XIII. Angel's Dawn
From Out The Past, Into The Future...
She stood there in the corridor, waiting for him as she always had. Her long white locks adorning her long white body, dressed in her favorite blouse and her soft, bleached jeans. She looked over his tired face slumped against the desk before pressing her snout against his.
“Another long night, Adam?” Angel smiled.
The dark gray wolf slowly came to and saw his dearly beloved with her head alongside his.
“How you doing, beautiful?” Knox grinned hazily. “Been ages.”
“Figured I’d want to pop in, make sure you’re doing alright. You been through a heap haven’t you?”
“God, more than you could know.” the scruffy gray sighed. He took her petite hand in his and pressed it to his cheek. “We’re licking ‘em, hun. We’re taking ‘em down right to hell.”
The general sat up to look at his fair lady, who popped a squat in his lap and spun the office chair around with a kick of her paw. “I know you got a lot, but I do go one thing I wanted to tell ya.”
“What’s that babe?” Knox asked between nips on her shoulder, neck, and cheek.
“It’s okay.”
Knox paused, and looked into Angel’s eyes.
“I mean it. It’s okay. You don’t gotta lose me to move on.”
The dark gray general cocked his head. “Whaddya mean, move on?”
“I know you like her. But you feel like you can’t get past me.”
Knox shook his head. “No, it’s not like that.”
“Baby, listen to me.” Angel sighed, sliding to the floor with her lover’s hand in hers. “I know it’s been hard. It’s been hard being away. But I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone. When that big beautiful V-Day comes, I want you with someone’s arms around you. I want to see you with a big ol’ brood of pups.”
Knox looked down at her before picking her back up and onto his lap. “Are you sure?”
“Yes I’m—”
“I mean it!” he barked. “Are you sure? I just...I just can’t do it. I wouldn’t cheat on you with nobody. No one, no how, no way—”
“Babe.” Angel cut off in her soft, tender voice. “I mean it. You don’t got to say the magic words about why I mean it. But I mean it. I want you to be happy. Do it for me, hun, will ya?”
Tears welled in the General’s eyes as he pulled his woman in tight one last time.
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”
With that, the General woke up. It was the last dream he would ever need.
Knox drove himself out to what he called “West Arlington” the next day, rocking one of the black leather jackets Godred left him. Sitting passenger-side was Captain Atlanta Westley. The red wolf donned her fringe-jacket best, one hand on the dark gray’s fist as it clung to the gearshift.
“Wreath’s in the back, right?” Knox asked softly, rasp light as a feather.
“All there,” Westley nodded. “A beautiful piece too.”
The Centurion Offensive’s 10th anniversary was months in the rear-view, but all the progress put paid to something he’d been meaning to do for ages. They arrived at the cemetery, rolled past the gates, and several rows in and two columns out was the wreath’s new home; a marble cross marked Lorraine “Angel” Knox. March 12, 2427 - May 14, 2466.
Captain Westley handed over the wreath, and Adam strolled out of his Cuda and towards the cross. He felt the wind whip around him, the scarce bushes of tall grass rustling in the breeze. He sat the lush green ring against the headstone, and rested his hand upon it. With a deep breath and a hushed “thank you,” he stood up and got back behind the wheel.
“Everything all—”
He stopped her cold with a kiss on the lips, muzzles locked for one mighty long second. The darksome gray looked up and thumbed the tender red wolf’s cheek.
“I never got to finish what I started before the Council Meeting. Getting shot’ll do it for ya. Last night, I got flashed my real green-light.”
Atlanta nuzzled the grizzled warrior’s nose before saying her piece.
“I’m just glad you’re still here. Not gonna lie; I think I know how you felt that day, all them years ago.”
“I honestly thought I was gonna join her that night.” Knox sighed, turning the engine over. “But they got other plans for me, it seems. Especially now that we’re back to just us and A.C.E.S. Besides...if I got to pick how I went out, I’d go the way she did. Flipping that bitch the bird with that pretty little smile and her foot flat down.”
Atlanta gave him another tender nip before cocking her head behind them. “Back to Base then?”
“Aye, Cap’n.” he chuckled, whipping the Cuda into gear and rocketing away from the cemetery. “Got some tinkering to do up at Am Base. Free to come with?”
“Are those General’s orders?” The wry look she gave told him everything.
“I suppose they aren’t. But they could be.”
