The Knights of the Black Earth (29 page)

The woman gave a
stiff nod. “I will await Knight Officer’s orders.”

The ugly man
glanced at Raoul. “Good riddance,” he said, and left.

Raoul sank back in
his chair. Time passed. The woman appeared impatient. She paced back and forth.
The medicbot whirred about the room, cleaning up.

Then a voice came
over a comm. “The interview is satisfactory, Doctor. You may terminate the
subject.”

“Yes, Knight
Officer,” the woman answered.

“Terminate the
subject,” Raoul repeated dreamily.

That means you,
twit! They’re going to kill you!
the voice inside Raoul’s head shouted.
Do something!

Yes, I should do
something. I should, Raoul thought, fight for my life. Yes, that is what I
should do.

But he was feeling
weak-headed and lethargic, completely uncaring. Various notions of attacking
the woman flitted into his skull, danced around there aimlessly, and eventually
fluttered out. Fighting required so much effort....

“You will take
care of Xris for me, won’t you, my friend? He and the others will be terribly
lost without me. You can communicate with him by— Ah!”

Raoul sucked in
his breath. The woman had gone over to the cabinet. Removing a plastic card
from the pocket of her white coat, she inserted the card into a slot, punched
in a series of numbers on a keypad.

Raoul watched
through half-closed eyes.

The cabinet was,
as he had supposed, filled with small bottles. Each small bottle was filled
with a chemical substance.

Life might be
worth living, after all.

The woman removed
a vial containing a reddish orange liquid. She emptied the contents of the vial
into an infusor that was attached to the ‘bot’s mechanical arm.

“Inject him,” she
commanded.

The medicbot
trundled toward Raoul.

Halfway there,
however, the ‘bot rolled to a stop. Its mechanical head swiveled around.

“I have run a
routine analysis on this drug. Are you aware, Doctor, that the injection of
this substance will be lethal to the patient?”

“Of course I’m
aware,” the woman returned, irritated. “Continue with the injection.”

“I cannot, Doctor.”
The medicbot ground to a halt. “My programming will not permit me to kill a
patient.”

“Then give the
damn thing to me.” The woman seized the injector from the ‘bot.

Raoul watched the
woman draw near. A dim, terror-filled haziness seemed to slow time, to stretch
it like an elastic band. Seconds lengthened to hours, hours to eternities. The
speed of sound slowed. The woman’s loud, thudding footfalls reverberated
through Raoul’s body. A squeaking bearing on the ‘bot grew louder and louder
until it was a shrill, screeching scream.

A voice boomed
over the comm. It had a strange, echoing quality to it, which made it difficult
for Raoul to understand what was being said. He heard the words, some part of
his brain understood; other parts watched them drift past.

“Synchronize
chronometers to Zulu Time—now. Mission go/ nogo will be transmitted in
sixty-six hours. Mission completion, barring nogo, will occur by eighty-one
hours. You have your orders.”

This made no sense
to Raoul, but it jolted the woman. She stopped, stared at the comm as if she
would have liked to interrogate it.

The ugly man
reentered the room. He was in haste and appeared greatly excited.

“Have you
terminated the subject yet, Doctor?”

“I am about to do
so now,” the woman responded. “I had trouble with the ‘bot. I heard the
announcement. The mission is starting. May the one true God be with us.”

“God
is
with us,” the man answered reverently. “Something’s happened with the Royal
Navy—”

The doctor was
alarmed. “They’ve discovered us!”

“You’re paranoid.”
The ugly man scoffed. “How could they? No, I don’t think that’s it. Knight
Officer isn’t talking specifics, but he says the military’s got big problems
and that this proves God is working for us in this matter. Work on the device
has been completed, except for the final test run. Speaking of the test, the
termination order for the subject is canceled.”

The woman stood
about six centimeters from Raoul. She continued to hold the injector in her
hand. Raoul—attracted by the bright reddish orange color of the poison—stared
at it in fascination.

“Why is that?” The
woman sounded annoyed.

“Further
examination revealed the possibility of undamaged micromachines in the subject’s
bloodstream. If this is true, it will make him the ideal candidate for the last
run-through of the device. We won’t have to sacrifice one of our own. Knight
Officer wants you to look at the blood samples, to see if you reach the same
conclusion.”

