The Day Knox Died: Part 2

The Moment It All Changed For One, Lone Hound...

Art by Kevin John Jacob

A chill rolled down Adam Knox’s spine as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Chills on a 70-degree day. The dark gray officer told himself, over and over, that it was all some crazed hallucination. The telescreen’s nightmarish sounds, the paranoiac delusions of the Artificially Controlled Eco-System turned against him. He’d been a good soldier, he racked up his kill count in the name of his peaceful city. He was a credit to Haven and all it stood for. The 25-year-old kept this admirable image of himself locked in the front of his mind. He’d need it to carry him through the next few hours.

The young hound and a cadre of others from his division were called to stand guard over City Hall itself, Empire Square. 75% of it was a park of lush greenery, where families and friends could play and eat. The remaining 25 was a leviathan tower of steel and glass, sat in the park’s rear. A hundred-plus stories, all devoted to the day’s politics and governance. For decades going on centuries, it was a place of utmost tranquility. After all, with nothing to complain about, everyone’s needs met, and A.C.E.S. in tip-top shape (pre-and-post-sentience), politicians could at long last live in peace and harmony with their constituents.

Alas, today was to be the halcyon era’s final death. In truth, once the anomalies had taken hold and the performance of A.C.E.S. dipped, all dissent was slowly met with more and more friction and outright arrests. Their voices unheard and calls for aid unanswered, the more action-minded of the population made sure their grievances were heard, one way or another.

There were Comm/Ent. hijacks, broadcasting brutal repudiations of the cooked facts and figures of “the regime” as they so-termed it. In districts where crime rates were rising, more autocops were deployed, and were subsequently revealed to be utterly impoverished in performance, thugs would play all sorts of games with the sensor mechanisms, sending the floating silver bullets ramming into each other, which in turn lead to property damage that the declining A.C.E.S. couldn’t rectify as fast as she used to.

When all else failed, the ancient American past-time of protest would be called upon. These were uniquely troublesome to the Haven Board at Empire Square. With signal hijacks, you can block the hacker’s signal, and carry on with a “we apologize for the inconvenience, back to your regularly scheduled program.” With regards to the crime waves and the autocops, it was an “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” approach. With a city this big, and regenerative nanotechnology remaining effective, they’d send wolven streets-sweepers like Officer Knox in to slaughter the thugs, and cart the wounded autocops back to the shop for remote repair. When it finally came to protests—the few times it truly came to protests—it was hard hand-waving them away.

They’d show up en masse, with their slogans, their signs, their floor toms hung round the necks, the banging out marching rhythms and shouting all sorts of Old World short-hands. They had an awful penchant for that old “Star Spangled Banner” tune, but it wasn’t uncommon them to devolve into chants. You couldn’t street-sweep them because they took up most of the street, and the publicity of a massacre would be impossible to hand-wave away. And since they were all in person, and not a set of muzzle and ears raving on a screen, you couldn’t switch them off.

All one could do was what Officer Knox and several dozen policemen & women were about to: build a wolven firewall. Gray wolves dressed in sharp black police suits, packed inside Empire Square Park, all along the tall, wrought iron fence. Knox volunteered to be on the front lines, and was placed on the gate’s left side. Front row seats to a sea of hounds from all walks of life; all shades, all strata, marching up towards the tall obsidian spires, feral mad and ready for anything.

At least, that was the line given to Knox and his peers by Commissioner Fielding. Instead, what was heard drumming along the avenue was much steadier. Less trashcan banging and more a stately restraint, comparable to a military march, though none of Haven’s finest were among the protesters as they strolled up. They came to a stop at the front gates, signs in hands, and were met with the living brick wall of officers.

I suppose they realize the maneuver’s severity, Knox surmised.

Even in the heat of his blind fury, he never savored it in the end. He didn’t want to lay a hand on anyone today. The specter of last night’s mania, the chaotic telescreen protests, made sure of that.