Atlanta clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Let’s save it for tonight. I’d rather it be Captain and General on the clock. Unless you expect me to be all over you like Teddy on Gibson, sucking and jiving on the driving range.”
The wheezing laugh Knox let out could be heard for miles around as they raced back to Base. “Point taken. But right now, you’re my Atlanta. Least for the next 45 minutes while we’re on the road.”
“I think I can handle that.” the red wolf winked.
Knox kept his metal hand on the wheel, and the other wrapped around his woman. For her part, Atlanta stayed cozied up to him the whole drive. A much needed moment of total and utter peace, savored until they reached those iron walls, and the two composed themselves before entering.
They shared a parting kiss before Knox let her out, and bolted northward toward Am Base.
Waiting by the gate’s front doors, as was custom by now, was Chief Nic Ridgefield. The tall black engineer held a pair of keys in his great big mitts. The keys to something the General had kept under-wraps for ages.
“Morning sir,” Ridgefield nodded as the Cuda skidded into the parking lot.
“Morning, Chief.” the General saluted as he stepped out. “How is she?”
“Just how you left her, only a little prettier.”
The gray wolf raised an eyebrow. “No livery changes, I hope?”
“Nothin’ but a good round of polish,” Ridgefield chuckled, “and ol’ Eric Mann’s sealant. Didn’t want to spoil your work-shed fun, just wanted her service-ready.”
“Good.” Knox smiled. “I want to work her through to the bone and back.”
“Only question?” Ridgefield added. “What did you want for her call-sign? I know you took Angel’s off the table.”
The General stroked the scruff of his chin before answering. “Show me her, and I’ll pick one on the spot.”
The black-furred cowboy nodded and waved him on. They made their way through the bustling main floor, twice as busy as before. The men’s boots echoed through the firing ranges, the holding cells for old war machines like their modified M56 Scorpions and other hauls. Though it was out of the way, Nic led the General briefly over the catwalk where the Force’s hover-tanks were being developed.
“Figured we’d throw a bit of business on top of the pleasure.” Nic said, gesturing to the giant machines below. “How you liking them?”
“Cosmetics don’t mean shit unless they can’t shoot straight,” General Knox replied. “How’s that?”
“95% accuracy on long-range targets upwards of...woulda been five miles last I checked.”
“Now that’s more like it, Chief.” He gave Ridgefield a good firm handshake before waving him on to the garage where the project sat. And what a looker she was now.
Greeting those war-weary eyes was a pristine white 1966 Porsche 356. All curves from the length of her body to her soft round headlights. Not an ounce of chrome was out of place, not a tire that wasn’t tough enough to take the heat of battle. The ammo rack for the carguns was of a lower capacity, slimmed up thanks to the car’s two-door-rear-engine build. All the same, it was still a surplus of fully-charged, laser-capable cartridges, caged in a beast who could kiss 200 if she tried. Then came the final touch; the 5 and 6 of the side emblem were carefully swapped, marking the car as a “365.”
For a moment, Knox could only stand and stare. In the days when he wasn’t leading his soldiers into battle or tending to business, his time restoring this ancient machine brought the hardened soldier into a frenzied zen. Long late-nights, working and working until he fell down on the floor and picked up the job the next morning. Over and over until every strip of carpet, every sliver of chrome, every dial on the dashboard was perfect. He even had the rubber covers for the pedal assembly custom made. Most nights, however, were spent tweaking and tuning the engine. He worked that bitch to the block and back, finessing her until she looked, sounded and damn-well smelled like the original.
Just like Angel’s.
But as the General gazed upon the lovingly restored Speedster, something else stirred in him. Last night’s dream, today’s quiet vigil. Those two words echoing in his mind. Move on, move on.
When again prompted by Nic for a new call-sign and registry number for the ride, he was tempted to bring back its old numbers. Angel had wound up with 18.86, Geronimo. Fitting for the way she threw herself into the fray. But then came those two chanting words. Move on, move on.
“Check for 19.81,” Knox said, “put her down for R. Reagan. I got a feeling it’s gonna be morning in America real soon.”
“Yes-sir.” Nic nodded. “Shall I leave you two alone?”
The General snapped to attention at the remark. “I ain’t gonna go up her tailpipe you shit-heel!” he barked indignantly. “I wasn’t gazing at her THAT long, was I?”
“Sir, it’s been about five minutes straight of you zonked out looking at them dinner-plate headlights.”
