Knight of Novus

by Alydia Rackham

  John would not look at her, but nodded once.

  "Then I must ask you to help me find His Majesty’s Men," the Scarlet pressed. "No one but a Knight is able to hunt another Knight."

  John's forehead was taut as his throat, but he still looked up at her and spoke steadily.

  "I will do what I can."

  Chapter Three

  "What happened?" Benson demanded without preamble.

  John halted just after he stepped through the threshold of his home. He glanced over to see Thomas sitting on the couch next to Lily, flipping through one of the comics. Benson stood on the other side of Thomas.

  "Hello, Thomas," John acknowledged, taking off his sword. "What are you doing here?"

  "I thought you'd want to brief him, so I took the liberty of calling him up here," Benson explained.

  "Ah," John unbuttoned the top button of his coat and loosened his collar. "Well, I suppose that is acceptable. I get nervous with you two up here alone by yourselves, anyway."

  "So what happened?" Lily wondered. John entered his room and hung up his sword on its rack, then came back out to ease down onto the opposite couch.

  "I had a meeting with the president and the top Scarlet of the United Kingdom."

  "Oh," Benson said in a low tone, coming over to sit next to his father. "What about?"

  "The fire in the Pale this morning," John answered. Thomas leaned forward in discomfort.

  "Um, shouldn't we have the kids go play or something?"

  John looked at him strangely.

  "What? Why?"

  Thomas' eyebrows went up, and he shrugged and shook his head.

  "I...don't know. This just seems like the type of thing kids shouldn't hear."

  Lily and Benson looked at each other. John hesitated, his gaze on the floor, but Benson spoke instead.

  "We were Traitors for years before the Awakening," he informed Thomas hotly. "We effectively lived in the same house with the Kingdom, and had to fool him every

  day," Benson jerked a thumb toward John. "And pay close attention when his chip deactivated, so that he wouldn't get caught and killed."

  John stared at his son, his chest hurting.

  "Okay. No problem," Thomas said quietly, catching John's expression. "Sounds like you've earned the right." He cleared his throat and settled his shoulders, giving attention back to John. "So, what did the Scarlet have to say?"

  John did not respond right away. He was still studying his son. Finally he spoke, dragging his gaze back over to Thomas.

  "She said that—"

  "Wait, she?" Thomas cut in. "I didn't think women were allowed to be Knights."

  John smiled tightly.

  "I think she could kill you, Thomas."

  A giggle escaped from Lily before she could quell it with a hand over her mouth.

  "But she said that you were right—the fires are being started by Knights."

  Thomas sat up slowly.

  "Really?"

  John nodded minutely.

  "They're called The King's Majesty Men." John swallowed and suddenly got up, moving toward the kitchen. "They've started The Regulator again."

  Thomas stared into space for a moment, his expression blank, and then he shot to his feet.

  "Wait—what?"

  Benson also hopped up and ran around to follow John. Lily was hot on his heels. Thomas hurried after, with barely restrained strides, and entered the white-tiled kitchen. John poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher.

  "Why would they do that?" Thomas demanded.

  John shook his head, taking a sip.

  "The Scarlet didn't say," he answered, leaning back against the counter. He set his glass down and crossed his arms.

  "What are you going to do about it?" Benson questioned.

  John contemplated both of his children for a moment, then lifted his eyes to Thomas.

  "We have to find them," he said simply. "And we have to stop them."

  Thomas' brow furrowed deeply.

  "We have to kill them?"

  John did not say anything. He just took a deep breath, and swallowed again.

  John opened his eyes. He stared at the blank, dark ceiling above his bed. His forehead constricted and he groaned, rolling onto his side. He ached all over. With an absent hand, he reached up and rubbed the tender skin on his neck, beneath which he could feel a layer of scar-tissue. Chills ran up and down his spine.

  A deafening beeping pierced the air.

  He jerked into a sitting position and whirled around to see that communicator on his bedside table was blinking and screeching. His heartbeat raging in his ears, he snatched up the comm and quickly pushed the button.

