The Knights of the Black Earth (43 page)

“I would say these
knights are quite serious,” Quong added.

“They have gone to
enormous expense to produce such a device. They intend to use it.”

“We can send a
message to the king,” Jamil offered. “Warn him to cancel all his plans for the
next few days. Certainly
that
would get through.”

Xris almost
laughed. “Do you know how many warnings like this Dion gets every day? His
Majesty has a secretary who does nothing but handle death threats. Dion’s never
let it stop him before. Why would he do so now?”

“We have a saying,
‘One who lives in fear of death has already died.’ He is a wise young man,”
Quong remarked.

“He may be a dead
young man,” Rowan said, climbing up from the cockpit. Harry trailed along
behind her. “I found that group. They’ve got quite a thick file, dating back a
good long time. Here’s the gist of the report.

“The organization
is known as the Knights of the Terra Nera. Translation: the Knights of the
Black Earth. This group dates back to the time when Earth—through
overpopulation, pollution, and a few local nuclear wars—was starting to become
uninhabitable. That was when humans took to the stars.

“Originally, the
knights began as a group of environmentalists. They disapproved of space
travel. They tried to convince people to remain on Earth, use their talents and
money for improving the planet, not abandoning it. But, of course, no one
listened.

“At about this
time, the knights turned violent. They went from holding passive sit-ins to
blowing up rocket-launching sites. But they were unable to stop progress.”

“So what’s their
problem now?” Harry asked. “Are they still against spaceflight?”

“Hardly. Over the
years, their organization changed, evolved. That’s what has kept them going.
According to the information the bureau was able to gather, the Knights of the
Black Earth now see their mission as one to preserve mankind’s heritage. All
things related to Earth are held sacred. The knights’ home base is on Earth.”
Rowan glanced at Tycho. “Anything produced on other, alien planets is
considered corrupt. This goes for everything: food, customs—but especially
religion.

“To most of us,
Earth is a world of skeletal cities, rotting garbage, unbreathable atmosphere.
But to the knights, the Terra Nera is holy ground. Only those humans who are
born on Earth or who can trace their ancestry back to someone born on Earth are
permitted to enter the knighthood.”

Rowan looked over
at Xris. “The bureau had a heck of a time finding someone who was capable of
infiltrating.”

“They sent someone
in?”

“Yes.” Rowan
nodded. “The bureau takes this group very seriously. Here’s what they found
out. And, unfortunately, here’s where our theory starts to break down. The
knights were pleased when Dion Starfire became king. It seems that his ancestry
can be traced back to Earth.”

Xris caught on. “So
the knights have no reason to kill the king.”

Rowan shrugged. “Maybe
he did something to make them change their mind.”

“You said they
were fanatics about Earth-based religions. The queen is a High Priestess of a
religion that got its start on another planet. The king’s been promoting that
religion pretty heavily these days. Maybe that’s what got them pissed off,”
Xris said thoughtfully.

“And maybe that is
what this means.” Quong referred back to the printout. “ ‘The king’s death will
serve as a warning to all non-believers. The galaxy will be thrown into chaos,
but, since our Knight Commander is a well-known person in a highly visible
position, he will arrange for one of our own to take over the government.’ “

“It
is
revolution, then,” said Jamil grimly. “What the Navy is afraid of happening is
going to happen.”

“And the Navy will
figure that we’re the ones making it happen,” Xris said.

“And when this
machine goes off and the king drops down dead, our lives won’t be worth the
paper they’re printed on.” Tycho added darkly, if somewhat obscurely.

“Does the bureau
have any idea who this Knight Commander is?”

Rowan shook her
head. “The infiltrator couldn’t find out. Apparently no one in the knighthood
knows for sure. His identity is kept a closely guarded secret, even from his
own people.”

“Well, what do we
do now, boss?” Harry asked.

The others
regarded Xris expectantly. He took a twist from its case, stared at it, not
them.

“The way I see it,
there’s only one logical solution. I go to the nearest Naval base. I turn
myself in. I tell them this was all my doing, you guys were just obeying
orders. I cut a deal.”

The others were
silent.

