The Knights of the Black Earth (12 page)

It was rather as
if the full color spectrum had just breezed in by transport and, on arrival,
blown up. The Adonian was dressed in a tight, form-fitting jumpsuit colored a
deep royal blue. Over this he wore a floor-length vest made of garish,
rainbow-hued silk that billowed out behind him when he walked, revealing purple
socks and emerald shoes. The sight was actually a shock to the central nervous
system of the conservative Modenans. The two government officials, stunned by
the impact, were momentarily unable to move.

The Adonian,
seeing no one else in the vicinity and assuming, therefore, that these people
must be waiting for him, flung himself in their direction and exploded in their
midst.

“I assume that you
must be waiting for me,” he cried, smiling. “I am extraordinarily delighted to
make your acquaintances.”

The Adonian, with
a graceful gesture of his hands, flipped long black hair over his shoulders and
gave everyone in the vicinity his charming smile.

“M-Mr. Ambassador.”
The man gave the formal greeting, though he was somewhat hesitant about it.
Perhaps he was wondering uneasily if the appellation “Mister” was entirely
correct.

“Your Excellency.”
The woman avoided the gentler problem neatly by using a tide acceptable to any
sex. “Welcome to Modena.”

The two bowed.

The ambassador was
an Adonian male—at least that’s the sex his passport claimed. His appearance
raised cause for doubt, but the fact that he was an Adonian explained
everything. Like most of his people, he was, quite literally, an
extraordinarily beautiful human being. He was slender, of shapely build, with
delicate bone structure and a lilting, mincing walk. His hair was waist-long
and gleaming black. His eyes were large and lustrous—too lustrous. Close
examination revealed them to be slightly unfocused, the pupils abnormally
dilated. He swayed slightly, as though in a gentle wind, and gazed about him
with vague, happy curiosity.

The man and woman
exchanged glances. “He’s on drugs,” the man said out of the corner of his
mouth, speaking Modenan. “A Loti!”

“What do we do
now?” the woman demanded. “I thought you said this mercenary force was
reliable!”

“We can’t do
anything
here
the man returned grimly, with a sidelong glance at the man
in the dark suit, who was staring with fixed interest at the new arrival.

“Thank you,” said
the Adonian suddenly. “I have landed safely and soundly on your fair planet.
Your welcome is most gratifying. I consider this a fortuitous omen of future
friendship between our peoples.”

He extended a
hand. The fingernails were long and polished; the fingers glittered with
jeweled rings.

The man took the
hand, but was totally at a loss as to what to do with it, since the hand’s
owner did nothing with it himself. Perplexed, the man transferred the flaccid
hand to the woman, who returned the hand to the ambassador as quickly as
possible. The sweet, pungent scent of gardenia enveloped them.

“I am Dolf
Baejling, aide to the undersecretary of Foreign Affairs of Modena. This is my
associate, Mary Krammes. And now, Mr. Ambassador—” the man began.

“Raoul de
Beausoleil,” said the ambassador lightly. “Please call me Raoul, Dolf. Everyone
does.”

“I ... I hardly
believe that would be respectful,
Mr.
Ambassador,” said Baejling,
frowning.

“Respectful?”
Raoul gave the matter brief thought. “I don’t quite understand how you can come
to respect me on such short acquaintance, Dolf, and I certainly have no respect
for you. So we might as well be on a first-name basis, shouldn’t we?”

Baejling frowned,
insulted. Krammes laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t believe he meant that
quite the way it came out. We’re being watched.”

After an inner
struggle and a surreptitious glance at the man in the dark suit, Baejling
managed a grudging smile. He was about to suggest that they retrieve the
ambassador’s luggage when Krammes—nudging him—indicated a small and
strange-looking personage who had apparently been standing close to Raoul the
entire time but was only at this moment visible, due to the settling folds of
silk.

“I beg your
pardon, Excellency,” Krammes said faintly, “but what—I mean, who is .. . what
is .. .”

Raoul stared at
the woman a moment as if endeavoring to remember where he’d seen her before,
then—looking in the direction she was looking—he smiled.

“Ah, I beg your
pardon.” He waved his hand. “The Little One. My constant companion. He is with
me.
Always.”

