Knights Of The Black Earth Read online

  "As you've probably all guessed by now ..." He paused a moment to take out a twist and light it, then had to wait further while Raoul put a scented handkerchief over his nose. "We have a job. It's going to be a tough one. Dangerous ... and something more."

  He took a drag on the twist, blew smoke. The LED lights winked on his arm, emitted a quick series of beeps. He glanced down, made a minor adjustment, looked up. "There could be some possible ramifications. Legal ones. I'm telling you all this up front, so that if any one of you wants to drop out, you can go with my blessing."

  "What are you getting at, Xris?" Harry asked. "Hell, we've all broken our share of laws before now."

  Xris nodded, held the twist in his hand between his thumb and forefinger. "Local laws. This job is going to require us to break into a top-level, secret, secure Royal Naval military facility."

  "Shit," Harry Luck said, almost reverently.

  The Little One, curled up at Raoul's feet, stirred and shivered beneath his raincoat. Raoul murmured something, patted the empath soothingly on the fedora. The Loti regarded Xris with a peculiarly intense and suddenly focused stare that was extremely disconcerting.

  Xris shot a glance at him and the Little One, frowned. "Whatever information that damn empath is draining off me, he better keep it under his hat."

  Raoul coughed delicately into the handkerchief.

  Xris, glaring, took a last drag on the twist, snubbed it out, and tossed it in a receptacle.

  "You'll be paid double," he went on, "but if anything goes wrong, we're going to have our tails caught in one hell of a tight crack. I'll take full responsibility. But I want you to know what you're in for. So"--he started to light another twist, caught Raoul's eye, and thrust it irritably back into the case--"that's it. If you want out, leave now. The less you know, the better."

  The others exchanged uneasy glances. It wasn't that they were worried about the job. They were more worried about their boss.

  "I forgot to mention one more thing," Xris went on before anyone could say a word, "this is a kill job. I'm going to be taking out a man--woman. I'll do the killing myself. It's sort of legal. There's been a warrant out for his arrest for years. But essentially I'll be taking the law into my own hands. If anything goes wrong, you could be charged with accessory to murder."

  "Is it permitted, Xris Cyborg," Raoul said quietly, "to ask the name of our client? Who is the one hiring us to kill this person?"

  Xris took the twist out, began to chew on it. "Me."

  "Ah!" Raoul breathed a deep sigh. Settling back in his chair, he clasped his hands, sparkling with rings, over his shapely legs. "And is it also permitted to ask what crime this man and woman have committed that you have marked them for death?"

  "Not a man and a woman," Xris said impatiently. "A woman."

  "You said a man and a woman, Xris Cyborg."

  "I made a mistake. A woman. As for what he did, he was responsible for the death of a friend of mine. And for a lot of other deaths. Maybe thousands. Because of him, the Corasians got their robot claws on some of the latest in firepower--weapons they used against our people on places like Shiloh's Planet."

  The Little One jerked suddenly as if in pain.

  "Shut up," said Xris softly, taking the twist from his mouth. "Just shut up."

  The Little One cringed and shrank back against Raoul's legs.

  "He was responsible for the deaths?" Raoul was puzzled. "Whom is it that we are discussing? He who?"

  "I meant she!" Xris snapped his teeth viciously down on what was left of the twist.

  "First he is a he, then a she, then a he again, and now back to a she. I beg your pardon, Xris Cyborg"--Raoul shook his head gently, so as not to muss his hair--"but I am extremely confused."

  "Look, Xris," Harry spoke slowly, reluctantly, "I'm not one to question your judgment. If you say this ... uh ... person's got to die, then that's good enough for me. But if there's a warrant out, why take the chance on being sent to the terminator? Why not just arrest ... this person?"

  "Because he's dead," Xris said. Raoul gave a faint moan, pressed his hands to his temples. "Legally he's dead. In reality, he's still alive, but I'd have a hell of a time proving it. Not that the case would ever come to trial," Xris continued bitterly. "They'd see to that-FISA. They've got their own dirty little secrets to hide."

  "My gawd!" Harry's jaw sagged. "The Royal Navy and the bureau?