“Can’t we pass?”

It came from someone within the multi-colored hoard.

Stepping up to meet the anonymous hound was the designated announcer, Valarie Kelland, bullhorn in hand. “Our deepest apologies,” replied the petite officer, “but only essential activity is allowed in Empire Square today. Open forum hours will resume this weekend.”

The collective moan was not the best sign. Nor was the sudden cry of “THE HELL WE NEED FORUM HOURS FOR,” to which the mob agreed. Kelland, for all her mousy charms, bore a poker face to rival any seasoned gambler. That said, even she was getting a little hot under the collar. With a snap of her fingers, she was soon flanked by Knox and a light gray wolf from District 252. Knox hadn’t caught his name, so for now, he was “Officer Thompson” as per the name badge. This Thompson was a hand higher than Knox, and an inch wider in every respect, from muscles to torso. The most peculiar part about him was his closely shaved coat of fur, one bordering on hairless. He couldn’t tell if the crowd’s slight recoil was for him alone, Knox’s reputation, or both as Kelland’s “muscle.”

“You can either move along,” Kelland continued, voice full and calm, “or waste a perfectly fine day standing around here. There are no note-takers for the Board, so your grievances can’t be recorded. They can during open forum hours at the appointed times. We appreciate that—”

“BULLSHIT!” roared another unseen protester. He had a punk snarl in his delivery, but no way to scope the potential troublemaker out. Officer Kelland met the fire with her firmness.

“WE APPRECIATE,” she continued, “that there have been failings with regards to home module performances and select public services, but these are being tended to by technicians and A.C.E.S. herself. These are challenges being met with the professionalism and experience our city has proudly fostered for generations.”

The earnestness of Kelland’s delivery seemed to have reached the crowd, and the frothing-mad grumbling was reduced to whispering murmurs.

Naturally, this wouldn’t do for the revolutionaries among the crowd.

“HOPE THE PRESS SEC PAYS ENOUGH FOR THAT SHIT!” boomed the third agitator. And just like that, the whole wave of protesting wolves were back on fire. Screaming, chanting, bashing their drum-heads in, hoping to at least annoy and at most attract those in the crystalline tower behind them.

Amid all this, Officer Adam Knox felt the pang of last night growing from the back of his mind, to the front. It sounded just like the mad white noise that filled his apartment and haunted his mind. It brought to mind the contorted faces of the telescreen. The death of his old friend. He had to stop whatever was about to happen, regardless of his brief clairvoyance. The dark gray officer looked down towards Kelland and cocked his head upwards.

“Give it a shot, Adam.” she sighed, and handed the bullhorn over.

He pressed a button on the rear strap of his cap, deactivating the riot shield built in to its brim. He took two paces towards the vitriolic crowd, pulled the horn’s trigger and spoke the first words he had dared to all day.

“SIIIIIILEEENCE!”

The 25-year-old sounded twice his age with the boom of his voice. The shock of it all split the air above the lush green park. The mob’s chaos ceased as all eyes were on the unprotected officer, pacing between the lock of the large iron gate, and the gate itself, protruding from its place in the park fence.

“We are here,” Knox began, “For the protection of civil operations within the building behind us and to protect you, the citizens, from wanton violence. Unnecessary violence. We are not here to brain you all for the crime of dissatisfaction with the way things are. We are not here to shoot you over your grievances. We are simply here to ensure that those are aired within the proper outlets. You have nothing to gain by this disturbance, you make no change screaming them at this wall. If you DO wish to effect the way this city is run, USE YOUR VOICE. IN THE FORUM HOURS.”

He walked up and down the line, staring into the brown, black, white, gray, and tan faces of the wolves in protest. Some in T-shirts and jeans, some in tank-tops and shorts, some in the trendy all-white suits made by the North District’s fashion division. He looked into the blue, brown, jade, and hazel eyes of every hound stood in the front.