  "What is it, Thomas?" he asked, his tone forcefully regulated.

  "You need to get dressed," Thomas advised. "There's been a report of some suspicious activity in the Pale, and the president believes it’s His Majesty’s Men."

  John's heartbeat almost stopped. Then his mouth tensed.

  "All right. I'll be down in just a few minutes."

  He threw his covers off and quickly pulled on a tanktop and tight shorts. He then securely strapped on his weapons harnesses and guns, then donned his black trousers, boots and long Knight coat, and slid the comm into his pocket. He brushed his teeth, ran a wet comb through his hair, slicking it away from his eyes, and then silently left his room.

  Upon reaching the kitchen, he snatched a pen and a piece of paper, scrawling a note for his children informing him of his whereabouts, and instructing them to stay inside the apartment and not go to play in the courtyard if he was not back by midmorning. Leaving the note on the kitchen table, he grabbed his house keys, slipped out of the apartment and locked the door behind him.

  "What's the word?" John inquired as he met Thomas in the dimly-lit main hallway. Thomas fell into stride beside his Socius and checked the ammunition of his revolver. John flinched just slightly at the sharp click it made.

  "I can drive. I've found the coordinates and I know where it is." Thomas replaced his gun in its holster. "That will leave you free to get out first."

  "Where are they?" John asked, pushing the doors open. Cool, night wind brushed their faces as they descended the stairs. The streets looked eerie, almost black-and-white, in the light of the street lamps.

  "They're in a burned church not far from here," Thomas headed around the waiting car and opened the door. He glanced over the top of the vehicle at the Knight. "Did I wake you up?"

  John grunted and climbed in.

  "It's five in the morning. You scared me to death."

  "Sorry," Thomas apologized, turning the key and flipping the lights on. "If I hadn't gotten that call directly from Base, I wouldn't have bothered you."

  "What were you doing awake?" John wondered as they began driving through the foggy lanes.

  Thomas stared resolutely ahead.

  "Practicing."

  It was then that John noticed that Thomas'

  knuckles were white on the steering wheel. John's brow furrowed.

  "Thomas."

  His Socius glanced over. John lowered his head and looked at him pointedly.

  "I'll watch out for you. All right?"

  Thomas swallowed tightly, then nodded, returning his attention to the road.

  "Good," he said, his light tone sounding a bit forced. "It'd be a heck of a thing to die when I'm only twenty-three."

  John did not reply to that. Instead, he reached inside his sleeves and pulled out the small guns there, and swiftly checked that they were loaded. After about ten minutes, Thomas straightened.

  "Okay, we're almost there," Thomas informed him. John glanced up. And he went still.

  "Oh..." he whispered.

  "What?" Thomas asked quickly.

  "I've been here before."

  "When?"

  "Stop the car."

  "Why?"

  "Just do as I say."

  Obediently, Thomas slowed to a halt and threw the car into park. John gazed fixedly
out the windshield for a full minute, then gradually unbuckled, opened the door and slid out. Watching his mentor carefully, Thomas did the same.

  "Don't slam the door," John whispered. Without looking at it, he pushed his own door closed so that the latch clicked quietly. Thomas followed suit. John, clasping a revolver in each hand, slowly proceeded forward.

  "Stay right beside me," John instructed, and Thomas fell in next to him. Their soft-soled boots did not make much noise against the gravel, but the Pale was as silent as death, and almost as dark. Only an occasional weak street lamp glowed through the darkness, throwing creeping, half-formed shadows against the crumbling walls.

  "Is this the church in the report?" John wanted to know.

  "Yes."

  They stood before a small building that had once been white, but had been charred and ruined. It appeared barren and shrouded and wrong-looking in the night. The plain steeple stood crooked, and the elegant wooden door had been bashed in long ago. John's breathing came with difficulty. Every muscle threatened to lock.

  "You say you've been here before?" Thomas murmured.

