The Knights of the Black Earth (28 page)

“I attribute this,
first, to the large and undoubtedly unsightly bump on my forehead.” Raoul
mourned aloud. “And second, to the fact that I have been deprived of sustenance
for a period which must surely exceed four-and-twenty hours.”

By sustenance, he
did not mean food. He had, in fact, been given a meal, watched over by an
extremely ugly man, who had removed the paralyzers long enough to permit Raoul
to spoon down something that seemed to be an excuse for soup. The man would not
speak and he refused to bring Raoul wine with his meal. Raoul, therefore, had
been unable to eat. Accepting this with philosophical indifference, the ugly
man had replaced the paralyzers, taken the food, and left the room, sealing the
door shut behind him.

“I am grounded, my
friend,” Raoul lamented. “I am a cold chicken. Or is it turkey? I am forced to
confront reality. The horror,” he added in a shuddering whisper. “The horror ..
.”

One might have
questioned just how “grounded” the Loti truly was, considering the fact that he
was talking to the Little One, who was light-years away. But Raoul had to talk.
He was accustomed to talking and he was accustomed to talking to his friend.
Now he was bereft of his companion, alone, and extremely puzzled. Why in the
name of all that was hallucinogenic had someone done this to him?

Perhaps he had
enemies .. . perhaps there were people out there who didn’t like him....
Poisoners do not make friends easily. Raoul knew this as a sad fact. It was a
long time before Harry Luck could bring himself to eat a sandwich comfortably
in Raoul’s presence. But surely he had never done anything bad enough to merit
such treatment! And the Little One hadn’t done anything at all. And yet they’d
hurt him. Hurt him badly.

Thinking of his
small friend, wondering what had happened to him, Raoul couldn’t stop himself
from sliding into the darkness of depression.

Or reality,
whichever came first.

Desperate to
escape by any means possible, Raoul altered history, invented the comforting
fantasy that the Little One was still with him. This achieved several key
objectives. First, Raoul was able to apologize profusely to the rest of the
members of Mag Force 7.

“Tell them I was
undevoidably attained,” he begged solemnly, too sober to make sense.

Second, and most
important, he took comfort in the knowledge that the Little One was with him.
And by the time Raoul had spoken to his friend for a while, fantasy tiptoed
across Raoul’s admittedly blurred lines. In what remained of Raoul’s mind—a
mystery to everyone, Raoul included—the Little One was listening to him and
perhaps even responding.

“I wish I could
tell you where I am, my friend,” Raoul murmured. “But I cannot. All I know is
that I am on board some type of spacegoing vessel and I know this only because
I can see nothing but a black void punctuated by stars outside a window. The
stars are moving. I am moving. I therefore consider it likely that I am moving
through space.” He was arrested by a sudden thought. “Either that or the bump
on my head is worse than I thought.”

He sighed a dismal
sigh.

“I am sorry, my
friend. I became distracted. To continue, I am apparently being flown through
space with a bump on my head. It is due to the bump that I have no recollection
of where I am, very little of what happened to me. The entire night last night
was a ghastly experience. Now I know why you”—here Raoul swallowed—”my poor
Little One, were upset a great portion of the evening. You were undoubtedly
aware of the dark thoughts being directed against us. But being unable to
define your fears—these men were quite clever in concealing their evil
designs—you, my unfortunate friend, were not able to warn me.

“The last thing I
remember is these dreadful hulking beasts bursting into our room at an ungodly
hour, dragging me bodily out of my bath, and .. . and hurting you.”

Raoul blinked back
tears. The memory was blurred, but it was terrible. He recalled hearing a thin,
high-pitched wail, remembered seeing a shadowy hand smash down on a small and
defenseless figure. The wail abruptly ceased. Despite this, the hand descended
again and again, several times. It was at this point that Raoul rather
indistinctly recalled feeling an unpleasant but oddly stimulating emotion.

“Rage. Anger.
Fury. I hurled myself at the attackers,” Raoul reported with quiet pride. “They
ripped my silk kimono, but I persevered. And it was then, I rather imagine,
that I received the blip on the headbone. Because the next thing I remember is
waking up here, with an ugly hairy man bending over me.”