  "You can leave," Xris said coldly. "There's the door. No one's keeping you."

  "Look, Xris. I'm sorry. I didn't mean-- It's just that--"

  "Xris Cyborg." Raoul stood up. Taking care to avoid stepping on his diminutive partner, the Loft walked over to Xris, laid a gentle hand on the cyborg's good ann. "You are not being sensible. Not being logical. And this is very much not like you, my friend. You are permitting this woman who is a dead man to run away with your emotions. You know that everyone in this room is most loyal to you, Xris Cyborg."

  The others in the room nodded earnestly, openly voiced their support.

  "Precisely." Raoul neatly cut them off. "But, as the saying goes, you must look at yourself from the rear in order to tell if your panty hose are crooked."

  "Does all this have a point?" Xris demanded.

  "My friend, if you came to yourself with this job and told yourself what you have told us... you must admit, Xris Cyborg, that you would tell yourself to go play in hyperspace. If you would reveal the truth to your friends--tell us, for example, the fact that this dead man/woman is the one responsible for the explosion which left you--"

  "All right!" Xris snapped sullenly. He glared at the Little One. "So much for trying to keep anything private around the mental sponge."

  "He means no harm. And I think that you will feel better if you will ease your soul of this--"

  "Your lipstick's smudged," Xris pointed out.

  Raoul paled. "Is it? Very badly?" His hand went to his mouth.

  "Smeared all over your face."

  Raoul was stricken. "If I might be excused--"

  "The bathroom's over there." Xris indicated a door.

  Grabbing his makeup kit, the Adonian departed.

  Xris could not look at the rest of the team. He walked over to the window, stared out moodily. "The crazy Loti's right. I came into this ass-backward. To make a long story short--"

  "You don't need to tell me any more, Xris," Harry interrupted. "I know all I need to know. Count me in. And you don't have to pay me double. The usual pay's good enough."

  "I'm in, Xris," said Jamil Khizr. "You can pay me whatever you consider I am worth."

  He was worth plenty, and he knew it. So did Xris. The handsome, black-skinned human had been a heavy weapons instructor in the Royal Marines. He had caught Xris's attention during a raid on Tarmigan, when Mag Force 7--acting under cover on request of the Lord of the Admiralty--had infiltrated the marine unit posted there in order to flush out a spy.

  Major Khizr had been of enormous help, showing a real talent for this type of work, talent that was being wasted in firing off practice rounds and droning classroom lectures. When Xris made him an offer, Jamil responded by resigning his commission that very day. Unmarried and professing to like it that way, Jamil was interested in one thing: money.

  Tycho spoke through his translator. "I'm cashing in my chips."

  Xris, after a moment, realized the alien meant that he should be included in the deal, not that he was about to get shot in the back. Translators normally reduced most alien languages' more colorful imagery to clich6s in order to better facilitate human understanding. Unfortunately, either Tycho's translator had a glitch in it somewhere or the alien's imagery was more colorful than usual, for the results were often interestingly garbled.

  The wiry Tycho was of a race that was so exceptionally thin that most humans mistook his people for insectoids, an impression that was enhanced by the allen's ability to alter at will the color of his skin--anything from porcelain white to ebony black to brown to forest green. His people
were thus known, unofficially, as "chameleons." Such an ability was an advantage in his line of work. Tycho was a highly trained assassin, who came recommended by former Warlord Bear Olefsky.

  An expert shot--Xris had never seen a better--Tycho had once taken out the infamous Bergermeister of Demselhaus, the capital city of the Olefsky Hegemony, from a distance of six thousand meters with a modified needle rifle. Being double-jointed, Tycho was also capable of climbing up, into. over, or underneath almost any obstacle. He was also a financial expert and handled the monetary affairs of Mag Force 7.

  The man seated to Tycho's left stood and bowed. "I, too, would be honored to be included, Xris. To catch the bastard who injured you would be most pleasing in the eyes of the Master of the Universe."

