The Knights of the Black Earth (47 page)

Jamil poked his
head up out of the landing module. “What’s the problem?”

Harry and Rowan
looked at each other. Rowan bit her lip, turned back to the computer. The
Little One had shrunk to almost nothing, was cowering behind Raoul.

“Excuse me, Xris.”
Quong was attempting to refit the hull plate. “Could you lend me a hand with
this? Your tool hand, preferably.” He chuckled, looked around, grinning. “That’s
a joke.”

Xris, grim-faced,
strode over.

Quong was perched
on the infamous chair, holding the hull plate in place with one hand.

“Calm down, my
friend,” he said in a low voice. “We are all doing the best we can under very
trying circumstances.”

“Yeah, Doc, I
know.” Xris took out a twist, stuck it in his mouth. “What do you need me to
do?”

“I have shut the
airlock on the Schiavona. Now we must—”

“The Schiavona!”
Rowan cried.

“That’s it!” Harry
said excitedly.

“What’s it?” Xris
demanded.

They spoke
simultaneously. “We can use the fuel pod from the Schiavona!”

“Will it fit?”

“Of course!” Harry
sounded nonchalant, but he wiped his forehead and heaved a relieved sigh when
he thought Xris wouldn’t notice.

Rowan issued
orders to the drop ship’s computer, told it to tie in to the Schiavona’s
onboard computer.

“You’re positive
this will work.” Xris had come to expect trouble. “The Schiavona’s nowhere near
the size of this command module—”

“Doesn’t matter.
All fuel pods for all ships are interchangeable,” Harry explained. “They’re
made that way on purpose so that the Navy can rescue ships that run out of gas.
It’s been standard Naval policy for years.”

“Safety measure,”
said Rowan in a solemn tone.

Xris looked over
at her.

Rowan caught his
eye, smiled, and winked. Then she went back to work. “I’ve initiated fuel pod
ejection. . ..”

Xris fitted on his
tool hand, climbed onto the chair, began to weld the hull plate into place.

“I thought Rowan
said this blasted ship could heal itself,” Xris muttered.

Quong watched the
job with a critical eye. “It will. When activated, the drop ship’s internal
damage systems will detect any air leak in the hull. Once you have the plate
welded into place, the ship will check it out for the tiniest leaks and
cracks—those we couldn’t even begin to see, but which can grow and split a
plane apart in hyperspace. The ship will inject sealing fluid on the outside of
the hull around the breach. This way we don’t have to spend six days crawling
over the hull with fancy equipment looking for cracks the size of one of Raoul’s
false eyelashes.”

“If
it
works,” Xris said gloomily.

“It will work, my
friend,” Quong said gently. “It will work. Can you take over from here? I’ll go
initiate the repair program.”

Xris nodded,
grateful for the opportunity to be left alone. He let his mind drift and odd
thoughts came into it, the oddest being that Rowan was certainly pretty and
that this fact irritated and bothered him. Xris didn’t like to think of his
friend as pretty. He didn’t want to think of Rowan as womanly in any way,
shape, or form. Rowan
wasn’t
a woman....

Any more than I’m
a machine, Xris said to himself.

A heavy thud shook
the vessel. Xris shut down his welder, looked over to Harry for an explanation.

“Fuel pod dropping
into place.”

Harry had taken
his seat in the pilot’s chair—right next to the chair on which Xris was
standing. Rowan moved to the navigator’s position, was forced to squeeze past
Quong, who had to sidestep Raoul, who tripped over the Little One. Everybody
was tumbling over the gear.

The bridge hadn’t
appeared small until now. Jamil, watching from below in the launch module, his
head poking up out of the deck, had a suggestion. “All those not needed up
there can ride down here. It’s meant to work that way, in fact.”

“We’re certainly
not needed,” Raoul said thankfully. “And I have to redo my makeup.”

Meaning he had to
remove the poisoned lipstick before he accidentally poisoned himself.
Retrieving his handbag, he helped the Little One to his feet. The two of them
descended, with Jamil’s assistance, through the airlock. Quong remained to
finish his computer work, then he, too, departed.

Xris inspected the
hull plate, climbed down off the chair. He took off his tool hand, stowed it
away, replaced it with a hand fitted with smaller tools, designed for more
delicate work—in case any of the computers went down or needed adjusting.