  "Yes," John breathed, hardly moving. "Once."

  A shuffling sound emitted from deep within the church that straightened both their spines.

  "There's someone in there," Thomas breathed.

  Lowering his head, John made himself start forward, Thomas behind him.

  They entered, and noticed the missing ceiling. The moon and a couple stars shone down into the murkiness. John could not breathe at all, now. His heart hammered unnaturally against his ribs, and shivers ran up and down his back. When he arrived in the middle of the aisle floor, he suddenly could go no further. His feet stopped and his eyes riveted on the front bench.

  Cold sweat broke out on John's forehead, and he felt all the blood drain from his face.

  "What is it?" Thomas hissed.

  "Henry," John answered faintly.

  "Oh, good. The one I've been waiting for." The straight, confident tones rang through the church, and John and Thomas yanked their heads around to see—

  A Knight.

  A man with light hair combed back, and a beard. He wore a black uniform identical to

  John's, stood at the front of the stage, hands clasped behind his back. His gray eyes cut across the distance between them, and he lifted his chin.

  "Who are you?" John demanded, his voice an unsteady snarl. The Knight canted his head.

  "Don't you recognize me, Cannon? You trained me yourself. I am Sir Edward Herald. One of those still loyal to The King's ideals."

  "You have been burning the Remnants," Thomas snapped.

  Herald regarded Thomas blankly.

  "We have," he acknowledged. "And we wish to speak to Sir John Cannon." He made a swift gesture with his left hand, and seven men, wearing the black cloaks and shining helmets of a Novus Storm Team, stepped out from the wings and surrounded the front half of the sanctuary. Herald lifted his right arm, revealing a revolver grasped in his hand. "Alone."

  John's heart surged.

  He whipped around to his Socius—

  His cry was drowned out by a gunshot.

  John threw his shoulder into Thomas' waist and knocked him sideways. A jet of blood splattered, warm, across his cheek. The two men clattered down between the benches and hit the flagstones hard. John instantly hauled himself to a sitting position, keeping Thomas down beneath him, shielding him.

  "Tom!" John gasped, his breath quivering in panic as he hurriedly ran his palms over Thomas' tunic, trying to feel where his Socius had been hit. He could not see—darkness swallowed them almost completely.

  Then his hands encountered startling, warm liquid.

  Abruptly, Tom grabbed John's wrists in a firm, living hold, diverting them from his chest.

  "I'm fine, brother," Tom said through his teeth. "It grazed my shoulder."

  "Are you sure?" John hissed.

  "Yes!” Thomas snapped. “Get up. They're coming—I can see their feet."

  John shakily snatched up his revolvers and replaced them in their holsters, then slowly stood. He glanced down. A shaft of moonlight illuminated his pale hands—they were covered in Tom's blood. His fingers shook.

  "Make sure he is dead," Herald commanded. The Storms—three on the right, three on the left, and one straight ahead-took three deliberate paces toward them.

  Crimson fury blared across John's vision, and his heavy guns snapped into his hands before any of them could blink.

  They all brought their guns to bear on him, pulling their triggers and unleashing a hailstorm of fire.

  It did not matter.

  John lifted his arms and pointed his guns straight out to either side of him. He bowed his head and fired once with each. Fluidly, he ducked and spun, avoiding the crossfire from the farthest. While he spun, he crossed his arms across his chest and fired once to his left and once to his far right. He raised himself and fired twice, once off to his far left, the other to his direct right. Their constant, futile machine-gun fire rattled and hammered against the stones, a blinding chaos surrounding the ruthless, dance-like efficiency of the Knight. Three more steps forward. He knelt down. A volley missed his head. He delivered a single shot to the chest of the last Storm. With a gasp and a spasm, the man thudded to the ground in a heap at Herald's feet.

  Silence fell. It had taken five seconds. John arose, aiming directly at Herald's chest.

  And he was not even breathing hard.

  Herald glanced around at the bodies of his fallen, then returned his passionless gaze to John.

