The Knights of the Black Earth (34 page)

“We had them,
John,” the rear admiral reported. “The ‘tick’ worked just like it was supposed
to. The Olicien spaceplane came out of hyperspace right under our guns—
Starfire,
missile cruiser. Captain James Manto ordered them twice to surrender, then sent
a signal to the onboard computer which should have locked it up. But someone
was able to override it. The next thing Captain Manto knows, the plane has
disappeared back into hyperspace. And now the goddam homing device has shut
down. Of course,” he added wryly, “you know who designed it”

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
flag-grade officers in the fleet now—Alpha One priority.”

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 constricting
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—Admiral
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
starded 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, interrupted. “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 seventy-two 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.”

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

John Dryden,
Palamon and Arcite,
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
lifetimes, 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 human 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.