The Knights of the Black Earth (27 page)

“We’re not out of
this yet,” Harry cautioned. “There’s a Katana fighter coming for us. Not on visual
yet, but you can see it on the screen.”

Xris looked—a blip
on the sighting screen was converging on them.

“Where’s the
nearest Lane?”

“The one we took
coming in. Out past the thousand-kilometer marker.” Harry glanced at the
screen. “We’ll be in range before then. And this cargo plane has all the
maneuvering capability of a Solosian elephant. No offense,” he added, for the
computer’s benefit.

“None taken, Pilot
Luck,” responded the computer. “I am aware of the plane’s limitations. And it
is my duty to report that the Navy fighter is requesting us to shut down our
engines and stand by for towing.”

“I’ll take that
under advisement. In the meantime, increase speed. Give me everything you’ve
got.”

“Yes, Pilot Luck,”
said the computer, adding, after a moment, “I must admit, I find this rather
exhilarating. I was once assigned to a short-range Scimitar myself, when I was
in the Navy.”

“Were you?” said
Harry, his gaze divided between the thousand-kilometer buoy, blinking up ahead,
and the Katana itself, which could now be seen through the viewscreen. “Then
perhaps you could tell me why it’s not firing at us. We must be dead in the
pilot’s sights.”

“Pilots are not
permitted to fire this close to the station, sir, unless under enemy attack.”

“And maybe the
soldiers were bluffing back there,” Xris said, eyeing Rowan. “Maybe they don’t
want to blow up Major Mohini.”

“It’s possible.”
Rowan appeared thoughtful.

Tracer fire
flashed past the viewscreen.

“Warning shot
across the bow,” Harry said. “XP, plot the jump. I want to be ready the moment
we hit the Lane.”

“What course?” XP
asked.

Harry looked
questioningly at Xris.

“Olefsky’s system.
The rendezvous site. If Raoul manages to extricate himself from whatever
predicament he’s in, he’ll know to meet us there.”

Harry nodded,
provided the computer with the coordinates. Another shot from the Katana
streaked past the viewscreen, this one so close that it seemed to blaze right
through the cockpit, temporarily blinding all of them.

“Coming up on the
thousand-kilometer marker,” Harry reported calmly.

“Pilot Luck,” the
computer said, “the Katana warns that it has orders to attempt to disable us.”

“Fine, fine.”
Harry waved his hand vaguely. “You ready for the jump?”

The
thousand-kilometer marker flashed past.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Start
cycle. In four ... three ...”

The plane
shuddered, rocked. Everyone held on for dear life.

“We have been hit,
Pilot Luck,” the computer said unnecessarily. “Ending jump cycle.”

“Damn it! What
damage?”

Rowan looked at
the screen where a model of the spaceplane was being displayed. “Tail section,
but it’s minimal. Nothing else hit.”

“Thank the Creator
it wasn’t the engines. Restart jump cycle. Four . . . three . . . two . . .
one.”

A sickening
sensation of being turned inside out. A momentary horrifying notion that all
your guts have been sucked out through your nose and mouth and are now twisting
in the air outside your body. And then just before you pass out—or, in some
cases, right after you come to—you look out the viewscreen and notice that
someone has switched off all the starlight.

But they’d made
it.

“Questions,” Xris
said, endeavoring to unstrap himself from his chair. “Have to ask . . .
questions.” He was dimly aware of lights flashing on his arm, warning alarms,
then he felt heavy. Far too heavy. “Questions . .. Rowan . . .”

Doc’s face floated
above Xris. He heard the word, “Malfunction—”

Then it seemed
that the empty, silent, and immensely comforting black blanket of hyperspace
wrapped around him, tucked him in for the night.

Incoming fire has
the right of way.

Murphy’s Military Laws

The adjutant
strode rapidly into the Lord Admiral’s chambers, banging the heavy ornate door
and causing the eyebrows of the admiral’s aide—one Sergeant-Major Bennett—to
lift in disapproval.

“Where’s Dixter?”
the adjutant demanded unceremoniously.

“Good morning,
sir,” Bennett said with a withering stare. “If you are referring to Sir John
Dixter, he—”

“Never mind, I
spotted him. Thanks.”

The adjutant
sprinted across the large office, knocking askew several antique pieces of
furniture. This offense brought a shocked Bennett to his feet.