Knox flicked his left wrist, looking down at his metal arm’s built-in clock. Sure enough, they’d gotten there by 10:10 and it was now quarter-after.
“Fair enough.” he shrugged. “Yeah, I’m gonna take her for a test drive. Radio’s tuned to HQ’s frequency?”
“Yes-sir.”
Knox gave Ridgefield one last handshake before jumping behind the wheel. “I’m off then. Let me know when that registration goes through.”
Nic hadn’t even made it to the threshold before the mighty flat-four fired up and sent the General roaring out of the garage and onto the test driving ranges.
Knox flung his denim jacket onto the passenger seat and whipped through the gears as he wrung every last drop of power from the machine. The engine’s scream, that fresh-burnt rubber smell as he drifted through the test track’s corners. He spent several laps burning old-school gas before switching to the hybrid-power system. The sports car smoothed out alright, but she still let out a barking rev with each kick of the gas. Slowly, the thinking-hound scowl faded, and a boyish grin took over as he relished in the sensation of it all.
It was on Lap 6 when he got the call.
“B. Frank to Test Drive.” came Nic over the radio. “Still working on the registry, and you might have to go for a different year on the ride serial. Looks like 19.81 is taken. We got bigger-n-badder news though. You got some action on your hands in the 3-Os.”
The General sighed before answering. “Test Drive to B. Frank. What’s happening in the Outpost network?”
“Outpost 336 is under attack. Got this bizarre claw grabber throttling away at the tower and coming down on the main building. Staff’s been evacuated, but it ain’t showing no sign of stopping.”
“Route me through to Captain Westley’s office,” he ordered. Once he was patched in, he put in his order. “I want one task force of Auto Corp, one of Moto. If Lieutenant Blanc’s available, make sure he’s in there. I’ll meet them at 342.”
“Yes sir.” Westley answered.
“God bless you, beautiful.” he grinned before hanging up. Without a second thought, he whipped the slender sports car off the tarmac and onto the sandy desert road. With his boot flat down, he was gonna give his new toy a real trial-by-fire.
The desert whipped past the dark gray hound in the blink of an eye, as did the outposts in the 100s, then the 200s. The short, robust shacks flew by like digits of Morse code against the crystal clear sky and the low hills off in the distance. It was only when those hills grew to their mountainous size that he knew he was finally in the 300s range. He was near Outpost 348, only a mile or two away from the rendezvous point. But even from that distance, he could make out their foe.
Lumbering its way northward towards the upper 300s was as bizarre a contraption as Knox had yet seen from Haven. Instead of her usual four-to-eight hover-engines, this bright yellow, Aztec-pyramid machine rolled along on ten large tires. Its two outstretched claws swung wildly at the gun tower and main building of Outpost 342.
“Knox in Test Drive to Task Force, come in!”
“C.C. to Test Drive.” Gibson kicked in over the radio. “I see it too, General. We got a standard issue task force. Five bikers, five drivers. What do you want us to do?”
“I’m one post up from the rendezvous point. I’ll be there in five seconds and we’re going to body tackle her from all sides.”
He swung a handbrake turn and whipped the Porsche towards the lumbering machine. As he drew nearer, he saw a figure rattling up the gun tower stairs, and leaping to the chain-gun was one of the stationed soldiers.
“EAT IT PUNK!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
He was a gray clad in punk-rock fatigues, late 20s as many outpost soldiers were. Even from hundreds of yards away, the camo-clad, jackboot wearing soldier bore a piercing glower as he set the chain-gun alight. Those ice-blue eyes stared daggers down his muzzle as he rained hell down on that yellow devil, pelting the machine’s monstrous body with everything he had.
At first, it was clear the fortified armor wasn’t going to give way, but the kid kept wailing away on it. Pass after pass, the young soldier wouldn’t give up the ghost. The pelting he dealt finally caught the contraption’s attention as it swung its massive barrels towards the gun tower, aimed squarely at the gray. He shot right down the enemy’s barrels, howling mad in his last stand.
And in an instant, he was gone. Eviscerated in a single, ruthless blast, the gun tower crumbling beneath the remains as the demolition machine rolled right over it and the main outpost building.
Knox had seen everything, and he was pissed. Kid should’ve known there wasn’t a chance in Hell against an foreign craft like that. He admired bravery in all his soldiers, but this seemed like the dumbest move to be made, the kind you’d expect a young brat to take.
