The Knights of the Black Earth (11 page)

“The local
authorities are satisfied that it was the mob?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Case closed,
then.”

“I would say so.
Yes, sir. The Laskar police will not get involved in mob business.”

“Very good. Tell
Knight Officer Captain he may depart when ready.”

The subordinate
nodded, departed.

The leader
returned to work.

“You heard his
report, Knight Commander?” the leader asked over the comm.

“Satisfactory.
Continue. What is it you have found?”

The voice at the
other end of the commlink was laconic, crisp, and obviously belonged to a
machine. The speaker entered his or her words into the computer, the computer
spoke them aloud. No one, not even the highest-ranking officer of the
knighthood—of which Bosk’s killer was one—ever heard the Knight Commander’s
voice. No one had ever seen the Knight Commander. No one knew his or her real
name. All information was exchanged via commlink—voice only.

“Contrary to
initial reports, Commander, it appears from Ohme’s files that he actually
constructed a working model of the negative wave device.”

“Indeed.”

“The device was
crude, apparently, but operational. Ohme’s records indicate that he performed a
test on a living subject. And that the test was successful.”

“A living subject.”
Knight Commander mused. “How is this possible? He wouldn’t have dared test it
on Derek Sagan. And if I’m not mistaken, there were no other Blood Royal known
to exist at the time.”

“That is true,
Commander. This was just prior to Sagan’s discovery of the whereabouts of the
young king. Snaga Ohme did not have a Blood Royal on which to test his device,
but that presented no problem for him. He couldn’t find a true Blood Royal and
so he created one. If you will recall, sir, Ohme had an extensive collection of
weapons dating back to ancient times. Appropriate for a weapons dealer.

“Among his
collection was a bloodsword. According to the notation in Ohme’s catalog, the
bloodsword was obtained during the Revolution, when most of the Blood Royal
were eradicated. Inside this sword are the micromachines that are injected into
the body of the Blood Royal when they insert the sword’s needles into their hands.
These micromachines connect the body and brain with the sword and are used to
activate both the sword and its shielding device. A certain amount of these
micromachines remain in the bloodstream and are activated every time the sword
is used.

“Ohme removed the
fluid containing these micromachines from the bloodsword and injected that
fluid into his test subject. He then used the newly created negative wave
device on the subject and recorded the results.”

“Was the subject
aware he or she was being used for such purposes?”

“According to Ohme’s
account, no, the subject was not aware. Ohme feared that the subject’s
awareness might influence the test results.”

“He was probably
right. Did the subject die?”

“No, Commander.
Ohme didn’t want to kill the subject, who might prove useful to him later. Ohme
wanted to study the effects of the device on the micromachines in the subject’s
bloodstream.”

“How did Ohme
manage to keep such an experiment on the subject secret?” The mechanical voice
held no inflection, but the officer could discern that his superior was
skeptical.

“The subject was a
male, in his late twenties, and, according to the record, a Loti.”

“Slang term for
habitual drug user, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, Knight
Commander.”

“An expression
that has its roots on Earth. The fruit of the lotus or
lotophagi,
as the
Greeks termed it, was supposed to induce in those who ate it a state of dreamy
forgetfulness, a loss of desire to return home. One might almost consider the
entire human race as lotus-eaters. But they will remember their home.” The
voice was soft, ominous. “We will make them remember.”

A pause, then the
voice returned to business. “Surely such a heavy drug user as a Loti would be
an inappropriate candidate for testing?”

“Ohme recognized
this problem, sir, but determined that the drugs in the subject’s system would
have no influence on the micromachines and vice versa. It appears, from my
preliminary investigation of the files, that Ohme was correct.”

The Knight
Commander was not convinced. “Ohme was a genius, there is no doubt about that,
but he did not possess the patience and meticulous mind of a good researcher.
He obviously chose this Loti because the man was convenient and not liable to
ask questions. However, we must work with what we have. What were the results
of his experiment?”