“Really, Commander
Tusca!” Bennett entered the race, moving to intercept the adjutant before the
adjutant could intercept the Lord Admiral.

“General Dixter! I
mean, my lord! Sorry, sir, I forgot there for a moment.”

The adjutant—a
well-built human male, small-framed, with black skin and tightly curled black
hair—brought himself up sharply in front of the Lord Admiral.

“What is it, Tusk?”
Dixter smiled. He didn’t mind being reminded of the old days—the days when he’d
been a leader of a band of mercenaries. It was one reason he’d invited a former
mercenary to serve as his adjutant. That and the fact that Mendaharin Tusca—or
Tusk, as he was known—was Dixter’s closest friend.

“An urgent call
from RFComSec, sir.”

“My lord, your
appointment with His Majesty,” Bennett murmured, hovering.

Dixter hesitated.

“Epsilon Red, sir,”
Tusk said. “Top priority. Urgent.”

Not even Bennett
could argue with an Epsilon Red. “I’ll inform His Majesty that you’re dealing
with an emergency situation, my lord.”

“Yes, thank you.”
Dixter frowned. Turning, he accompanied Tusk back through his office, out a
door, down a corridor, and into the comm. A startling contrast—coming from the
lemon-scented, highly polished oak-desk environment of the admiral’s office to
the cold bright electronic buzz of the central communications operations for
the Royal Navy.

“Any idea what
this is about?” Dixter asked Tusk.

“No, my lord.”
They had just entered the comm and Tusk always made an effort, when around
other members of the Lord Admiral’s staff, to use the correct form of address. “The
commander insisted on speaking to you personally. It must be somethin’ big,
though. They’ve run up every flag they could find: Epsilon Red, level one, top
priority, urgent, most secret.
And
the transmission’s being scrambled
from Hell’s Outpost back again. They sure as hell don’t want any eavesdroppers.”

Dixter fished
around in a pocket for his antacid tablets. Finding them, he gulped down two. “RFComSec
never has emergencies. They’re not
supposed
to have emergencies. They’re
out in the middle of an uncharted region of space for the sole purpose of
not
having emergencies. Which comm station?”

“Over here, my
lord.” A captain rose to her feet, made room for the Lord Admiral. “RFComSec
standing by, my lord. Admiral Lopez.”

“Thank you,
Captain.”

She moved
discreetly away. Tusk was about to make himself scarce, but Dixter indicated
that his adjutant was to stay.

A harried-looking
face appeared on screen. The stars on his uniform indicated an admiral, a rear
admiral.

“John. Good to
talk to you again. It’s been too long. A damn shame it’s like this, though.”

“Good to see you,
Roderigo. You’re right. It’s been too long. Pardon me for saying I wish it was
longer. What’s up? What’ve you got? Corasians?”

The rear admiral
grimaced. “Funny you should mention that. It’s not the Corasians. I almost wish
it was. It’s Major Mohini. Major Darlene Mohini. She’s been taken hostage,
kidnapped.”

Dixter stared in
silence at the screen, scanning the name in his mind, trying to remember. Then,
“Good God!” he said, and sat down in a chair. “How did it happen?”

The rear admiral
ran his hand through his thinning hair. “It was a professional job. You know
that damn flea problem we have? A team of five commandos disguised themselves
as exterminators, broke through our security. They went straight for Mohini, so
they knew who they were after and how to find her. You want to hear the real
kicker, John?”

“Not really, Rod,”
Dixter muttered under his breath. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
Beneath the cover of the console, he rubbed his stomach.

“Mohini was in on
it. Had to be. The commandos knew the layout of the place, the routine. And no
one except a genius like the major could have so thoroughly screwed up all our
computer systems. We’ve just now managed to convince our mainframe that the
whole Corasian fleet isn’t parked outside our space station.”

“Damnation.”
Dixter swore softly. His fingers drummed the console. “This is one hell of a
mess, Rod.”

“Don’t I know it.”
The rear admiral was looking worried, as well he might.

“There’ll have to
be an inquiry,” Dixter said slowly, thinking as he went. “If it wasn’t the
major herself, you’ve got a security leak somewhere. Do you have vids on the
commandos?”

