Knight of Novus Read online

  Knight

  of

  Novus

  A post-Dystopia Novel

  Alydia Rackham

  Copyright © 2018 Alydia Rackham

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781730964862

  Ad astra per aspera.

  Prologue

  A world at peace.

  No terrorism. No genocide. No war. No slavery. No violence.

  No murder. No theft, no vandalism, no fraud, no cheating.

  No corruption. No deceit.

  No insult, or offense taken. No cruelty or unkindness.

  No racism. No foul language, no name-calling, no arguments, no disagreement or discord. No criticism, no hateful opinion. No religion. No hurt, no abandonment.

  No jealousy—no possessions that aroused pride or superiority or offense or irritation. No difference in clothing. No difference in status. No difference in class. No difference in houses or vehicles or neighborhoods. No waste. No pollution.

  All tranquility. All safety. All security. All efficiency. All steadiness and reliability. All provision.

  All made possible by the Regulator Chip: a tiny implant at the back of the skull that suppressed almost to nothingness the human capacity for emotion.

  Developed by a group of scientists determined to save the planet, and a group of peace-makers determined to save humanity. One of each was elected to superior office by the majority, and freely given complete authority to commence their rescue mission. One took the title of Viceroy. The other began with the title of Chancellor, and eventually changed his title to King.

  And under their reign, styled after benevolent, chivalric kingdoms of old, the King and the Viceroy created a civilization unlike any the world had ever seen. They named it Novus. Ultra-modern, extremely efficient and inclusive to all its citizens—making each man, woman and child an essential cog in their magnificent machine.

  Out of necessity, and a concern for the safety and happiness of their people, they eventually created a brotherhood of Knights—proficient in the deadliest forms of combat—to root out the hateful, backward, bigoted dissenters who would not accept the chip, and to re-educate them. Or, if that failed, to execute them as Traitors. To hunt down every object, no matter how old or rare, that might bestow superior or unique status to its possessor and create offense and discord—and to destroy it. To maintain the pristine, the orderly, the calm, the safety, the beauty, the equality of the Kingdom of Novus.

  At any cost.

  Three generations passed. The King gave his mantle to his daughter. She bestowed it upon her daughter. She passed it to her son. The Viceroy did the same.

  Then, one day…

  A sub-sonic shock cut the air like cannon fire.

  For a single instant, an alarming pain shot through the heads of millions of people.

  And the Viceroy and King together tumbled from a window in the highest skyscraper in the city, and slammed into the pavement—both of them impaled upon the sword of the Elder Knight of Novus.

  Some men and women of Novus awoke that first day, glanced into the face of the sunrise, and were suddenly stricken with a painfully keen surge of wonder and awe that they had never experienced in their lives. It rushed though them like a flood and held them captive, rooting them to that spot on their bedroom floor, thrills running up and down their spines.

  They hurried into their kitchens and splashed cold water on their faces, and when the icy liquid streamed down their cheeks and necks, they jerked back, their eyes widening, because for the very first time, that sensation caused life and awareness to cascade through their bodies.

  Terrified but filled with curiosity, they ventured into their sitting rooms, and suddenly, with potent astonishment and realization, they registered the unique beauty of the familiar faces they had never considered before.

  With shaking voices, they called their little ones to their arms.

  They wept.

  Foreign. Startling. Utterly wonderful.

  They had been freed. Freed from the stark, blank, peaceful, emotionless chains that had always bound them.

  But others…

  Others shocked into wakefulness at five a.m., screams and gunshots and the hiss of gas chambers echoing through their minds.

  Dreams—dreams of wild violence and cold slaughter—now haunted their waking eyes. And as they sat there in the dark, sweating, the horror of what they had done in service to the King bombarded them in an barrage they could not begin to understand.

  It took mere moments for them to decide that they wanted it gone. Because if they had to live with the screams of the thousands they had killed ringing through their ears forever, they would certainly go insane.

  Chapter One

  "We've found another one," John stated.

  "Already? That's two in the past week."

  "We're in luck."

  Sir John Cannon, his floor-length, blue, high-collared coat sweeping behind him, strode down the tall-ceilinged corridor, his boots and his Socius' echoing against the hard floor, perfectly in sync. John had dark hair; handsome, sharp, striking features, a frowning brow and flashing black eyes—eyes that focused straight in front of him as he took practiced, even strides.

  "Where is it this time?"

  John glanced over at his Socius, who had spoken: a good-looking, younger man with sandy blonde hair that hung down in his bright blue eyes. He wore jeans, a maroon shirt and a casual leather jacket. In Novus, “Socius” meant “companion, partner”—but over these past many months, John had found him to be far more valuable than that word could imply.

  "In the far north end of the Pale," John answered, his voice deeper than his Socius', and more level. "In a basement."

  "Good," came the reply, and the two of them pushed the front doors of the skyscraper open, and stepped out into the warm, midafternoon sun.

  John took a deep breath of the slight breeze as he descended the dozen stairs, casually surveying his surroundings, per his custom. The streets were not busy at this time of day, and the sun hung high enough to overreach the towering, gray buildings.