“Unfortunately,
Commander, the exact results of the test are not recorded in the files. The
last entry is dated the day on which Ohme was murdered. It reads, ‘The
experiment has been highly successful.’ Nothing more. Bosk makes some attempt
to fill in the experiment’s results, but he was not in Ohme’s complete
confidence. Careful analysis proves that Bosk knew very little; most of what he
added was mere speculation gained from observing the test subject, who lived
and worked in Ohme’s mansion.”

Silence from the
commlink. Then, “There is nothing more?”

“No, Knight
Commander.”

“Are you certain,
Knight Officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn!” said the
Commander. “We need more information!”

Silence. The
Knight Officer, having nothing further to contribute, maintained disciplined
quiet. He made no suggestion as to their next course of action, would make none
unless he was asked. Looking out the viewscreen, he watched the planet Laskar
dwindle to a small green marble.

A wretched planet,
corrupt, vile, he thought. But really no different from countless others in the
galaxy. Humanity trashes its home, flees it, seeks out others, and ends up
destroying them. It is only a matter of time before it will all end out here.
Then the swarm of humanity will turn their faces homeward again. Then they will
come to us and say humbly, “We are sorry.” ...

“It would be
extremely valuable to us”—the Commander spoke suddenly and abruptly, startling
the Knight Officer—”if we could get our hands on the test subject.”

“Yes, Commander.”
The officer brought up the file containing information on the Loti. “Bosk had
the same idea, apparently. He began to search for the man, but only in the most
desultory and haphazard fashion. He soon gave up. The subject is an Adonian, as
was Snaga Ohme. You are familiar with the Adonians, Commander?”

“A degenerate race
of people who live solely for their own pleasure and gratification.
Intelligent, charming, and completely amoral. Ohme was typical of his breed. I
suppose this Loti is another?”

“A hired assassin,
Commander. Specializing in chemical poisonings, as one might expect from
someone who is dependent on chemicals. Ohme kept this Loti around to perform ‘odd’
jobs now and then. Ohme surrounded himself with his fellow Adonians. Bosk was
another.”

“As a race,
Adonians are extremely attractive—the men
and
the women. Snaga Ohme
could not stand to be long in the presence of an ugly person. The only thing
that overcame his squeamishness on this point was money. Continue, Knight
Officer.”

“Yes, sir. This
Loti had other advantages. He is firm friends— has an almost symbiotic
relationship—with an empath.”

“Not unusual,”
remarked the Commander. “Empaths enjoy being around Loti because their
drug-induced tranquillity is rarely disturbed and thus the empath is not
subject to disturbing emotions.”

“The two were
rarely apart, according to Ohme’s notes. The Loti is the only one who can
understand the empath. He acted as a sort of translator whenever Ohme needed to
know what someone was thinking or feeling.”

“What race is the
empath?”

“Bosk claims no
one knows. The empath was always cloaked in some sort of disguise. No one ever
saw the face. Ohme had no interest in trying to find out.”

“So long as the
empath proved useful, Snaga Ohme wouldn’t care.”

“On studying the
empath’s description, Commander, I think it probable that we are dealing with a
Tongan.”

The Knight
Commander was silent again.

“I have examined
all the facts, Knight Commander. The empath is extremely short in stature. He
is always disguised, which indicates that there is something unusual about his
features or his body, and the Tongans as a race are as ugly as the Adonians are
beautiful. He appears to have not only empathic abilities but telepathic
abilities as well. Tongans are the only race to meet all these requirements.”

“You know, of
course, Knight Officer, that Tongans are forbidden on pain of death from
leaving their home world?”

“All the more
reason for the disguise, sir.”

“Perhaps you are
right. At any rate, such an unusual pair would be fairly easy to track.”

