Maybe you should go lie down. Or get something to eat."

  "I'm fine," Dixter said, grimacing. "I've got to go report this to His Majesty."

  "Before you leave, sir, remember that I'm the new kid on the block. This one wasn't covered in any of the manuals. What is Operation Macbeth?"

  "The plan was devised following the Ghost Legion incident, in order to handle similar incidents--a challenge to the crown or civil war. Such a disruption might mean that elements of the Royal Military could be in revolt. Or some outside force might attempt, through false orders, to remove ships from strategic locations. Therefore, as of now, no ship is to move or initiate communication. They are authorized to first warn, and then fire on, anyone attempting to communicate with them."

  "Good God!" Tusk said softly, considering the ramifications. "They can't talk to each other. They can't talk to us. If they do, they get shot! This'll mean chaos, sir!"

  "I agree, son, but I've got no choice. The way it looks now, our top code breaker has gone over to the other side-whatever the other side is. We don't even know that much!"

  Tusk was silent, awed at the implications of this drastic act. He tried to imagine what it would be like--to be captain of a destroyer, hundreds of lives on board, suddenly cut off, isolated, alone in space. Even distress signals--especially distress signals--would be suspect; more than one ship had been lured to disaster by phony calls for help. "How long will this last, sir?"

  "We should have new codes developed within seventytwo hours, at which time I'll cancel Operation Macbeth.

  Each ship has its own stand-down command, unique to that vessel. Each has to be contacted individually, by voice, its code verified. Which could take another forty-eight hours."

  Bennett reappeared. "My lord, His Majesty will receive you now."

  "Thank you, Bennett." Dixter rose slowly to his feet, flexed aching shoulders. "I don't mind telling you, Tusk, that I hated like hell issuing that order. My old friend, Admiral Souchmak Krylyn, has several ships involved in a delicate operation on the Corasian frontier. I've risked countless lives by doing this."

  He stopped in front of Tusk, gazed at him steadily. "And now I want you to do something you're going to hate."

  "I think I know, sir. The final command." Tusk, uncomfortable, waved his hand in the direction of the corridor. "Look, sir, I'm sorry about what I said back there-about being relieved that Xris had escaped. I guess I didn't realize how serious this was."

  "Understood." Dixter's grim face relaxed momentarily in a smile, which almost immediately disappeared. "You will draft an executive order to go out galaxy-wide. To all law enforcement agencies and to all commands: The cyborg Xris, every member of his team--we should have photo I.D.s of them by now--and Major Darlene Mohini are wanted criminals, to be arrested on sight or their deaths confirmed if capture is not possible. Is that clear, Commander?"

  "Yes, my lord," Tusk answered.

  "After that"--Dixter sighed--"shut us down."

  CHAPTER 23

  Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.

  John Dryden,

  Palamon and Arcire, Book 3

  "The 'tick' is deactivated," Rowan reported.

  Leaning back in the chair, she lifted her arms above her head, stretched, then put her hands behind her head, stretched again. Xris watched. He'd seen Rowan perform that stretching maneuver a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. But it was like watching an actor portraying his friend. Darlene Mohini as Dalin Rowan. Or Dalin Rowan as Darlene. Xris missed his friend, he realized suddenly. Missed him very much.

  "I think I got to the 'tick' before it transmitted our destination," Rowan continued. "But we won't know until we get there." She started to say something else, was interrupted by a yawn. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

  A couple of lifet
imes, Xris said to himself. He looked questioningly at Harry.

  The big man shrugged helplessly. "Beats me, Xris. I tried to follow what she was doing, but she lost me on the second command."

  "Coming out of hyperspace in thirty minutes," reported a subdued and slightly altered XP-28.

  "I guess we'll see what happens when we get there," Xris said through the twist clenched in his teeth. "We can always make the jump again if we need to." "Oh, please! No!" Tycho groaned.

  "I'm to the point where I'd almost rather be shot," Jamil muttered.

  Glumly, they strapped themselves in and waited.

  The cargo plane came out of hyperspace and into black, starlit loneliness. No carriers, no destroyers; not another spaceplane within instrument range.

  "Take us home," said Xris.

  Home was a spacious lodge located in the mountains of Sol-garth, ruled over by the gigantic and jovial humall known as Bear Olefsky.