  Dr. Bill Quong was the newest member of the team, and one of the most remarkable. He was an expert at fixing or altering any type of machine currently in use anywhere on any planet in any galaxy. In addition, he could also fix most "broken" living organisms, human or alien. He held advanced degrees in mechanical and hydraulic engineering, and was a doctor of medicine. He'd had little luck holding a job, however. Quong--or Doc, as he was known--had an unfortunate tendency to treat machines like people and people like machines. Xris hadn't hired the doctor for his bedside manner, however. One of Quong's major responsibilities was keeping the cyborg's mechanical half in good working order.

  Xris looked around at his team, started to say something, couldn't. He shook his head, shut his mouth.

  Feeling a tug on the hem of his pants leg, he looked down.

  The Little One was looking up.

  "You're in, too?" Xris said, smiling.

  The fedora nodded violently. The Little One raised a small, clenched fist.

  "Thanks," Xris said quietly. "Thanks all of you." He drew a deep breath, motioned them to gather around a table. Switching on a hologram, he said, "Here's the plan--"

  The bathroom door opened. A ruffled and indignant Raoul emerged.

  "My lipstick was not either smeared!"

  CHAPTER 10

  She's a phony. But she's a real phony!

  Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffanys

  It must have been a trick of the light," Xris told Raoul soothingly.

  "Ah, certainly."

  Happy once again, a visit to a mirror always improved Raoul's spirits, the Adonian started to head for a sofa.

  "I was just about to explain the operation." Xris intercepted Raoul, indicated the holographic image. The other teton members--grinning hugely--gathered around.

  Raoul blinked. "But I was going to do my nails."

  "You and the Little One have a critical role to play," Xris said patiently. "I'd appreciate it if you'd join us." "You could explain it to me later."

  "We only have the room for six hours, and once we leave here, we don't discuss the plan, even among ourselves."

  "I understand, my friend," Raoul said quietly, noting the steel edge in the cyborg's voice. "Perhaps I could do both at once."

  The other members of the team made room for Raoul. He pulled up a chair, brought his makeup kit, and proceeded to carefully paint opalescent polish on his fingernails while listening to Xris. The Little One curled up on the floor, head pillowed on Raoul's purse, and went to sleep.

  The empath never participated in planning sessions, never looked at a hologram or a map, never took any sort of instmction from anyone except Raoul. Early on, when the two first joined the team, Xris had harbored misgivings about this arrangement; he was never quite certain whether or not

  Raoul was absorbing anything said to him or was off in some Loti drag-induced dream world of his own. Yet the two always managed to come through when needed.

  Xris glanced at Raoul, who was taking care to spread the polish evenly on each nail, his glistening jet-black hair falling over his shoulders and completely obscuring one comer of the holographic model of the space station.

  The word reliable came into Xris's mind and he almost coughed. He supposed a person could get himself a nice quiet sanitarium room with a view and a caretaker to go with it for referring to a Loti Adonian as reliable. Yet, in all these years, during which the two had worked on some very dangerous and delicate assignments, Raoul and his small, mysterious cohort had never let Xris down. He'd have to remember to ask how their job on Modena had gone. It was a mark of his confidence that he'd taken it for granted it had "progressed in a manner most satisfactory," as Raoul would say.

  Raoul suddenly looked up from his work. His eyes met Xris's and their gaze was steady, intense, not the dreamy, unfocused gaze of the Loti. Raoul smiled, a secret, knowing smile for just the two of them. And he did know he knew the truth, knew everything about Dalin Rowan/Darlene Mohini. The Little One, who was also a telepath as well as an empath ("It comes with age among his people," Raoul had once explained), had peered out from under the brim of the fedora and seen right inside Xris. Hell, the Little One probably knew more about what Xris was thinking and feeling than Xris did himself. And in some strange and inexplicable manner the Little One had transferred his knowledge to Raoul.

  Was Raoul for real? Xris wondered, not for the first time, as he returned Raoul's smile with a reluctant, grudging half smile of his own. The lipstick, the clothes, the nail polish; the foppish behavior, the affected mannerisms. Certainly they were typically Adonian. So very typically Adonian that it was almost too typically Adonian. It was too real ... surreal. And the drags. Was Raoul a true Loti? Or was that, too, some sort of charade? In emergencies, he could react with split-second timing, something no true Loti could accomplish. He was inventive, creative, a genius with chemicals--traits the pleasure-seeking, indolent Loti did not possess. Yet the unfocused eyes, the dilated pupils, the blissful, unperturbed, most assuredly drag-induced euphoria were all typical--again, to the point of being atypical.