Raoul shuddered
again at the recollection.

“I am telling you
all this, my friend,” Raoul continued plaintively, “because I need you to
explain to Xris why I did not arrive at the Olicien Pest Control factory in my
yellow coveralls. It was the first time I have been where I was not supposed to
be instead of where I was.”

That statement
momentarily confusing even Raoul, he paused to try to figure it out, gave it up
as a bad effort.

“Ah, but I am
certain Xris went in search of me. I am certain he found you, my friend, and
that you are all right. Yes, I know you’re all right!” Raoul repeated, his lips
trembling. “You must be. I can’t bear to think of you lying there, hurt,
alone... .”

It seemed to Raoul
that he heard a voice, a whisper, inside his head. It was familiar, reassuring,
and it even provided instructions.

“Find out the name
of the ship,” Raoul repeated to himself. “Very well. If you think it will help.”

The door slid open
and the ugly man walked inside.

Raoul turned his
head into the pillow. “Really, my friend,” he whispered to the Little One, “this
person is simply too frightful to bear! I am surprised he has the nerve to show
such a face in public!”

The ugly man said
nothing. Crossing the room to the bed, he removed the paralyzers that bound
Raoul’s ankles and wrists.

“Would you do me
the favor of informing me why I have been absconded with?” Raoul asked
pleasantly, keeping his eyes averted. His stomach was queasy enough as it was.
The voice in his head prodded him. “Ah, yes. And what is the name of this ship?”

The ugly man did
not answer. He grabbed hold of Raoul roughly by the shoulder and dragged him to
his feet.

The room tilted.
Raoul tilted with it.

The ugly man held
out a hospital gown. It was gray, many times washed, pressed, and sterilized.
It was held together with three ties and a snap. “Here, Loti, put that on.”

Raoul laughed
politely.

“I said put it on.”

Raoul regarded the
alleged garment with shock. “You can’t be serious.”

The ugly man
tossed the gown at him. “We don’t have much time. The doctor’s waiting. If you
don’t put it on, I will.”

“Go ahead, by all
means,” Raoul said, returning the gown. “You can’t possibly get any uglier. And
by the way, while you’re undressing, what is the name of this ship?”

The man growled
and took a step forward, and then Raoul understood.

“Ah, you mean you
would dress me! Thank you,” he said, snatching the gown, “but no.”

Fumbling at the
ties, accidentally ripping one off, struggling to separate the sleeves, which
adhered to the gown as though they’d been glued to it, Raoul was at last semi-dressed.

The unsightly
garment was the ultimate torture, and the experience almost shattered him. At
the sight of himself in the mirror, Raoul suffered excruciating pain, very
nearly gave way to despair.

The ugly man
shoved Raoul toward the door.

Whether due to the
erratic motion of the spaceship, the bump on his head, or his lack of what the
Loti usually referred to as “support,” Raoul discovered that walking was an
adventure in itself. Attempting to locate the door, he wandered into a corner.
The ugly man was forced to place hairy hands on Raoul again, steer him back on
course.

“Whoever is flying
this ship must be swilling jump-juice,” Raoul said thickly, careening through
the half-open door and out into a brightly lit corridor. “I don’t suppose he’d share?”

The ugly man did
not answer. He did not appear to be having any difficulty walking the
undulating, heaving, and twitching deck, but guided Raoul’s floundering steps
with a rough and uncouth touch.

It was when the
walls started to throb, pulsing to the rhythm of a gigantic beating heart, that
Raoul began to fall apart.

“Something’s wrong
with the engines!” He came to a giddy stop, looked around in terror. “Can’t you
hear it? Ka-thump. Ka-thump.”

The ugly man paid
no attention. Another shove started Raoul moving, brought him to a sealed door.
The ugly man opened it with a touch on the controls, then retrieved Raoul, who
had drifted off down the corridor. Returning with the Loti, the ugly man herded
Raoul in through the open door.

The name of the
ship!
said the insistent voice inside Raoul.
Find out the name!

“I can’t.” He
moaned, weak and barely conscious. He’d caught another glimpse of himself
reflected in a large steelglass window. “I can’t.”