“We have fuel
enough in the command module for the jump to Ceres,” Rowan reported, completing
the calculations. “And maybe a short hop after that.”

“Just get us to
Ceres,” Xris said. Chewing on the twist, he sat down in the copilot’s chair,
glanced back up at the hull plate. “I hope to hell that thing holds. Don’t
shake this baby around too much, will you, Harry?”

Harry gulped,
glanced sideways, cleared his throat loudly.

“What now?” Xris
demanded.

“NOROF’s locked us
out of the docking computer. I can’t retract the mooring clamps.”

“What
can
you do?” Xris asked resignedly. He was, he realized, almost past caring.

“Well . . .” Harry
ruminated. “I can try to rip us free, using full engine power. But that hull
plate might give—”

“I don’t think so,”
Rowan reported, studying her screen. “According to the stress factor calculations—”

“Do it,” said
Xris. “Put on vacuum suits and helmets, just in case.” He stood up, went to the
airlock, peered down into the launch module. The rest of the team were settled
into their seats. “I’m going to shut this, seal you guys off. This may be a bumpy
ride. Hold tight.”

The last he heard,
Tycho was asking worriedly, “Where’s the head?”

Xris shut and
sealed the airlock, then began struggling into the bulky and cumbersome flight
suit.

“Of course, once
we get free”—Harry eyed Xris nervously— “we have to dodge that tractor beam.
And then—”

Xris held up his
hand. “Just answer me this.” He put on his helmet. “Has anyone ever made the
jump with a hole in his spaceship?”

“If they have,
they haven’t come back to talk about it,” Harry replied.

Xris nodded,
settled himself in his seat, strapped himself in. “Just checking. All right.
Let ‘er rip.”

The commander of
NOROF stood beside the operations officer. Both of them were staring intently
out the gigantic observation screen.

“They’re breaking
free,” said the commander.

“Yes, sir,” Ops
returned. “Sorry, sir, but those mooring clamps were never meant to hold under
that kind of pressure.”

“Can engineering
lock the tractor beam onto them?”

“No, sir. We’re
faced with the same situation we had when they flew in here. That pilot is damn
good. Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s like trying to track a mosquito with a
flashlight. We can hit the ship with the beam, but the second we’re ready to
lock on, he’s flown out of it.”

“Very well.” The
commander stared back out the viewscreen.

Ops shrugged,
shook his head. “Maybe if we had tracking equipment as sophisticated as those
on the big cruisers ...” He shrugged again.

“Maybe.” The
commander agreed. He watched in silence as the hijacked drop ship successfully
eluded all attempts to capture it.

“They’ve
jettisoned their spaceplane,” Ops reported. “We’ve got hold of it.”

“Nice we can do
something,” the commander said acidly.

“Yes, sir,”
replied Ops. “Hijacked ship has made the jump, sir.”

The commander
could see that for himself. The drop ship had disappeared into the black void
of the Lane. The commander returned to his office.

The debriefings of
the Marines who had attempted to stop the hijacking were on his desk. Also the
interview with the artificer third class who had been taken hostage. The
commander read them, pondered them, read them again.

Odd, he thought.
Damn odd.

He reflected, then
he gave his computer instructions.

“Put me through to
Naval Headquarters, the Lord Admiral. Use the emergency code. Bring them up
on-screen.”

He sat back and
waited. It didn’t take long. A pleasant-faced young officer appeared. “I am
sorry, Commander, but due to Operation Macbeth, your access has been denied.
Please refer to Section 8, paragraph—”

“I know,
Lieutenant,” the commander cut in crisply. “I need to leave a message. The
matter is urgent, of the highest importance. I can do that much, can’t I? Belay
that,” he added hastily, guessing by the lieutenant’s frown that he was about
to cut the commander off. “Tell the Lord Admiral or whoever needs to know that
the men he’s after—that cyborg and his commandos—were here on this facility.
They hijacked a drop ship. We tried to stop them but failed. Add this, however.
And this is important, Lieutenant.

“The cyborg told
one of my men, quote: ‘Tell the Lord Admiral that the king’s life is in danger.
Twenty-four hours from now. On Ceres.’ The cyborg risked his life to deliver
that message. Do you want me to repeat it?”

“No, Commander, I
copy. Thank you, sir.”