“Interesting,” the
woman said in thoughtful tones. “Of course. I will be right up.”

Turning, walking
away from Raoul, she laid the injector on a countertop. Raoul stared at the
injector, its color the only bright spot of warmth in the cold, sterile room.

“What are we going
to do with the Loti in the meantime?” the ugly man asked. “When he goes into
total withdrawal, he will be a confounded nuisance. A raving lunatic. We’ll
have difficulty managing him.”

“I will give him a
strong sedative, render him comatose. After that”—she shrugged—”the test itself
will kill him.”

“Report to the lab
as soon as he goes under. I will send one of the squires to keep an eye on him.”

The woman returned
to Raoul, laid a long-nailed and cold-fingered hand on his shoulder. “Stand up,”
she ordered. “Go lie down on that bed.”

Raoul obeyed,
meandered off in what appeared to be the general direction of the bed. The
medicbot intercepted him halfway to the steel cabinet, gently turned him
around, gently steered him to the bed.

Raoul lay down. He
had the vague impression that they weren’t going to kill him after all. He
supposed he should be happy about this, but what had truly perked him up,
caught his attention, were the words “strong sedative.”

“Give him forty
ccs.” The woman was issuing instructions to the medicbot. “I presume your
programming allows you to do that,” she added sarcastically.

“Yes, Doctor,”
said the ‘bot, and whirred toward Raoul.

Raoul watched it
approach with blissful anticipation.

The ‘bot placed
the injector on Raoul’s upper arm. The drug flowed into him. Raoul experienced
a sudden feeling of intense drowsiness that very nearly put him to sleep.

He closed his
eyes.

“There, that
should take care of him,” said the woman, and Raoul was dimly conscious of the
fact that she left the room.

The medicbot, no
longer needed, shut itself down.

After several
moments, Raoul opened his eyes, sat up. He yawned, stretched, looked about him
with interest. Feeling relaxed, alert, as after a good night’s rest, he jumped
down off the bed.

The injector lay
forgotten on a tray. Raoul took it, studied it, sniffed at it, made his
analysis, and hid the injector beneath the pillow of the bed. He walked over to
the computer, scrolled back through the doctor’s entries, read them with
interest.

What is the
name of the ship?

The voice was much
clearer now and Raoul recognized it. Hopeful, exhilarated, he searched the lab
room, found nothing. He hastened back to the computer files. Nothing there,
either.

Frustrated, Raoul
glared at the computer, began folding and unfolding the hem of the detested
hospital gown.

It was then he
noticed the markings stenciled on the bottom. Laundry markings.

Raoul smiled
blissfully. Returning to the bed, he lay down, rested his head on the pillow.

“The name of the
ship is
Canis Major Research I
,” he reported to the Little One, then
settled back to enjoy being heavily sedated.

And thereby hangs
a tale.

William Shakespeare,
As You Like It,
Act 2, Scene 7

Xris woke with a
start and the panicked feeling that always hit him when his systems shut down.
The sound of a snore was highly comforting. He glanced over to see the Doc,
sitting upright, his head lolling backward, asleep in one of the metal frame
chairs.

Tycho, who didn’t
handle jumps well, was stretched out on a cot, feebly twitching and groaning.
The Little One was a bundle of blankets. Above the usual rattlings and
thrumnmings of the plane, Harry’s loud voice could be heard discoursing on the
subject of fleas.

Xris did a careful
systems analysis. Everything checked out. Quong must have fixed him up.
Standing, Xris walked forward into the cockpit.

Jamil, looking
intensely bored, was listening to Harry. Rowan was pretending to listen. In
reality, she probably hadn’t heard a word, sat staring out into space.

Xris began to chew
on a twist. “Hello,” he said. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine, everything’s
fine,” Harry said cheerfully.

“You okay?” Jamil
asked gruffly.

Xris nodded,
changed the subject. He hated talking about the times when he “crashed,” as
Quong put it.

“What’s our ETA?”

Harry glanced at
the instruments. “Six hours fifty-four minutes and seven seconds.”