A woman clad all
in white, with a white cap over her hair, white rubber gloves, and a white
sterile mask over her face stood beside a medicbot.

“Put him here,”
said the woman.

The ugly man did
as requested, forcibly seating Raoul in a chair.

Raoul stared at
the woman in the mask. “What happened to your mouth?”

The woman’s eyes,
visible above the mask, narrowed. “Loti!” she muttered in disgust. “Leave us
alone.”

The ugly man
protested. “He’s been given the detoxifiers and he’s on a real downer. You
might need help with him, Doctor.”

The woman sniffed,
shook her head. “I can manage this wretch. And I don’t want to risk
contaminating the samples. Wait outside the door. You can carry the Woodwork to
the lab.”

The man nodded,
left. The door slid shut.

The woman turned
to the ‘bot. “You may begin. Start with the blood, then do the bone marrow.”

The medicbot went
to work. Raoul sat back in the chair. The ‘bot produced a laser extractor,
placed it into position, switched it on. The woman watched closely, then sat
down at a computer terminal, began to make voice entries. The voice inside
Raoul was sympathetic, but demanded action.

“Speaking of names”—though
no one had been—”what is the name of the ship?” Raoul asked the ‘bot.

It did not answer.

Raoul watched,
fascinated, as his own red blood flowed into the extractor. From there it was
deposited into various tubes and vials, all of which the ‘bot carefully labeled
and arranged on a tray.

At length, growing
light-headed, Raoul allowed his gaze to wander.

“I am in a room,
my friend, in which there are several white beds, separated from each other by
curtains hanging from tracks on the ceiling—”

The woman with no
mouth, absorbed in her work, glanced up. “What did you say?” she asked
irritably.

“What is the name
of the ship, madame?” Raoul was extremely polite. It was, he thought, a
reasonable question.

The woman snorted,
returned to the computer.

Raoul shrugged,
continued. “They are taking my blood away from me and putting it into little
tubes. I don’t have the slightest notion why. Unless I am being held prisoner
by vampires. . ..”

This fascinating
and titillating thought carried him through the next few moments by providing
certain entertaining fantasies. Then a particularly nasty jab from the ‘bot
returned him to what passed for reality.

His gaze—which had
been wandering aimlessly around the room, flicking over various serious-looking
machines—landed on a cabinet made of steel with a code-key locking device.
Raoul blinked, focused both his eyes and his attention. He lurched forward in
his chair, occasioning a scolding from the medicbot.

The woman with no
mouth turned. “Please sit still,” she ordered. “The extractor is very sensitive
equipment.” Then she noticed Raoul’s fixed and rapt expression.

“What is in the
cabinet?” he asked.

“Supplies,” the
woman answered, frowning.

“Ah ...” Raoul
sighed, sat back in the chair, and stared at the locked cabinet.

“Test samples
completed,” announced the ‘bot.

The woman
collected the vials, finished the labeling, and called the ugly man back into
the room.

“Take these to the
lab,” she said.

The ugly man took
the vials and disappeared.

The woman
approached Raoul. She had pulled down her mask.

Raoul jumped,
stared at her vaguely. “Have we met?”

She drew up a
chair, took out a small vidcam, placed it in front of Raoul, ordered it to
activate.

“The subject is an
Adonian of undetermined age. He is also, purportedly, a Loti. I am beginning
the interview now.” She looked at Raoul. “You were once in the employ of the
weapons dealer Snaga Ohme.”

“Ah,” said Raoul
sadly. “My late former employer. A charming man. But most unfortunate. He
managed to get himself murdered, you know—”

The woman was not
interested. “How long were you with Snaga Ohme?”

Raoul shrugged. “What
is time but an ephemeral butterfly, flitting through the dead garden of our
wretched existence?”

The woman asked
other questions, interminable questions, which Raoul answered absently with
whatever came into his head. His gaze had returned to the steel cabinet.

The laboratory
door slid open; the ugly man walked inside.

“Knight Officer
wants to know how the interrogation is going.”

The woman switched
off the vidcam, handed it to the man. “He can judge for himself.” She sounded
pleased. “I would say the evidence is conclusive.”

“The blood samples
have been evaluated. They test positive.”