  "Quick work," he nodded. "I suppose that's why they call you the best."

  "How dare you shoot at my Socius?" John snarled. A scuffling noise and a grunt behind him alerted him to Thomas' struggling to get up off the floor and sitting heavily down on a bench, but John did not budge.

  Herald glanced past John.

  "I am sorry I didn't shoot straight enough before." Herald looked back at John. "Shall I finish it for you—save you the trouble?"

  John's grip on his revolver tightened.

  "If you even move for your gun," John threatened. "I'll shoot you right through the head."

  Herald leveled a stare at him.

  "Just like Henry?"

  John's eyes flickered.

  "What?"

  "Henry Cannon," Herald clarified. Herald slipped around John's gun and descended the stairs of the stage, his hands behind his back again. "Your brother?"

  John turned, trying to keep his gun trained on the man, but his hand twitched. Herald stood just to the side of the first pew, facing it, as if looking into the eyes of an invisible man sitting there.

  "You had found evidence that he was a Traitor," Herald went on. "And you discovered him here. You came in, stood before him, right here, and spoke to him." Herald took his gun out of its place, cocked it, and pointed it at the invisible man. "Your brother tried to reason with you—and you shot him in the face."

  Herald suddenly pulled the trigger.

  The shot blared against every hard surface like thunder, splintering the bench.

  John staggered backward, stricken. His eyes went wide and his muscles shuddered, but some remaining shred of discipline made him keep his gun up.

  The thunderous echoes died away through the Pale. Herald turned his head to him.

  "You murdered him." Herald faced him squarely now, putting his gun back. He watched John carefully.

  "And then, of course, there was Miriam."

  John's vision blurred. His throat closed and tightened, and pain began needling through his chest.

  "You spied on her. You followed her. You had her family imprisoned and killed. You broke into her house," Herald stepped toward him. "You discovered her Remnants. You arrested her as a Traitor. You interrogated her. And you delivered her up for execution."

  John could not meet his eyes. He looked anywhere but at this man—at the floor, the doors, the fallen dead. He let out a rattling breath. His trembling arm lowe
red.

  "And I hear you even stood there and just watched her be thrown into the gas chambers."

  John, shell-shocked, felt his shoulders go limp. If Herald had hit him in that moment, he would have collapsed like a rag doll. He turned his face to the side, but he saw nothing.

  Herald leaned toward him.

  "I see that you are no different than the other Knights," he said flatly. "So don't sit up there on your high horse and pretend you are better than the rest of us. You have nightmares that torture you—memories you can't erase. You see the eyes of the people you have shot in cold blood. You hear the screams of those you have sent to the gas chambers or to the scaffold." Herald's voice lowered. "You know how disorganized, polluted, corruptible and compromising emotion is. Your emotions are your captors, Cannon! What freedom have you gained?" He stepped back, and shook his head. "No, soon you will come to realize what the rest of us have: returning to the peace and quiet of the Regulator chip is the only way you are ever going to be able to live with yourself." Herald withdrew into the shadows. "I will keep my eye out for you. If you ever want to talk...I'll be here."

  And he vanished.

  John's breathing hurt him. A terrible shudder raced through his frame. Paralyzed, he stared blankly at the empty stage.

  Two hands gripped him from behind; one on his upper arm, one on his shoulder.

  "Sir John. Sir John!" The hands shook him. "John."

  John turned his head and saw Thomas, blood running down his sleeve, his eyes brilliant in a beam of moonlight. Thomas' voice softened, and his blue eyes pierced him.

  "Let's go home,” he murmured.

  Chapter Four

  Knights knew the night. They understood darkness and shadows. They memorized every sector of the city in their basic training. They could walk its streets fought best in the pitch black. John needed no light to find his way to the steps of this great pillared building, even at four in the morning.

  His long black coat whispered across the tops of the steps as he gradually ascended, staring at the Novus Hall of Death—the empty, circular building that still housed the gas chambers and scaffolds in its depths.