“Good. Now why don’t
you and Jamil go take a walk.”

Jamil, casting a
glance at Rowan, was already on his feet. Harry just sat there, looking blank.

“Take a walk,
Harry,” Xris repeated. “Beat it.”

“C’mon, Harry.”
Jamil prodded the big man. “You can show me that video.”

“Oh, uh, sure. If
you really want to see it. You know, I never knew bugs could be so interesting.
Why, were you aware that the flea is known for its agility in leaping—”

The two wandered
off back into the interior of the cargo plane.

Xris leaned
against the console, chewed on the twist.

Rowan continued to
stare into space.

Xris stirred,
shifted his gaze to join hers. “Give me one good reason,” he said quietly, “why
I shouldn’t throw you out there.”

She finally looked
at him.

“Where do you want
me to start?”

Xris waved his
hand. “Oh, how about when you decided to betray us to the Hung?”

Rowan sighed. “I
didn’t, Xris. You have to believe me. I didn’t.”

Xris remained
silent, was unconvinced. He finished off the twist, took out another.

“I admit I made
mistakes, Xris. I know that now. I knew it then, but by the time I realized ...
I should have talked to you ... I wanted to ...”

Shutting her eyes,
she shivered. The spaceplane was cold and her uniform—a crisp white blouse and
knife-pleated black slacks— was intended for the sheltered,
temperature-controlled space station. Xris realized he was still dressed in the
yellow coveralls. He glanced around, found a down-filled jacket—Harry’s, to
judge by the enormous size—and tossed it to Rowan. She wrapped it around her
slender shoulders, hunched into it.

“I’ve often
wondered if it would have made any difference,” she continued. “Maybe if I’d
opened up to you that day of the briefing, before we left for TISor 13 . .. met
you in the bar, like I promised, talked about—” She abruptly skipped that part.
“Maybe I would have been less preoccupied with myself. I might have seen the
warning signs. . . .”

She stared at him
bleakly. Her hands lay limply in her lap. “I couldn’t! I wanted to, but I
couldn’t! Damn it, Xris, can’t you understand? You’d been
right!
You’d
been so goddamn right. And I hated you for being right. I didn’t want to hear
you say, ‘I told you so’!”

Xris took the
twist out of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that. I wanted to apologize. Your
private life was none of my business. I should have kept my mouth shut. It’s
just—” He shook his head.

“You were trying
to save me from myself,” Rowan said, smiling the lopsided, sad smile. “I know
that. I knew it then. And I knew the truth about her, too. I just didn’t know
the truth about myself.”

She was silent a
moment, seemed about to add something. She did add something, eventually. But
Xris had the feeling it wasn’t what she’d intended.

“I wanted to be
loved. It was nice, having someone to come home to at night. I wanted what you
and Marjorie had. ...”

Xris tossed the
chewed-up twist onto the deck.

Rowan glanced at
him, looked away. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

“So you were
saying you should have talked to me,” Xris prompted, cold and hard.

“Yes,” said Rowan,
“I should have talked to you... .”

Dalin Rowan sat in
his seat in the shuttlecraft, pretending to study the material he’d been given
yesterday, during the briefing at agency headquarters. He was pretending to
study it because the new controller—what was his name? Armstrong. Mike
Armstrong—was seated beside him and obviously wanted to pass the time in
conversation.

Ordinarily, Rowan
would have enjoyed the opportunity to talk with someone who had worked in HQ,
who could have filled him in on the latest changes, promotions, who was in, who
was out. But not now. Not today. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even his
best friend.

Rowan was hurting.
When he’d been a new recruit to the agency, he’d received training in
hand-to-hand combat. He’d been pummeled, stepped on, kicked, thrown, stomped,
and mauled. There hadn’t been one part of his body that didn’t hurt. It was how
he felt now, except the hurt was inside, not out. And though he told himself it
was his ego that had taken the beating, not his heart, the pain was there and
it was real. He knew, too, that he was indulging himself in his pain,
luxuriating in it, getting some sort of a perverse satisfaction out of it. He
was doing his best to prolong it.

You’re being a
real asshole, Rowan told himself. You shouldn’t have stood Xris up last night.
This wasn’t his fault.