  A sleek, black vehicle built for maneuverability and speed waited for them at the bottom of the stairs. John swung around the front of the car, opened the door and slid into the black leather driver's seat. His and his Socius' doors slammed shut at the same time. John turned the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled smoothly.

  “Something needs to be done with that building.” His Socius pointed to a tall, austere, empty building that stood alone on a block. “A library, maybe. Actually teach people to read. Might encourage people to start writing books again…”

  John didn’t comment—just winced.

  In half an hour, they crossed a narrow steel bridge, flanked by battered, abandoned watch-stations, and left the city, entering the Pale. His Socius always ceased comment when they passed this border, and merely stared out the windows at the tumbling, foggy ruins. It seemed darker in the Pale, somehow. Haunted.

  At last, they pulled up in front of what had been a bank, before The Purge. After John shut the car off, the two men glanced up at the brown, desolate brick building for a moment. Then, they climbed out, rounded the car and headed up the stairs. Their footsteps on the paving stones resounded flatly through the empty air. Just a hint of a breeze brushed at John's dark hair, but did not displace it. He reached the landing and glanced around behind him. The dead city lay utterly quiet, besides the trash fluttering in the barren streets. He swallowed, and his brow tightened.

  He turned, and tested the brass doorknob. It clattered in protest. Of course it was locked. He took a step back, briefly set himself—

  “Wait, wait,” his Socius cut in, throwing up a hand. “Don’t break anything! This door’s
an antique.”

  John, frowning and stepping back, watched as his Socius pulled a tool out of his pocket, bent down, and stuck a thin shaft of metal into the lock. After a moment of fiddling, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

  John shot his Socius a narrow look. His Socius grinned.

  John stepped over the threshold, feeling his Socius right on his shoulder. He heard his Socius slide his gun out of his holster.

  "Relax, Thomas," John muttered, glancing around the dusty, cobwebbed entryway. "I'll protect you."

  Thomas snorted.

  The corners of John's mouth twitched upward slightly, and he continued farther in.

  Glass littered the floor, doubtlessly from some old raid when all the pictures in frames had been broken. The shards crunched beneath the men's feet as they made their way swiftly yet cautiously forward. John took another deep breath, paused a moment, then turned left and passed the threshold of a broken wooden door.

  All that lay beyond was a small, mostly bare, white office. A single window in the north wall bore some curtains, and as all the glass had been smashed out of the window, the curtains rustled in the outside air. A wooden desk lay upturned in the center of the tan linoleum floor, and one ceiling fan hung awry. Papers littered the tiles.

  "You think…" Thomas began.

  John nodded.

  "It's here somewhere."

  He reached out his hand and touched the painted wall with his bare fingertips. He stepped in, following the wall, running his hand softly against it, his head lowered, his eyes unfocused. The blank papers rustled beneath his steps. He closed his eyes.

  His sensitive touch picked up every tiny bump, crack and flaw in the paint. When he arrived in the corner, he paused, and thoughtfully ran his forefinger up and down the corner crack, and then he continued along the south wall.

  He halted as his fingers encountered an odd ridge. He raised his arm and followed it with his fingertips, finding that it ascended and descended vertically. He lifted his head and turned toward Thomas. He raised his eyebrows.

  John leaned into the wall as Thomas approached. John tapped the hard surface with his fingertips, heard it resonate oddly, and then, with confident ease, stepped back, set his stance, and kicked a hole straight through the wall.

  The hidden door collapsed with a snap. A cloud of fine dust flew up in the air, and Thomas waved a hand in front of his face to keep from inhaling it. John merely stood there, peering into the dimness beyond.

  Thomas stepped forward, holding his gun at the ready, and eased his head through the opening.

  "Well..." he said slowly. "You were right, as always."

  John ventured through the gap, and found himself at the top of seven stairs. Down below him was a Remnant—just like so many other such stores that he had seen before.

  Silently, he descended the steps, and swept a trained eye over all their findings:

  Four beautifully hand-crafted, dark-wood vanities with mirrors; three oil lamps and two electric bedside lamps; a whole set of shelves filled with delicate glass knick-knacks—like ladies in flowing dresses, little black dogs, tigers, and small clocks; an intricately-decorated brass typewriter; an antique sleigh bed covered in a hand-sewn quilt; a pink, long-legged crib filled with dolls; colored bottles of perfume; several pictures in frames on the walls; and a rag-rug on the floor. Several boxes also stacked beneath the legs of the vanities.

  Wordlessly, John approached the shelves of knick-knacks, for one of them on top had caught his eye.

  A black, prancing horse, with a gold mane, tail and hooves. He gingerly reached out and picked it up, then held it in both hands, running his fingers across the smoothness of the glass, and his gaze over the glimmer of the paint in the light.

  Suddenly, Thomas let out a laugh. John started and turned to him. Thomas held several thin booklets in his hands that he had gotten out of a box, and was thumbing through the first one.

  "Take a look at this!" Thomas approached him and held it out. "I think you'll get a kick out of this. It's a book of pictures about a man who climbs up walls with his fingers."

  John set the horse down and took the book from his Socius.

