The Knights of the Black Earth Read Online Free PDF

entrance—”
    “Sister.” The cyborg
placed his flesh hand and his metal hand on either side of her, leaned over
her. She was disconcerted to see the artificial eye readjust its focus as his
head drew nearer. “I told you. I have an appointment.”
    “I’ll check the
files,” she said coldly.
    “You do that,
sister.”
    “What was the
name?”
    “Xris. With an X.
Pronounced ‘Chris,’ in case you’re interested.”
    She wasn’t. “Surname.”
    “Xris’ll do. There’s
only one of me.”
    The receptionist
flashed him a look which said the universe could undoubtedly count this as a
blessing, then brought up the appointment calendar on a screen beneath the
gleaming glass top of her desk. Her fingers flicked over the smooth surface.
    The cyborg glanced
around the reception area again, noted a security-bot glide out of a recess in
the wall. Casually, Xris reached into the pocket of his shirt, drew out a
golden and silver cigarette case, adorned with a shield on the top. The
receptionist, had she been looking, would have been highly impressed. The
shield was the crest of the Starfire family, belonged to the young king. The
case was, in fact, a gift from the king. Xris opened the lid and withdrew an
ugly, braided, foul-smelling form of tobacco known as a twist. He thrust the
twist in his mouth, started to light it with the thumb of the metal hand.
    “No smoking.” The
receptionist indicated a sign to that effect.
    Xris shrugged,
doused the light. Keeping the twist in his mouth, he began to chew on it. “Got
any place I can spit?”
    The receptionist
glanced up, eyes narrowed in disgust, but she had located his name on the
calendar and was therefore obligated to add the Wiedermann warmth to the
Wiedermann smile, which had, unfortunately, slipped slightly.
    “I’m sorry for the
confusion, Mr.... Xris. You are to see Mr. Wiedermann.”
    Xris continued to
chew reflectively. “Wiedermann himself, huh? I’m impressed.”
    “That is Mr.
Wiedermann the younger,” clarified the receptionist, as if, yes, Xris should be
impressed but only moderately. “ Not Mr. Wiedermann the elder. Please
proceed to the eighteenth floor. Someone will meet you there, escort you to Mr.
Wiedermann’s office. Put this badge on your pocket. Wear it at all times.
Please do not take it off. This would activate our alarm system.”
    Xris accepted the
badge, clipped it on the pocket of his fatigues. “About that janitor’s job . .
.” he began conversationally.
    “I’m sorry for the
mistake,” the receptionist said coldly. The Wiedermann smile could have, by
now, been packaged and frozen. “Please go on up. Mr. Wiedermann doesn’t like to
be kept waiting.”
    She answered a
buzz from the commlink. She didn’t like being around cyborgs, even the
well-oiled.
    The cyborg circled
her desk to reach the lifts. The receptionist was talking to a prospective
client. A touch of metal on her shoulder made her jump, flinch, so that she
accidentally disconnected the call.
    “I was about to
say, you couldn’t afford me,” Xris told her. “Sister.”
    Taking the twist
out of his mouth, he tossed the soggy, half-chewed mass in the receptionist’s
trash disposer, then walked off.
    It shouldn’t gnaw
at him, but it did. Gnawed at the part of him that hadn’t been—couldn’t
be—replaced by machinery. People in general, women in particular—the way they
looked at him. Or didn’t look at him.
    You asked for it,
you know.
    “Yeah, that’s
true,” Xris agreed with himself. Taking out another twist, he stuck it in his
mouth, clamped down on it hard with his teeth.
    But he preferred
the pity, the disgust to be up front. Better that than later. Behind closed
doors.
    Not that there
ever was a later. A door that ever closed.
    It happens to all
cyborgs, eventually. Even the “pretty” ones. Sure, when she digs her nails into
your fake flesh, it’ll bleed fake blood—the miracle of modern technology. But
when you hold her close, she’ll