The kind a certain white wolf in a Porsche took in 2466. Surrounded on all sides, with a hover-tank weak but her troops weaker, with only one last Hail Mary in her back pocket: herself.
The memories made a tornado of the General’s mind as he clung tight to the wheel and opened the engine wide. He growled from the pit of his gut as he readied the carguns. He flipped open the top of the gearshift and glowered savagely at that big red button.
When he looked up from the lever, he again saw the manic flailing of their enemy. When it turned to face the hounds coming up from the east, the broadside now fully in view, Knox realized just what the young gray had given them: a head start.
Not only had he started in on the metal plating, it was truly coming undone, plates and panels curling like cardboard after a storm. Even better, the showers kept coming as laser fire glittered in the distance, lighting into those armored sides. The cavalry were here; five cars, and five bikes. The tan Lieutenant Gibson Blanc led the pack, while the white Corporal Johnny Metcalfe set his Camaro on the offensive.
Knox’s fury turned to a savage grin, and with a press of the button, the Porsche carguns shot down beneath the chassis. He gave a final stomp on the gas, and the Speedster fired furiously into the over-sized bulldozer.
Metcalfe’s drivers joined the General in working on the wheels. It took them five solid minutes of biting into the rubber, but soon enough, the popping of a front left tire sent a domino effect cascading down the dirt blonde demolition machine.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Blanc led his four bikers in sweeps along both sides. The V-twins hammered away beneath him as his black motorcycle Exciter swerved around the enemy craft. With each pass, he could see the armor visibly deteriorating. But with each pass, the guns at the flat-top pyramid’s peak fired round after round upon the bikers. With a single clipping of his rear fender, a hound at the formation’s tail was sent flying away from the scene.
By now, Knox was in the thick of his ten-hound army, rattling the eye-sore of a Goliath with pass after pass. It was on its run-flats now, but running slower than before. And with its guns whipping around in a constant 360, the only danger it posed to the other outposts was collateral. But with the ten-foot holes left in the ground, collateral also meant one-shotting a fully-staffed outpost from miles away.
Knox slid the Porsche to a stop and started firing into the guns with his Smith & Wesson. He knew he should keep moving, but he wanted to get at least one off the table for the rest. It would take a hell of a long time, but that’s what he was here for. He aimed for the front left chain-gun, drawing its fire towards the Porsche. With quick shifts between forward and reverse, he kept dodging the laser-fire, the sports car dancing like a hostage in a cowboy film.
Dancing closer and closer to the fallen hellion, himself in the sights of the demolition machine’s rear left chain-gun.
“GENERAL!” Gibson bellowed. “HOUND DOWN AT 12’O CLOCK.”
“I KNOW!” Knox hollered back. He swung the Porsche in front of the soldier and kicked the passenger-side door over. “GET IN, SOLDIER, AND THAT’S AN ORDER!”
The wounded biker threw himself onto the floorboard, the car rocking as he was helped up by the General’s metal hand. When the door closed and Knox resumed firing, he looked over to see who it was. Bloodied, but unbroken with a Garand in his hand, he knew just the hellion he’d grabbed.
“Well if it ain’t Springfield, Mass Madigan.” the General hollered, bobbing and weaving the Porsche. “You doing alright?”
James Madigan, the 17-year-old still delirious from the crash, threw a thumbs up. “A-okay sir. It’s an honor to be riding shotgun for you.”
“Just don’t bleed all over the upholstery. That’s supposed to happen Week 2.”
He cut the tension just enough to bring the soldier’s spirits up as the two kept lighting into the left-hand guns on their mysterious monolith of destruction. A monolith whose final act of destruction was its own.
With a heightened whine and visible bending at its sides, Knox bellowed over the radio “STAND CLEAR” as everyone fled from the golden devil. They were all a few hundred yards out before a deafening BOOM rang out across the land. Metal plating shot out in all directions, the soldiers ducking and weaving as the blistering blue flames consumed its structure.
As the last of the plates fell to Earth, Knox hopped on the radio and hailed the Force’s salvage crew. He’d want to know just what the hell possessed Ace to cook up this bizarre machine, and why the Outpost network.
Within the hallowed halls of General Knox’s oak-paneled boardroom, Ridgefield went over his salvage team’s findings. Findings that made for quite the development.