  "Spiderman," he murmured, glancing over the cover, which bore an illustration of a man in a red body suit scaling the side of a skyscraper on his hands and knees. The edges of John's mouth twitched upward again.

  "Isn't that funny?" Thomas laughed. John nodded.

  "Yeah, it is."

  "Sir John," Thomas approached and slapped an arm around John's shoulders. John frowned at the unaccustomed contact. Thomas lowered his boyish face and cocked an eyebrow, speaking in a confidential tone.

  "I know that you're amused, deep down somewhere," he said quietly. His eyebrow arched higher. "But you're really going to have to practice that smile. It's weak."

  Reflexively, John grinned and chuckled. Thomas laughed and gave him a shake.

  "See! I knew you could do it."

  "I'm working on it," John told him. Thomas slapped him on the back.

  "I'll go upstairs and call the trucks, if you want to start organizing things in to breakables and non-breakables." Thomas started toward the stairs. John nodded.

  "Thank you," he said sincerely. Thomas pointed at him.

  "You're lucky I leave the fun part to you." And he hopped up the stairs and out. "Restoration, this is Knight and Squire, do you read?"

  He apparently received an answer.

  "Good! If you follow our vehicle's tracking signal," he continued. "We've found an untouched Remnant that needs to be picked up."

  John watched his Socius's shadow for a moment, sliding his hand into his pocket and fingering a weathered piece of blue yarn he always kept there.

  Thomas had a lot to teach him. And every day, the intense gratitude John felt for his chance to learn nearly overwhelmed him.

  "He's home!" Lily Cannon raced to her apartment's front door at the sound of the bell, her blue day dress swishing around her knees, her long brunette curls bouncing. But she wasn’t tall enough yet to release the lock. "Benson!" she shouted. "Benson, I need help!"

  "All right, all right," Benson, her slightly-older brother sighed, coming out of his room, paint smudged across his nose. His brown hair was disheveled, very different from the style he had been forced to wear during the regime. He also had long ago discarded his black wardrobe, and now wore a prized pair of jeans and a long t-shirt. Benson hurried across the carpeted sitting room, reached over his sister's head and opened the door.

  Their father stood there, his head lowered, his hands behind his back. His mouth curved upward, just slightly. Lily gasped and beamed.

  "What did you bring, what did you bring?"

  "Patience, patience," John teased in a low voice, and stepped inside. Lily grabbed at his long coat, trying to see behind him.

  "Just a second, Lily, I'll get to you," John assured her. "For Benson..." He brought his right hand out from behind him, and held out the Spiderman booklets. Benson eyed them with interest.

  "I've heard of these!" he exclaimed, taking them in both hands. "They're very famous—at least the other boys say so." He looked up at his father gravely. "Thank you, John."

  For the second time that day, John chuckled, and impulsively tousled his son's hair. Benson looked surprised.

  "Don't be so serious, Benson," John regarded his son pointedly. "You and I need to work on that. Especially with things like..." He gestured to the pamphlets. "...comic books."

  "Comic books!" Benson snapped his fingers. "That's what they're called!"

  "What about me?" Lily insisted.

  John, still keeping the next object hidden, stepped over to stand in front of the black couch. Lily followed him, and stood in front of him expectantly. John had no trouble in smiling this time, as he gazed down at his daughter's big, long-lashed brown eyes and soft face. Slowly, he brought the glass horse out from behind his back. Lily's mouth fell open and she gasped slowly.

  "Ooooh," she breathe
d.

  "Careful," John instructed. "It's glass, so it will break."

  "What is it?" Lily whispered, taking it from him very carefully and studying it.

  "It's a horse," John explained, easing down to sit on the couch, brushing the tails of his coat out of the way.

  "What's a horse?" Lily asked, hushed, her eyes riveted on the figurine. She moved in and leaned back against the inside of her father's knee. He gathered her up, wrapping his left arm around her and lifting her legs onto his lap with his right. He leaned the side of his head against her forehead.

  "It's a big animal. We still have a few, out in the country," he explained quietly. "They run in fields...and I've heard people keep them as pets and ride them."

  Lily gasped again and looked up at him, wide-eyed.

  "Really?"

  John sat back a little, smiled again and nodded, his eyes taking in her every feature. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Benson lie down on his stomach on the carpet, right by John's feet, and open up one of the comics.

  Lily leaned closer to John, and whispered to him.

  "Can we get one?"

  This time, John really did laugh, and the sound rang through the room.

  "Oh, c'mon, Lily,” Benson cried. “Where would we put it?”

  "We could get someplace!" Lily snapped back.

  John brushed a hand over his face to hide his mouth.

  "What?" Lily objected. "Benson and I would take care of it!"

  "You two don't even play that much with my dog," John pointed out.

  "Your dog?" both children exclaimed, and then began a simultaneously running petition about how often they fed him, brushed him and walked him, compared to the duties John fulfilled.

  "Now listen," John set Lily down and stood up, raising his eyebrows. "I did a little thing called saving the dog's life...so that's qualification enough."

  "Okay then," Benson sneered good-naturedly. "You can clean up the trash that he tore up in the kitchen."