It was impossible
to determine the Little One’s species, race, or anything about the creature,
much beyond the fact that it was, apparently, alive. The Little One said
nothing. He kept his hands—if he had hands—in the cadaverous pockets of an
oversized raincoat. The turned-up collar hid the lower part of the creature’s
face, the fedora hat hid the upper. All anyone could see of the Little One were
two bright and penetrating eyes, gazing solemnly out from the shadow cast by
the hat.

“How . .. how do
you do?” Krammes said, not quite knowing how to address the apparition.

The Little One
gazed unblinking at the two.

Krammes gulped.
Baejling made a snorting sound and the two exchanged alarmed glances. The
ambassador, meanwhile, was studying the spaceport with languid curiosity. But
when Raoul turned to Baejling, the aide was disconcerted to note that the Loti’s
eyes were not quite as lustrous and unfocused as Baejling had first supposed.

“Remarkably empty
for such a large planet, isn’t it, Dolf?” Raoul observed. “Your people don’t
indulge in spaceflight, I take it.”

Baejling glanced
at the rows of empty plastic chairs, the nearly deserted hallways, the closed
restaurants and shut-down vendors’ stalls. The few people who were in the
spaceport walked swiftly and kept their eyes on the ground, as if by refusing
to acknowledge anyone else’s presence they could successfully hide their own.

“Off-world travel’s
restricted, Excellency.” Baejling spoke carefully, mindful of the man in the
dark suit. “Our government believes that the people of Modena have no need to
leave their home world.”

“Isn’t that
marvelous,” said Raoul, struck by the notion. “How very . . . domestic.”

Baejling’s frown
deepened. He cleared his throat, looked hopefully at the open door leading to
the spaceplane.

“The other members
of your party—” Dolf began.

“We’re it,” Raoul
said cheerfully Baejling protested. “We were expecting a colleague of yours. A
cyborg . . .”

“I beg your
pardon, Dolf? You spoke so softly, I failed to catch most of what you said.”
Raoul leaned near. Gardenia fragrance rolled off him.

Baejling coughed. “A
man named Xris.”

“Ah!” Light
dawned. “You are referring, no doubt, to Xris Cyborg. He was not able to come.
He is otherwise engaged. He sent us instead.” Raoul gave his diminutive friend
a tap on the fedora. “We are sufficient for the task.”

Dolf Baejling did
not exude confidence at this statement. Mary Krammes sighed, glanced sideways
at the man in the dark suit, twisted her hands together. Raoul bent down
gracefully to confer with his companion, though not a word was spoken. Raoul
straightened, with a jangle of bracelets.

“Pardon me for
mentioning this, Dolf. As I am unfamiliar with the local customs, what I am
about to question may be nothing more than Modenan curiosity, but the Little
One informs me that the gentleman standing over by that pillar is taking a
great deal of interest in us.”

Baejling did not
even bother to look. “He is one of our respected secret police,” he said in a
careful monotone. “The government of Modena takes very good care of its
citizens. He is here to ensure our safety as well as yours, Mr. Ambassador.”

“My safety? Are
you certain?” Raoul asked, touched. “I must say, that is very kind of him. And
he
is
rather attractive, in a thuggish sort of way.”

“The secret police
are extremely interested in everything that the people do,” Dolf said
meaningfully, hoping Raoul would take the hint. “They accompany us .. .
everywhere. Now if you would—”

But Raoul was not
to be deterred. He gazed steadfastly at the man in the dark suit. “He’s not all
that ‘secret,’ is he? For secret police, I mean. I thought those fellows
usually hid in luggage bins, popped out at you from dark alleyways.”

“Be careful what
you say!” Mary Krammes whispered, clutching Raoul’s arm. “He and his kind rim
the country now. They can do what they want. They have only to answer to
her.”

“Her?” Raoul was
intrigued. “Who is her?”

The Little One
shuffled his feet, tugged on the silken folds of the vest. Raoul glanced down,
listened, then nodded. “Ah, yes. Madame President.”

“Damn it, keep
your voice down!” Dolf cautioned angrily. He paused a moment to regain control,
then said stiffly, “If you would excuse us, Excellency, I need to confer a
moment with my colleague. I fear that a problem has arisen in regard to your
hotel suite.”

