Read Online The Knights of the Black Earth by Margaret Weis, Don Perrin - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Weis, Don Perrin
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of tracts of
barren land boasting that they were “scheduled for future development.” TISor
13 was the ideal location for a Hung factory. No one gave a damn what they
produced or who they sold it to, as long as they provided jobs and forked over
tax credits.
Xris and Ito
checked into an old hotel on the end of what passed for the local social strip
and waited until morning. Not much happened on TISor 4 at night, and the people
liked it that way. The bars were quiet drinking holes, the entertainment
industry was zero to nonexistent. Neither man felt much like being entertained.
Xris called Marjorie. Ito checked in with Armstrong. The plan was still a go.
No changes.
Armstrong had
reserved a short-hop spaceplane for them. The courtesy hovervan from the rental
agency arrived to pick them up early the next day. Xris and Ito showed their
commercial pilot’s licenses to a sleepy clerk, who barely glanced at them.
“Slot D,” she
said, yawning and handing over the codes needed to initiate the computer
sequence that would fire the plane’s engines. “I hope it starts,” she added in
a tone which indicated she’d be amazed as hell if it did.
They walked out
onto the concrete tarmac and located their spaceplane—a shabby WR model in
desperate need of a paint job. The plane had short wings, a small cockpit, and
was unarmed. The central cargo area was only three meters long, but all in all
the craft was exactly what they wanted. It certainly wouldn’t draw anyone’s
attention, arouse anyone’s suspicions.
“A good choice,”
Xris said, giving the outside a careful examination. “I’ve got to give
Armstrong credit: He seems to know his stuff.”
“Does that mean we
get to keep him, Daddy? Huh? Please, please?” Ito begged, tugging on the sleeve
of Xris’s flight suit.
“Sure, son,” Xris
answered magnanimously. “But you’ve got to feed him and clean up after him.” He
grinned. “I’ll stow the gear. You check the nav computer and see if it has any
idea where TISor 13 is located.”
Xris boarded the
plane through the drop-down hatch that he trusted wouldn’t drop down when they
were deep in space. Ito checked the computer, began shaking his head and
muttering to himself.
“Nothing much
here, Xris. It provides the normal approach vectors, climate and weather
reports—probably outdated—and a directory of inhabitants. I’m running the
inhabitants against our known Hung member list, but I don’t expect to find
anything.”
A few seconds
passed as Ito cross-correlated the data with the list. “Nope, nothing here. I’ll
feed the standard inbound vector to the nav computer to take us in. Once we’re
in the atmosphere, you can fly us to our landing zone.”
The computer made
the necessary course corrections. The plane took off and they settled down to
thirty minutes of unexciting flying. There were no landing authorities on the
moons, so there was no need for radio traffic. And the computer wasn’t the type
that had been programmed to entertain the passengers.
“You hear about
those XJ series computers Warlord Sagan’s developed to put in his new
Scimitars?” Xris asked. “I talked to one of the pilots. The planes are fast and
more maneuverable than a Laskar belly dancer, but Sagan installed this computer
XJ-type that’s got a mind of its own. Actually argues with the pilot if it
doesn’t like what you’re doing. Plus he says the damn thing never shuts up.”
They discussed
computers and the current unstable political situation, with the various
Warlords plotting to fill the power vacuum left by the increasingly ineffective
government of the Galactic Democratic Republic. People were grumbling and starting
to talk about a return to the “good old days” under the Blood Royal. Since all
the Blood Royal were—supposedly—wiped out by the purges during the Revolution,
their return appeared highly unlikely.
The rush of
atmosphere across the spaceplane’s fuselage ended their friendly
barren land boasting that they were “scheduled for future development.” TISor
13 was the ideal location for a Hung factory. No one gave a damn what they
produced or who they sold it to, as long as they provided jobs and forked over
tax credits.
Xris and Ito
checked into an old hotel on the end of what passed for the local social strip
and waited until morning. Not much happened on TISor 4 at night, and the people
liked it that way. The bars were quiet drinking holes, the entertainment
industry was zero to nonexistent. Neither man felt much like being entertained.
Xris called Marjorie. Ito checked in with Armstrong. The plan was still a go.
No changes.
Armstrong had
reserved a short-hop spaceplane for them. The courtesy hovervan from the rental
agency arrived to pick them up early the next day. Xris and Ito showed their
commercial pilot’s licenses to a sleepy clerk, who barely glanced at them.
“Slot D,” she
said, yawning and handing over the codes needed to initiate the computer
sequence that would fire the plane’s engines. “I hope it starts,” she added in
a tone which indicated she’d be amazed as hell if it did.
They walked out
onto the concrete tarmac and located their spaceplane—a shabby WR model in
desperate need of a paint job. The plane had short wings, a small cockpit, and
was unarmed. The central cargo area was only three meters long, but all in all
the craft was exactly what they wanted. It certainly wouldn’t draw anyone’s
attention, arouse anyone’s suspicions.
“A good choice,”
Xris said, giving the outside a careful examination. “I’ve got to give
Armstrong credit: He seems to know his stuff.”
“Does that mean we
get to keep him, Daddy? Huh? Please, please?” Ito begged, tugging on the sleeve
of Xris’s flight suit.
“Sure, son,” Xris
answered magnanimously. “But you’ve got to feed him and clean up after him.” He
grinned. “I’ll stow the gear. You check the nav computer and see if it has any
idea where TISor 13 is located.”
Xris boarded the
plane through the drop-down hatch that he trusted wouldn’t drop down when they
were deep in space. Ito checked the computer, began shaking his head and
muttering to himself.
“Nothing much
here, Xris. It provides the normal approach vectors, climate and weather
reports—probably outdated—and a directory of inhabitants. I’m running the
inhabitants against our known Hung member list, but I don’t expect to find
anything.”
A few seconds
passed as Ito cross-correlated the data with the list. “Nope, nothing here. I’ll
feed the standard inbound vector to the nav computer to take us in. Once we’re
in the atmosphere, you can fly us to our landing zone.”
The computer made
the necessary course corrections. The plane took off and they settled down to
thirty minutes of unexciting flying. There were no landing authorities on the
moons, so there was no need for radio traffic. And the computer wasn’t the type
that had been programmed to entertain the passengers.
“You hear about
those XJ series computers Warlord Sagan’s developed to put in his new
Scimitars?” Xris asked. “I talked to one of the pilots. The planes are fast and
more maneuverable than a Laskar belly dancer, but Sagan installed this computer
XJ-type that’s got a mind of its own. Actually argues with the pilot if it
doesn’t like what you’re doing. Plus he says the damn thing never shuts up.”
They discussed
computers and the current unstable political situation, with the various
Warlords plotting to fill the power vacuum left by the increasingly ineffective
government of the Galactic Democratic Republic. People were grumbling and starting
to talk about a return to the “good old days” under the Blood Royal. Since all
the Blood Royal were—supposedly—wiped out by the purges during the Revolution,
their return appeared highly unlikely.
The rush of
atmosphere across the spaceplane’s fuselage ended their friendly
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