Xris didn’t see
what they were doing; he was looking at the twist. “As for His Majesty, I’ll
tell them what we know—”

“That’s good,”
Jamil growled. “Plead insanity.”

Xris glanced up.

“It won’t work,
Xris.” Rowan shook her head.

He started to
argue, but Jamil waved a hand.

“I can see it now.
You stroll onto a Naval base, apologize for breaking into their top-secret
facility and kidnapping their number-one code expert at gunpoint. Then you tell
them that it was all a mistake and you’re sorry and oh, by the way, ‘you’ve
discovered a bunch of knights from old Earth who are planning to microwave the
king.”

“And they send you
to the loony planet for twenty years or so,” Harry added, grinning. “Not much
of a plan, Xris.”

“It won’t save His
Majesty,” Quong pointed out. “You yourself said he gets threats like this every
day. We’re the only ones who know that this threat is real. That these people
are both willing and able to put it into action.”

“And it may not
save you, Xris,” Rowan added softly. “Especially if what you predict actually
comes to pass. They’ll blame you—and they’ll execute you.”

“I suppose you
want to go after these characters yourselves,” Xris said, looking around.

One by one, they
all nodded.

“I will abide by
the decision of the majority.” Raoul yawned. Pillowing his head on the Little
One’s small lap, the Adonian was almost immediately asleep.

Xris suddenly
realized how tired he was, bone-hurting, muscle-aching tired. The rest of the
team, he guessed, were in much the same condition. They were all casting
envious glances at the slumbering Raoul.

“How much time
have we got?”

Rowan consulted
her watch. “Fifty-eight hours. About two and a half days.”

“String up the
hammocks,” Xris ordered. “We’ll get some rest while we can. Odds are we won’t
be getting much later.”

Jamil pulled the
rolled-up hammocks out of storage, handed them to Tycho, who strung them across
the living quarters. Harry went down to check on the computer. He returned to
announce that they’d be coming out of hyperspace in about eight hours, near
Olefsky’s home planet, and did Xris want to change that?

Xris thought about
it, said no. They’d have to find out the king’s traveling and speaking
schedule, especially where he’d be at the end of fifty-eight hours. Olefsky
could do that for them.

Nodding, Harry
went back to confirm the course before he went to bed. The others had already
climbed into the hammocks and were soon at rest, rocking slowly back and forth
with the motion of the spaceplane. Raoul remained where he was, curled up on
one of the steel benches, his head on the Little One’s lap. The Little One
remained awake, one small hand gently stroking Raoul’s shining black hair.

Xris paused, stood
in front of the Little One. The empath stared up at him with that one bright
gleaming eye.

“She’s telling me
the truth, isn’t she?” Xris asked in a soft undertone. “About Armstrong, about
the explosion, about everything. She’s telling the truth.”

The single eye
closed, opened again. The fedora bobbed up and down.

“And I’ve put her
life in jeopardy. I’ve blown her cover. I’ve killed her just as surely as if I
had shot that poisoned needle into her.”

The Little One
made no response. The single eye flickered. Perhaps he hadn’t understood a word
Xris had said.

It didn’t matter.
Xris knew the truth now anyway.

He found his
hammock by the lambent light shining from the cockpit down below, where the
computer was awake and working. No one else was, except him. The silence of
their sleep was thick and warm.

That wouldn’t last
long. Harry snored; Jamil ground his teeth. Tycho made a weird bubbling noise in
his chest, like a teakettle coming to a boil, while Quong occasionally
performed surgery in his sleep, talked himself through the operation. But for
now, the plane was quiet.

Xris lay in his
hammock a long time, staring into the silence.

One man in a
thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more
close than a brother . . .

But the Thousandth
Man will stand by your side

To the gallows
foot—and after!

Rudyard Kipling,
Rewards and Fairies,
“The Thousandth
Man”

“Xris,” said
Harry, shaking him by the shoulder. “Xris. Wake up. We got trouble.”

Xris was awake
immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”

“We came out of
hyperspace and contacted Olefsky on that special channel he gave us. He says
that your house is under surveillance. Guys in suits. They’re monitoring space
traffic. I did a long-range scan. There’s some sort of big ship around on the
far side—”

“Who’s got us
under surveillance?” Xris tried to wake up.