  Formerly a Warlord under the Galactic Democratic Republic, Olefsky was a longtime friend of the current ruler, His Majesty, Dion Starfire. Certain gossipmongers among the vid-mags had romantically linked Olefsky's daughter Kamil with the king. But, with the queen pregnant and about to give birth and the king looking and acting extremely happy over the event, the gossip had faded away.

  Xris knew the truth of the matter; he'd been involved in the middle of the potential scandal, managed to get himself shot up in the process. He admired Queen Astarte, had once thought himself in love with her. But then almost every man who came in contact with Queen Astarte fell in love with her. The feeling had been easy to dispel. He was half a man. She was fully a woman, one of the most beautiful and powerful women in the galaxy, a woman expecting a child, a woman completely devoted to her husband. But the danger Xris and Astarte had faced together had forged a bond between them. When Astarte and Dion offered to give Xris an estate as a reward for his services (he'd turned down a knighthood), Xris chose this site, near Olefsky's castle, as the location for what was now his favorite home.

  Built of timber and stone taken from the land itself, the lodge stood on the side of a mountain, its many rooms sprawled across the mountain's face. Trees surrounded it, and because the lodge was made of the same trees and formed of the same stone as the mountain behind it, the dwelling was well camouflaged. Xris called it Journey's End.

  Xris had access to the Bear's own private landing site, located over thirty kilometers away from the lodge, for his own spaceplanes. Hoverjeeps were used to transport them to the lodge; no other vehicle could make the rough trip.

  Harry landed the spaceplane on Solgarth without incident. The region was isolated, with a small population. Air traffic control was nonexistent in this area. Once on the ground ("And so thankful to be here!" Tycho said fervently), they unloaded their gear. Quong carried the Little One from the cargo hold, took him to one of the hoverjeeps Xris kept parked at the landing site, and settled the empath comfortably in a backseat. Then, without saying a word, one by one they each quit their tasks, gathered together on the tarmac, and stared at the spaceplane.

  Mountains soared above them; pine trees surrounded them; white clouds scudded across a cobalt-blue sky. The tarmac was made of slate. Amid the grays and greens and blues of nature, the bright yellow cargo plane, with the black beetle on the side, shone like a garish, lumbering sun.

  "You can probably see it from the sun," Tycho remarked.

  "What do we do with the damn thing?" Harry asked. "Bury it?"

  "We do what we always planned to do," Xris returned. "Set it on automatic pilot and send it home." "That leaves us without transportation," Jamil observed. Xris glanced over at several long-range Scimitars and a Schiavona gunship, belonging to Bear Olefsky, parked on the tarmac. "If we need a plane, we can borrow one. For the moment, we're not going anywhere. Not until we figure out what's happened to Raoul. Speaking of which, Doc, how's the Little One?"

  "He is doing quite well. Remarkable, I would say, except that such swift recovery may be perfectly normal for a Tongan. I would like to do a research paper on him. I would keep his identity secret, of course." A dreamy, wistful look appeared in Quong's eyes. "It would cause a stir in the medical community. I would most assuredly be asked to present it at the Royal College of Surgeons----"

  "What I mean, Doc," Xris said tersely, interrupting the dream, "is when can I talk to him? When will he be conscious?"

  Quong was startled. "He is conscious now. Somewhat groggy from the injury, but conscious. How do you plan--"

  "Good. Harry, you get rid of the interstellar beetle. The rest of us will load the gear into the jeeps."

  The others in the team exchanged glances. It was guaranteed Xris had some plan in mind, but in his current dark mood, he wasn't likely to share it. The rest dispersed about their duties. Harry continued to stare gloomily at the spaceplane. "Maybe they'll be able to trace it back to us somehow." "I'll scramble the log," Rowan offered. "By the time I'm finished with it, that plane will think it's been to Corasia and six other galaxies."

  "Yeah, you could," Xris said. "Or you could fix it so that it would lead someone right to us."

  "For God's sake, Xris!" Harry exploded angrily. "Lay off her! If she'd wanted to lead them to us, she could have left that damn 'tick' to do the job. Come on board, ma'am."

  Rowan looked uncertainly at Xris, who gave a grudging nod.