The screen went
dark. The commander sat back in his chair, stared through his own small
viewscreen into the patch of black where he’d last seen the drop ship—a bright
spark that had suddenly winked out. He stared at it a long time, repeated, “Damn
odd,” to himself. Then, heaving a sigh, he went off to console the enraged
captain—former captain—of the drop ship.

If it be now, ‘tis
not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it
will come: the readiness is all.

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act 5, Scene S

“His Majesty will
receive you both in a few moments, Sir John, Commander Tusca. If you would like
to walk in the Gallery while you wait, I’m certain it will not be long. His
Majesty is just finishing breakfast.”

The king’s
confidential secretary and assistant, D’argent, led Tusk and Dixter down a
hallway that had become known as the Gallery, for the works of contemporary art
which adorned its walls. The artwork was exhibited on a rotating basis, all
pieces personally selected by either the king or queen. It was a rare honor for
artists to have their work selected, an honor that guaranteed them fame and
fortune.

Despite their
worries, both men found their steps slowed, gazes constantly shifting from one
painting to another. The two had differing tastes. Dixter was fond of abstract
art, preferring to find his own messages in a painting. Tusk liked, as he put
it, “an apple that looks like an apple, not something that my kid barfed up
after dinner.”

All art forms were
represented in the Gallery, including sculpture, photography, tapestries, and
an example of the new and highly controversial “plant” art.

“That painting’s a
Youll, if I’m not mistaken,” Dixter said, pausing before a portrayal of a
spectacular spaceplane battle between a Corasian fleet and Royal Navy forces on
the frontier.

“I like that,”
Tusk said emphatically. “Makes you feel like you’re right there.”

“Doesn’t it?” said
Dixter dryly. He had never enjoyed spaceflight. “I prefer this.”

“The Gutierrez.” D’argent
nodded. “Quite exquisite. A commissioned piece, actually. Presented as a gift
to His Majesty by a group known as the Knights of the Terra Nera. Have you ever
heard of them?”

Tusk and Dixter
indicated that they had not.

“The name means
Knights of the Black Earth.” D’argent translated the Latin, and such was the
secretary’s charm and skill that he managed to impart the knowledge without
sounding condescending. He seemed to imply that the other two knew the
translation all along, were merely testing him. “Gutierrez is known for his planetscapes.
This is a representation of Earth, along with its moon.”

“Doesn’t look much
like it,” Dixter said, eyeing the painting. “The last I saw of old Earth, it
was all kind of gray and mottled.”

“This is ancient
Earth,” D’argent explained. “When it was known as the ‘Blue Jewel’ of the
galaxy. Actually, this painting came with rather a strange message: ‘One
generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth
for ever. The sun also rises.’ That’s the translation. From the Holy Bible, of
course,” he added off-handedly, confident that they had both recognized it. “Ecclesiastes.”

Tusk nodded, said,
with all seriousness, “Ecclesiastes. I think he was one of my old drill
sergeants.”

D’argent smiled
politely.

Dixter wasn’t
smiling. “ ‘One generation passeth away.’ That sounds like a threat.”

“It does, doesn’t
it?” D’argent agreed. “We ran it through security.” He gave a delicate shrug. “At
least it was more original than most, I’ll give them credit for that.
And
His Majesty is quite taken with the painting.”

A servant
appeared, opened double doors that led to an outdoor terrace. Catching sight of
D’argent, the servant gave a slight nod.

D’argent
acknowledged the signal. “His Majesty will see you now. This way, gentlemen, please.”

The morning was
beautiful, as always on Minas Tares, home planet of the galactic government.
The weather was rarely inclement and when it was, even the rain fell in a
gentle and picturesque manner. This day dawned bright and clear. The young king
and queen were relaxing on their patio, taking advantage of the few precious
moments of privacy and relaxation accorded them by their hectic schedules.

An abundance of
flowers and plants gave the patio a rustic, homey look, filled the air with
fragrance. The Glitter Palace housed an enormous botanical garden made up of
rare and exotic plants brought from all over the galaxy. Hordes of experts and
gardeners labored in it, made it a showplace. By contrast, all the plants on
the patio had come from either the queen’s home planet of Ceres or the desert
world of Syrac Seven, which had been Dion’s home. Both of them tended the
plants, which ranged from roses to sagebrush and were grown in clay pots or
cedar boxes—the patio was twenty-five stories off the ground. The plants
appeared to be thriving in their disciplined, constrained environment, perhaps
because of the care lavished on them.