The Knights of the Black Earth Read Online Free PDF Page B

hear the drone, the whine, the rhythmic clicks.
And her flesh, her living flesh, grows cold in your arms, grows cold to your
sensor devices. She realizes a machine’s making love to her. She thinks: I
might as well be screwing a toaster....
    The lift had
stopped. It had been stopped for some time, apparently, for it kept repeating “Floor
eighteen” in a manner that was beginning to sound irritated.
    Berating
himself—My God! How many years has it been since the operation anyway? Nine?
Ten?—Xris strode off the lift. A young man, dressed in a tweed suit, tie, and
knife-creased pants, was waiting for him.
    “Xris? How do you
do? I’m Dave Baldwin.” The young man extended a hand, didn’t wince at Xris’s
grip, even gave as good as he got. “Mr. Wiedermann’s expecting you.”
    Turning, Baldwin
led Xris down a carpeted hallway, done in muted tones, with muted lighting,
polished woods, and the piped-in sounds of a string quartet. Occasionally,
passing by an office with its door open, Xris glanced inside to see someone
working at a computer or talking on a commlink. In one, he saw several people
seated around a large polished wooden table holding cups of coffee and small
electronic notepads.
    “Where’s your
shoulder holster?” Xris asked.
    The young man
smiled faintly. “I left mine in my other suit.”
    “Sorry. I guess
you must hear that all the time.”
    “It’s the
detective vids,” Baldwin explained. “People believe that stuff. When they see
these offices and they find out that we look just as boring as any other office
place, they’re disappointed. We’ve had a few even walk out. Mr. Wiedermann—that’s
the older Mr. Wiedermann—once suggested that we should all dress the part. Wear
guns. Smell like bourbon. Go around in our shirtsleeves with slouch hats on. We
think he was kidding.”
    “Was he?”
    “You can never
tell with old Mr. Wiedermann,” Baldwin said carefully. “I know our appearance
disillusions people, especially when they find out that most of the trails we
follow are paper. The only footprints we trace are electronic. We don’t tail
beautiful mysterious women in mink stoles. We do file-searches until we find
some tiny little discrepancy in her personal finances which proves she’s a spy
or an embezzler or whatever. We study psychological profiles, sociological
patterns.”
    The young man
stopped, eyed Xris quizzically. “But you know all this, don’t you, sir? I’ve
read up on your case,” he added in explanation. “You used to work for the
investigative branch of the old democracy.”
    “I was a Fed.”
Xris nodded. “But we wore holsters.”
    Baldwin shook his
head, obviously sympathetic. “Mr. Wiedermann’s office is at the end of the
corridor.”
    “The younger,”
Xris clarified.
    “Right. The elder’s
almost fully retired now. Through this door.”
    Through a door,
into an outer office that appeared to be used as a storage room for boxes of
computer paper, stacks of file folders, stacks of plastic disks, old-fashioned
reels of magnetic tape, mags, actual bound books, all thrown together in no
particular order.
    “Mr. Wiedermann doesn’t
like secretaries,” Baldwin explained in a low tone, pausing in front of the
closed door of the inner office. “He says he’s seen too many ruin their bosses.
The staff takes turns running his errands for him. He’s a genius.”
    “He must be,” Xris
observed, glancing at the clutter. “Either that or Daddy owns the company.”
    “He’s a genius,”
Baldwin said quietly. “He doesn’t often see clients. Your case interested him.
I must say it was unique in my experience.”
    He tapped on the
door. “Mr. Wiedermann.” Opening it a crack, he peered inside. “Mr. Xris here—by
appointment.”
    “In!” came an
irritable-sounding voice.
    Baldwin opened the
door wider, permitted Xris to enter. Giving the cyborg a reassuring smile, the
young man asked if he could bring coffee, tea. Bourbon.
    Xris shook