  Is it a matter of trust? he wondered, watching the two of them walk to the plane. Or is it a matter of not wanting to lose the hate that's kept me alive all these years? Without that, what do I have left?

  He turned around to find Jamil, Quong, and Tycho staring at him.

  "I'm tired. We're all tired," Xris said by way of explanation.

  They said nothing, returned to their chores.

  They're losing faith in me, Xris realized. And I can't blame them. Damn it, I'm beginning to lose faith in myself! I've never had a job go this wrong. If I was superstitious, I'd almost say it was cursed.

  He'd been right about one thing, though. They were all exhausted. Turning back, he saw Rowan stumble wearily on the uneven tarmac.

  "Allow me, ma'am," Harry offered, catching hold of her, steadying her.

  She thanked him. The two continued on toward the spaceplane, but not before Harry had cast Xris a final reproachful look over his shoulder.

  "Great! So now I'm the bad guy," Xris said bitterly.

  Removing the butt end of the twist from his mouth, he tossed it on the stone, ground it out beneath his heel.

  "You have to admit, Xris, your friend did a neat job of saving our skins." Tycho came over to stand beside the cyborg. "She didn't have to do it. Harry's right. She could have arranged it so that we'd be locked up in some brig right now. Not only would she be safe, she'd be a hero. Instead

  "... well ... she's in this up to her neck. Right along with as."

  "Do you believe the story she told you? About Armstrong and what happened at the factory?... Sorry," Jamil added with a rueful smile, "but I had to listen to something other than Harry's lectures on the lives and habits of fleas. Her explanation sounded logical to me."

  "Yeah, but then it would, wouldn't it?" Xris said, frowning. He didn't like talking about himself, his past, didn't like his wounds open for public viewing. But he owed his team something for this, even if he could offer nothing more than unloading the metal casing that housed his soul. "She's had years to come up with it. I don't know." He shook his head moodily. "I just don't know. And she still could have betrayed us. I don't feel safe, not even here."

  "I know what you mean," Quong said, glancing around uneasily.

  The woods were silent, but it wasn't a comfortable silence. Even animal sounds were hushed. That could be the result of the spaceplane's landing; probably was. But everyone stirred restlessly, kept looking around, fearful of ambush. Jamil even peered up into the sky, as if he might catch a glimpse of Naval battleships cruising among the clouds.

  "A lot of people know about Journey's End, Xris. Yo
ur friend Dixter, for one. He's been a guest here." Jamil shook his head gloomily. "The Marines are probably on the way."

  "They'll have to get through Olefsky first. He's a major power in this part of the galaxy and no one, not even the Lord Admiral, will want to offend him. Still, you've got a point. We should get ready to move out." Xris opened up the commlink. "Harry, make it quick. We could have company."

  "Rowan says five minutes," Harry reported, then added, "She sure is a nice guy."

  "Yeah," Xris muttered. "She sure is."

  He saw again in his mind Harry take hold--politely--of Rowan's arm. Rowan thanking Harry--politely--and then gently, politely, moving away. For the first time since they'd come together, it occurred to Xris to wonder if his friend was now a woman as in... well... a woman. Or was this disguise only skin deep? His file said he'd taken female hormone shots. Xris wondered what that meant exactly. He'd have to ask Raoul, who was most assuredly informed on the matter. Adonians were said to change sex as easily and as often as they changed clothes.

  Rowan acted like a woman, but then he had always been a good actor, one reason he'd done so well infiltrating the Hung. He was forced to play his roles as if his life depended on them and he'd been playing this role for almost seven years now.

  But which was Rowan inside: male, female? Did she even know? Did she care?

  Xris suddenly recalled a part of the report he'd received on her. She had rarely, in seven years, left the space station. She lived alone. No husband. No lovers. No close friends.

  Alone.

  Maybe that answered his question.

  Shaking his head, Xris shouldered his share of the equipment, headed for the hoverjeep.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mute and magnificent...

  John Dryden, Threnodia Augustallis

  Thoe hoverjeeps pulled up in front of the house. Climbing up, Xris looked toward the wooden balconies on the upstairs floors, more than half expecting to see pantyhose hanging out to dry--a sure sign that Raoul had returned.