“Security cams got
some good shots. So did one of our pilots, by the way. He fired one of the new ‘tick’
tracking devices at the spaceplane. Says it was a direct hit on the tail
section. We’ll know where and when the commandos come out of hyperspace. Here
are the vids. I’ll be standing by.”

The admiral’s face
was replaced by a shot taken by a security cam hidden in the ceiling. It showed
an attractive woman, wearing a naval uniform, being forcibly escorted from her
office by a man in bright yellow coveralls. Several armed Marines had them
surrounded.

The man was
saying, “I’ve got a 22-decawatt lasgun. It’s set to fire the second the
pressure of my finger relaxes. You so much as stun me and the major dies.”

At that point,
Dixter said, “Good God!” again.

And this time Tusk
joined him.

Both of them
stared in shocked disbelief at the vidscreen.

“Sir ... that’s
Xris!”

“It can’t be,”
Dixter said flatly. “Computer, give me still shots, enlarged, with
enhancements, of each second of that vid. I want a voice print, too. Then
search the files and see if you find a match for the photos and the voice.”

The computer went
to work. Tusk and Dixter watched the vid again.

“It’s the cyborg,”
said Tusk after the second time through. “I’d know Xris anywhere. I should. He
saved my life, sir,” he added pointedly.

Dixter was grim. “I
don’t like this any more than you do, Tusk. Xris and his team have done good
work for us. If you remember, he was almost killed trying to protect Her
Majesty. But he is a mercenary. He works for money. Maybe someone offered him
...”

He stared at the
vid again, then shook his head. “That would explain the security leak. Xris had
low-level access. I gave it to him.”

“What good would
low-level do him?”

“A lot,
apparently,” Dixter said wryly. “Maybe just providing him with the fact that
the damn space station has fleas!”

“He wouldn’t do
that, sir. Xris wouldn’t betray you. Damn it, I know him!”

“Match,” sang out
the computer suddenly, with what Tusk considered an irritating note of triumph.
“Photo I.D. Cyborg. Name: Xris. Planet of origin—”

“What about the
voice?” Dixter snapped, interrupting the flow of statistics.

“Match. Voice
print I.D. Cyborg. Name: Xris. Planet of origin—”

Dixter ordered the
computer to be quiet.

Tusk shrugged
helplessly. “There
has
to be some explanation, sir!”

Dixter said
nothing, turned his attention back to his rear admiral. “We think we have an
I.D., Rod.”

“You do? Damn,
that was quick. And we’ve just received a report from the ‘tick.’ The plane’s
course will have it coming out of hyperspace in about six hours. The question
is, do we shoot to kill, knowing they’ve got Major Mohini aboard? Or do we try
to capture them and risk losing them?”

Dixter was silent,
thinking.

Tusk was thinking,
too, about the time he’d been shot all to pieces, about Xris coming to his
rescue, hauling him through heavy enemy fire to safety.

“This is
Xris,
sir!” Tusk couldn’t help saying.

Dixter cast him a
stern glance. “I am aware of that, Commander.”

“Sorry, sir.” Tusk
knew he’d gone too far, overstepped the line.

Dixter sighed,
stared at the photo I.D. of the cyborg, who had more than once put his life on
the line for a number of people John Dixter cared about.

“Major Mohini must
not be allowed to remain in enemy hands,” he said slowly. “Give her captors
every opportunity to surrender. If they don’t, orders are: Shoot to kill.”

“Yes, my lord.”
The rear admiral signed off.

Dixter looked
suddenly old, tired. “Now we wait.”

Tusk was studying
the still photos, staring in bafflement at Xris and the attractive, intelligent-looking
woman he was holding at gunpoint.

“Who is this Major
Mohini, sir?” Tusk asked. “And why is she so damn important?”

Dixter told him.

. . . because the
only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved. . . .

Jack Kerouac,
On the Road

Raoul was not
happy. He was not enjoying himself—an unusual and alarming state of affairs for
a Loti.

Lying naked on a
bed, his hands and feet locked in steel paralyzers, was a situation that—under
different circumstances—might have afforded Raoul a certain amount of pleasure.
The room in which he was incarcerated was actually quite charming, tastefully decorated,
with ambient lighting and a view of the stars outside his window. The bed was
comfortable, the sheets delicately scented. But even these amenities—and the
interesting situation in which he found himself—could do nothing to raise the
Loti’s spirits.