“Their wrecking crew shtick hid this.” the black-furred cowboy began. He produced the charred remains of a black box. “This is a siphon circuit. No doubt Agent Steele’s had plenty to say about these based on his reports from Haven. It’s used to rapidly de-crypt and download all known data within its targets. In the city, this is what they shove into every lamp post, fence and security camera. It’s what reads your chip to make sure you’re all being good boys and girls. Out here, it latched onto the Force’s key radio frequency and started reading the peer-to-peer communications system.”
Ridgefield passed the charred brick along, the device trading hands from one member of Top Brass to another, right up until it reached Knox at the table’s head. The General ran a silver finger across its half-melted casing before sending it on.
“It knew it was dealing with Infantry territory,” Chief Ridgefield continued, “but I think it got greedy. It went from one Outpost to the next, expecting more and more to be revealed. And with its short-range, it went the slow route. It could crack us at lightning speed, but it was shoved into one slow-ass vessel.”
“Have we made any progress in reverse engineering it?” Knox pressed.
Ridgefield shook his head. “From Steele’s dossiers alone, no. But with enough of it still intact, we might now.”
“Make it Priority 1 for the tech labs in Am Base.” Knox ordered.
“Speaking of Steele,” Gibson piped up. “Any word from him?”
“None.” Knox replied. “Last log from Lita’s e-cable system was confirming his arrival and sorting out the destruction of the city border. When we get word, you’ll all be the first to know. With that, we’ve only one more matter of business. Thanks to Outpost 342 Commander Larson, we’ve ID’d the brave soul who valiantly gave his life in defense of the network and his cause. At 0900, Wednesday morning, I will be presenting the family of Howard Kenton with the Lion’s Heart. It’s the least we can do for the young man.”
The room fell to a reverential silence, the Force’s leaders bowing their heads in an unspoken prayer. When Knox lifted his, so did the rest.
“Keep him and his loved ones in your thoughts in the coming days. Meeting adjourned. Good night and godspeed.”
Slowly, the captains, commanders, and lieutenants all filed out. All save for Ridgefield, Gibson and Captain Westley. The black engineer was brief about his business.
“We got her in for R. Reagan.” Ridgefield nodded, “But we had to spring for 19.85 as her serial.”
“Well a landslide reelection ain’t a bad year to cop either.” Knox chuckled. “Thank you, Chief.” The two shook hands, and Ridgefield made his exit.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Gibson began, scratching at the back of his neck. “Where’d the new wheels come from?”
“Pet project, son.” Knox nodded. “Found a body in good nick, thought I’d bring her back to full-flower.”
“Like Angel’s?” he asked innocently.
The dark gray hound gave a solemn nod. “Yeah. Just like Angel’s. I ain’t gonna make her my daily driver, but as you can see, she’s fit for purpose.”
Captain Westley looked to Knox, worried. “Thought you said you were—”
“Oh don’t you take it like that now,” the General smiled, pulling her close. “You ain’t I, and I ain’t calling her Rebecca, alright? Besides, in this gig, I shoulda gone mad like ages ago. Shoulda lost it when I lost my left arm. Damn near did.”
It had just dawned on the two that Gibson hadn’t made aware of the relationship. The tan soldier looked upon the newly minted lovebirds bemused at first before a knowing smirk came to his slim muzzle.
“Well then.” he chuckled. “So that’s why she was your Number 2 to the Council.”
“Guilty as charged, guilty as sin.” Knox grinned. “Besides. Life’s too damn short to be living in the past the way I was.”
“Then why the Porsche?” Gibson quizzed.
“Because hers was a bad-ass motherfucker, and she plays good and hard on the battlefield. I even saved one of your pupils with her.”
The tan lieutenant bowed in deference. “Fair enough. If you got the time, Teddy and I are organizing a quick drag race tomorrow. Would love to see her when she ain’t saving my ass.”
“Bet,” Knox answered, shaking on it. With Gibson’s exit, that left Knox and Westley. The red captain wrapped her arms around her dark gray man before asking him a question.
“You sure? About this. About us?”
At first Knox grew flustered, just as he had with Nic’s quip. But when he looked into those gentle eyes, and thought back to those echoing pleas from the night before, he knew what she meant this time.
“Babe, I’m damn sure. Never been surer of anything else in my life, ‘cept winning this damn war.”
And with the way he took her into him and kissed her all over, she couldn’t take it any other way. As they held each other tight, Knox looked over her back to his office desk. Staring at him from across the room was a framed picture. One of him in a blue Hawaiian shirt and his lover from long ago.
“Thank you, darling. Thank you.”