Raoul gave
gracious assent. Baejling drew Krammes to one side. The two began to talk in an
undertone in their own language.

Casting an
interested glance at the man in the dark suit, Raoul smoothed his hair,
fluttered his eyelids. Then he redistributed the bracelets on his arm, sliding
three up above the elbow, four below. Not liking the effect, he moved the third
back down below the elbow again. This accomplished, he opened a velvet
drawstring bag he carried on his wrist, drew out a mirror, studied his own
reflection.

Running the tip of
his little finger around his lips in order to repair minute smudging of his
lipstick, he said to the Little One, “What are they discussing?”

No one was quite
certain how Raoul and the Little One communicated. So far as anyone knew,
Adonians did not possess telepathic abilities. Telepaths tended to emerge from
races noted for their well-developed sensitivity to the feelings of others. No
one had ever accused the Adonians of such a characteristic, the Adonians being
notable galaxy-wide for their almost complete and total self-absorption. How
these two talked was, therefore, a mystery.

While Raoul
sometimes spoke to the Little One aloud, the Little One was never heard to
speak to Raoul, or to anyone else, for that matter. Only Raoul could understand
and interpret what the Little One said, and how Raoul managed to do that was
beyond the ability of everyone—including the leader of Mag Force 7, Xris—to
figure out.

The two had been
part of Xris’s elite commando team for almost four years now. Xris theorized
that the mind-altering drugs taken by the Loti had somehow made Raoul
susceptible to the Little One’s thoughts. This was the only explanation for the
phenomenon—that and the fact that the two had formed an unusual and exceedingly
strong bond.

“Isn’t that
interesting?” Raoul murmured in response to his partner’s silent flow of
information. “Dolf wants to send us packing. He doesn’t trust us, doesn’t
believe we’re capable of carrying out the contract If we bungle the job, he
fears that he and the woman will be arrested, probably killed. The Krammes
woman reminds him that to get rid of us now would look extremely suspicious.
How would they explain the fact that the Adonian ambassador suddenly changed
his mind about establishing diplomatic ties with the Modenan government and
went home? Xris Cyborg will not be pleased if they break the contract. Yes, I
suppose we would get to keep the deposit. . . .”

Raoul brushed back
an errant strand of hair that had fallen over his face.

“Here they come,”
he said quietly. “Have they reached a decision?”

The Little One
gave a violent nod which caused the fedora to slip down over his eyes.

The two returned.
Baejling was breathing heavily, gave the appearance of a man who has been in an
argument and lost. Mary Krammes was pale and tight-lipped. She had triumphed,
but was obviously having second thoughts.

“Thank you for
your patience, Mr. Ambassador. We will escort you to your hotel. Your luggage
will be sent over. If you and your .. . uh . . . companion would accompany us
to the car . ..”

“Is the hotel far
from here, Dolf?” Raoul continued admiring his own reflection in the mirror. “Within
walking distance?”

“Yes, Excellency,”
Baejling answered cautiously, wondering what new weirdness was about to be
perpetrated. “But the car is quite comfortable—”

Snapping shut his
mirror, Raoul returned it to the velvet bag. “My companion and I would prefer
to walk, Dolf, dear, if that does not discommode you. We would love seeing the
sights of your fair city. I had so little exercise on the flight over. I must
have gained a kilo at least. Walking keeps the calves shapely, did you know
that?”

Raoul took
Baejling’s arm—though it had not been offered— and drew the man close. Baejling
flinched, choked in the gardenia fumes, but he couldn’t very well insult the
Adonian ambassador.

“Besides,” Raoul
continued languidly, “this cozy walk will give us a chance to get to know each
other better. I have heard rumors to the effect that the hotels on Modena are
crawling with
bugs.”

Baejling
stiffened. “I assure you, Excellency, that you are being accorded the finest
accommodations—” He stopped suddenly, gave the Loti a penetrating look. “Ah,
I... um ... believe it would be a fine day for a walk. I must warn you, though,
that the traffic noise is terrible. It’s sometimes difficult to hear yourself
think. You see, Excellency,” he added, “everyone walks this time of day.
Everyone.” He cast a significant glance at the man in the dark suit.

Raoul lifted a
plucked eyebrow, smiled. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

Baejling looked
alarmed. “I don’t think that would be wise—”