“Darlene says that
it’s probably the bureau. Likely they got a make on us from the Navy before
communications were shut down.”

Xris fumbled for a
twist. He eyed Harry. “Darlene?”

Harry blushed. “Major
Mohini.”

“Rowan.”

“All right, then.
Rowan. Anyway, I jumped us back outta there. We’re in the Lanes again. A short
hop. I didn’t know what you wanted to do.”

Xris didn’t,
either. He’d planned on communicating their information to Bear Olefsky, but
that now appeared to be impossible, what with the bureau crouching in front of
the hole, waiting for the mice. Besides, Xris reflected, what could I really
tell Olefsky? That he’d believe? Or that would be at all helpful to the king or
those guarding him?

Keep on the
lookout for a bunch of radical knights wielding a deadly microwave oven?

He started to
follow Harry, noticed a red light flashing on his arm. His battery was running
low. Opening his leg compartment, he switched packs, put in a fresh charge.
When that was done, Xris glanced at his chronometer. The assassination was
scheduled to take place fifty-nine hours from when they’d left the
Canis
Major.
Subtract ten hours for sleep and travel. They were down to
forty-nine hours now.

Xris went forward,
descended into the cockpit. He found Rowan awake, looking rumpled and
bedraggled. She was sitting in the copilot’s chair, staring bleakly out at the
unending blackness of hyperspace. She looked depressed, unhappy. Harry looked
guilty.

“So what have you
two been up to?” Xris demanded.

Harry flushed
again. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Come off it,
Harry. You can’t lie your way out of a paper bag.” A Tychoism.

“Don’t blame
Harry, Xris.” Rowan rested her head on her hand. “I asked him to try to put me
through to Dixter.”

“I didn’t think
you’d mind.” Harry was defensive.

“I had to, Xris,”
Rowan continued. “Don’t worry. I didn’t put us in any danger. The call was
brief.”

“How brief?”

“Very.” Her mouth
twisted in that lopsided, sad smile. “Oh, well.” She shrugged it off. “I didn’t
expect anything else.”

But it was eating
at her. And it occurred to Xris, for the first time, that Rowan had enjoyed
life at RFComSec. She had worked long and tirelessly, gained the respect,
esteem, and trust of her superiors. It was what—he knew suddenly—she had lived
for. That, too, was ruined. Gone, beyond reclamation.

Xris chewed on a
twist, but even that noxious weed couldn’t eradicate the bitter taste in his
mouth. Maybe, just maybe, this was one way he could make things good for her
again.

He rested his
hand, his good hand, on her shoulder. The movement was awkward, clumsy. But her
face was illuminated. She looked up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he
said softly.

Her eyes dimmed
with tears. She placed her hand over his, paused a moment to clear her throat. “I’m
not. I hadn’t realized ...” She stopped, swallowed, started over. “I was in
prison, Xris. A comfortable cell, but it was prison. Now I’m free. I’m free.”

She swiveled the
chair to move herself out from beneath his touch, briskly wiped her eyes and
dragged her hand across her nose. “If we can’t talk to Dixter or Olefsky, we’re
going to have to go it alone. The first thing we need to do is find out the
king’s schedule of public appearances. We need to know where he’s going to be
in two days’ time. Because that’s where the assassination attempt will take
place.”

“Ask Raoul,” Harry
suggested. “He’s a Royal watcher. He reads all those gossip mags. If anyone
would know, he would.”

That was true.
Raoul knew everything there was to know about the Royal Family, plus
nine-tenths of what there wasn’t. Last year, Raoul and the Little One had been
honored by a personal visit and commendation from Their Majesties for bravery
and valor during the Ghost Legion incident. Raoul now considered himself a
friend of the family and deemed it his right and duty to listen to every bit of
gossip about their private lives, to know and criticize every dress in Her
Majesty’s wardrobe, and to comment freely (and severely) on His Majesty’s taste
in neckwear. The Adonian’s fondest dream was to emulate the queen’s ability to
apply her eyeliner in a subtle, yet highly effective, manner.