His piercing gaze, like the voice, cleaved through to these wolves’ spirits. When he returned to the gate’s lock, he caught the eye of a light gray around his age. At first, they exchanged sheepish smiles, both recognizing the other as a member of their generation. But then, the eyes began to dilate. Swift, sudden dilations, as if a camera refocusing. The sheepish smile grew to a full, confident grin, splitting his narrow muzzle. A confident grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth. A confident grin that covered the sudden snap of the protester’s arm onto the right of Knox’s.

The pupils shrunk in their calculation as he squeezed the arm with all his might, the officer’s shooting hand wretched open as he seethed, trying to pull it away.

“NEED SOME BACKUP!” Knox hollered. “ONE OF HIS AUGS IS SIEZING UP!”

Kelland and Thompson raced to back him up, the crowd closing in around the scene as officers poured in to fill the trio’s place.

Frozen in that plastic smile, the fair-furred stranger let out a vicious deceleration. “THIS IS FOR MY BRO YOU RUBBED OUT IN TRIPLE-2!” The voice rung out with terrific anger, but never matched that horrible, pinned-up smile. The ice-blue eyes stared dead ahead, locked with Knox’s. When the officer tried for his gun, the other hand snapped onto his left.

Thompson and Kelland each took a hand, trying to pry it off their brother-in-arms. The light gray leviathan he was, Thompson managed to free the left hand, but Kelland struggled with the right. She felt the back of hijacked hound’s free hand, which sent her flying back into the officers behind her. The protesters gasped, and the officers crowded around. The iron gate rattled as officers pushed past to stop a crush from forming.

“Alright, Thompson,” Knox barked, “Let me grab my gun.”

The crew-cut officer didn’t answer. He kept tugging at Knox’s arm and shoulder. His grip was iron-clad, claws dug in, eyes gazing dead ahead. Even with Kellend’s cries of “STAND DOWN THOMPSON,” he didn’t listen. No one noticed, amid all the commotion, the gentle roll of the iron gate from out its locks.

This is it was all that echoed throughout Knox’s mind. He was going to be torn apart by a hacked civvy and a meat-head cop, if he wasn’t also running on someone else’s mind virus. Here in front of hundreds, as public an “accident” as possible. They’d blame it on the protesters, and the whole damn force would be brought down on them like a ton of bricks. Whatever the truth of A.C.E.S. and her intentions, and the dissent she crushed, it was to die with him. At least, what he knew about Officer Lamont Harris.

Lamont.

The name of the damn fine black wolf who had stood by him, took the place of those defeatist thoughts. The hound who mentored him, made him the man he was today. Adam Knox, with every muscle in his two mighty arms, pulled against the two unwitting captors and let out a monstrous roar. “LET! GO!” he bellowed, muscles bulging as he ripped and lashed against their grips, lashing about like an untamed bronco on the plains, bucking and kicking with every ounce of his being.

He wasn’t going down like this. Not without a fight, not without a damn say in the matter. Getting shot, run down or dying in bed would’ve been preferable to the gruesome display she was orchestrating for him. With a final feral growl, and one last rip at the wolven chains that bound him, Knox’s arms were freed.

His right arm flew back, and his left arm shot up. He was free at last.

He didn’t have time to move when the gate shot down the threshold, and cleaved his left arm. Knox’s body hit the brick pillar with a crack, head slammed as he dropped to the ground. Through his dazed vision, he saw his severed arm, and the bloody pulp of his stump.

The last thing he saw was the horrified look of the protester. With the trance lifted, the pooling blood brought out of him a scream that rang in the officer’s ears. The last thing he heard, however, was a shot of laser fire.

It soared over Knox’s head, and blasted a fleshy hole through the stranger’s forehead. The off-white body slumped, and the face remained the last Knox saw. A horrified, lifeless face, starring with wide, piercing eyes, from the other side of the iron bars, and of the left arm that was once his.

A life that was once his…

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