  But if his was an act--why? What was the purpose?

  Xris could almost suppose that Raoul, behind those painted, drag-drenched eyes, was laughing at them all ....

  "Yes, Xris Cyborg?" Raoul's eyelids fluttered lazily. "What is wrong? Not the mascara!"

  "Your hair's blocking part of the space station," Xris said, pointing.

  "I beg your pardon." Raoul flipped his hair over his shoulder and, breathing a sigh of relief to know that his mascara wasn't smudged, continued with his nails.

  Xris shoved aside a vial of nail polish remover that was sitting in a docking bay, and began. "What you are looking at is a holographic image of RFComSec. In case you can't translate the acronym, RFComSec stands for Royal Fleet Communications Security Establishment." Harry gave a low whistle.

  "Yeah, I know," Xris said. "For obvious reasons, it wouldn't be a good idea for any of you to know how I managed to obtain this layout. So don't even bother. Or," he added for Raoul's benefit, "if you know, keep your mouth shut."

  Raoul glanced up, smiled, returned to more important work.

  Xris continued. "Inside this space station is where the Royal Navy formulates the codes and ciphers that keep their secrets secret. It's also where they work at decoding other people's secrets. Security is as tight as Raoul's buns."

  The Adonian nodded his head to indicate he appreciated the compliment.

  "The space station sits squarely in the middle of nowhere. It's near one of the Lanes, but most hyperspace traffic zips right past, never realizing the station's there. No inhabited star systems within a couple of hundred light-years. RFComSec is heavily shielded and completely self-sufficient, except for one small detail, which I'll go into later. This large complex in the center here"--he indicated the hub of what looked like a gigantic wheel--"is the headquarters, the work area. These spokes radiating out from it provide housing, shops, gym and recreation areas, that sort of thing. Our man--"

  Raoul lifted his head.

  "Woman," Xris corrected himself grimly, "lives and works on the station, rarely leaves. According to the files, she's only left twice in the seven years since he ... she's been assigned to it. Tho
se trips were duty-related."

  "Perhaps," Raoul suggested mildly, studying his nails with a critical air, "if we called her by name, this would alleviate the confusion in your mind, Xris Cyborg."

  "Which name? She's got two."

  Raoul shifted his gaze and again the eyes were disconcertingly focused. "The name you attach to her in your thoughts. The name of the person she was to you. For that is the person who must die."

  Xris said nothing for long moments, just chewed on the twist. Finally he said, "Rowan. We call her Rowan. That's who she was and, as far as I'm concerned, who she is."

  Raoul nodded complacently, repeated "Rowan" to himself several times, spread his fingers, and waved his hands in the air to dry the nail polish.

  Xris again indicated the holograph. "Best-case scenario would be to catch Rowan alone in her apartment, which is located somewhere in this block. But that's out, for several reasons. Getting onto the space station itself is going to be damn difficult. Once we get there, we're going to have a limited amount of time, so we'll have to move fast. One thing the military doesn't give out is the addresses of its people. We could spend hours wandering around the station searching for her housing unit, only to find out when we get there that she's not at home.

  "But she works in a place called FCWing. Once we're inside, we tap into the computer, ask it where to find FCWing, and let the computer lead us right to him. Her." Raoul rolled his eyes, gave a delicate sigh.

  Xris pretended he didn't hear. "If Rowan's in an office by herself no problem. I'll need five minutes alone--"

  "Five minutes! To take out a mark?" Harry. was a bit thick-headed.

  Xris stared fixedly at the holograph. "I need time for a short conversation."

  Harry looked uncomfortable. "Sure, Xris. Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

  Xris turned, walked away from the table over to the trash receptacle located beneath a fully stocked bar. He spit the soggy wad of tobacco into the trash, then helped himself to a brandy--Mataska 7 Star. The seven-hundred-year-old variety. He poured himself a glass. Looking in the mirror, he could see the others exchange questioning glances, with the exception of Raoul, who calmly blew on his nails.