“Bosk had no
difficulty, at first. He and the Loti kept in contact. Both of them were eager
to avenge Ohme’s death. But whereas Bosk had determined that Ohme was murdered
by Derek Sagan, the Loti was following a different theory. He was convinced
that the murderer was a man known as Abdiel. Following this theory, the Loti
worked in the Exile Cafe on Hell’s Outpost, figuring that either Abdiel or
someone who knew the old man’s whereabouts must come to this place eventually.
The last message Bosk received from him, the Loti was joining up with the late
Lady Maigrey Morianna. They planned on entering the Corasian system—”

“So,” said the
Knight Commander, “the Loti was part of that small band of heroes. His Majesty
owes both his throne and his life to them. Their leader was a cyborg—a rather
unusual cyborg, as I recall.”

“I have no
information on that, sir,” the officer admitted.

He was not
surprised that these facts were known to the commander. The Knight Commander
knew every prominent and/or infamous person in the galaxy; he was familiar with
the political situations on innumerable major planets; he was privy to
knowledge not readily accessible to ordinary citizens of the realm. Once, when
the officer had first joined up with the organization, he had used such clues
in an attempt to puzzle out the Knight Commander’s true identity. That had been
almost twenty years ago. Now the officer—a true fanatic—no longer knew or
cared. He revered. And obeyed.

“No further
information beyond that?”

“No, sir. Bosk
indicates that he never heard from the Loti again and that attempts to find him
proved beyond his means.”

“I believe I know
where to look. Return to home base, Knight Officer. Proceed with the
construction of the negative wave device and await my commands. When the
whereabouts of this Loti are discovered, you will be informed.”

“Yes, Knight
Commander.”

“What is the Loti’s
name, by the way?”

“Raoul, sir. And
the empath is known as the Little One.”

“Raoul and the
Little One,” repeated the Knight Commander. “Yes, it is them. They are members
of a mercenary team called Mag Force 7. Their leader is a cyborg known as Xris.”

. . . and, lips, 0
you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to
engrossing death!

William Shakespeare,
Romeo and Juliet,
Act 5, Scene 3

The two minor
government officials stood in the waiting area of the Modena Spaceport, looking
up at a terminal displaying the arrival time for incoming flights. The time had
not varied in the last thirty minutes—the transport would be half an hour
late—but the officials continued to check it just the same, both of them
acutely aware of the man in the dark suit. Leaning comfortably against a nearby
pillar, he scanned intently the people gliding past on the moving sidewalk.

“What’s he looking
at
them
for?” the woman irritably asked her companion.
“We’re
the
ones he’s following.”

“Probably viewing
them as targets on the shooting range,” returned the man. “Look at the way he’s
smiling.”

The woman
shivered. “Don’t. This is bad enough. Do you think he suspects us?”

The man
considered. “No. We’re only doing our job, after all. Meeting the ambassador
from Adonia. I don’t much like this scheme, but the cyborg is said to be one of
the best in the business. We have to put our faith in someone.”

“More than our
faith. Our very lives!” The woman swallowed, put her hand to her throat. “I ...
I think I’ll go to the restroom.”

The man in the
dark suit shifted his gaze to the woman, watched her enter, watched her return.

“He kept an eye on
you,” her companion muttered beneath his breath. “No, don’t look. He’s still
watching.”

“I can’t stand
this,” the woman said. “I—”

She was
interrupted by the arrival of a flight attendant. “Pardon me, sir, madam, are
either of you booked for this flight?”

“We’re meeting
someone,” the woman replied.

The attendant
nodded, relieved. “I was afraid you were passengers. You’ve no idea what a
nightmare we go through now. All the forms that have to be filled out. Checking
documents. Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” the attendant added hastily. “I
am in complete agreement with the government’s new regulations concerning
civilian travel restrictions. It’s just—”

The arrival of the
transport saved the attendant from further indiscretions. She hurried off to
unlock the door, admit the disembarking passengers, of which there were very
few. The drab, unhappy world of Modena was not a pleasant place to visit these
days.

“How do you
suppose we’ll recognize him?” the woman asked.

“I don’t believe
we’ll have much trouble,” the man answered dryly. “He’s an Adonian, after all.”

They had
absolutely no trouble recognizing him.