Knight's Honor Read online

  Knight's Honor

  CyberQuest Series

  Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011

  by Sigmund Brouwer

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to Michael Kooman, a perpetual villain on number eighteen.

  CyberQuest Terms

  Bodywrap — a sheet of cloth that serves as clothing.

  The Committee — a group of people dedicated to making the world a better place.

  mainside — any part of North America other than Old Newyork.

  Mini-Vidcam — a hidden video camera.

  Netphone — a public telephone with a computer keypad. For a minimum charge, users can send e-mail through the Internet.

  Old Newyork — the bombed-out island of Manhattan, transformed into a colony for convicts and the poorest of the poor.

  Technocrat — an upper-class person who can read, operate computers, and make much more money than a Welfaro.

  ’Tric shooter — an electric gun that fires enough voltage to stun its target.

  Vidtrans — a video transmitter.

  Vidwatch — a watch with a mini television screen.

  Waterman — a person who sells pure water.

  Welfaro — a person living in the slums of Old Newyork.

  The Great Water Wars

  In the year a.d. 2031 came the great Water Wars. The world’s population had tripled during the previous thirty years. Worldwide demand for fresh, unpolluted water grew so strong that countries fought for control of water supplies. The war was longer and worse than any of the previous world wars. When it ended, there was a new world government, called the World United. The government was set up to distribute water among the world’s countries and to prevent any future wars. But it took its control too far.

  World United began to see itself as allimportant. After all, it had complete control of the world’s limited water supplies. It began to make choices about who was “worthy” to receive water.

  Very few people dared to object when World United denied water to criminals, the poor, and others it saw as undesirable. People were afraid of losing their own water if they spoke up.

  One group, however, saw that the government’s actions were wrong. These people—Christians— dared to speak.

  They knew that only God should have control of their lives. They knew that they needed to stand up to the government for those who could not. Because of this, the government began to persecute the Christians and outlawed the Christian church. Some people gave up their beliefs to continue to receive an allotment of government water. Others refused and either joined underground churches or became hunted rebels, getting their water on the black market.

  In North America, only one place was safe for the rebel Christians. The island of Old Newyork. The bombings of the great Water Wars had destroyed much of it, and the government used the entire island as a prison. The government did not care who else fled to the slums of those ancient street canyons.

  Old Newyork grew in population. While most newcomers were criminals, some were these rebel Christians. Desperate for freedom, they entered this lion’s den of lawlessness.

  Limited water and supplies were sent from Mainside to Old Newyork, but some on Mainside said that any was too much to waste on the slums. When the issue came up at a World Senate meeting in 2049, it was decided that Old Newyork must be treated like a small country. It would have to provide something to the world in return for water and food.

  When this new law went into effect, two things happened in the economy of this giant slum.

  First, work gangs began stripping steel from the skyscrapers. Antipollution laws on Mainside made it expensive to manufacture new steel. Old steel, then, was traded for food and water.

  Second, when a certain Mainside business genius got caught evading taxes in 2053, he was sent to Old Newyork. There he quickly saw a new business opportunity—slave labor.

  Old Newyork was run by criminals and had no laws. Who was there to stop him from forcing people to work for him?

  Within a couple of years, the giant slum was filled with bosses who made men, women, and children work for almost no pay. They produced clothing on giant sewing machines and assembled cheap computer products. Even boys and girls as young as ten worked up to twelve hours a day.

  Christians in Old Newyork, of course, fought against this. But it was a battle the Christians lost over the years. Criminals and factory bosses used ruthless violence to control the slums.

  Christianity was forced to become an underground movement in the slums. Education, too, disappeared. As did any medical care.

  Into this world, Mok was born.

  BACKSTORY II

  old newyork, a.d. 2076.

  A few hours earlier, the old man had stepped into Old Newyork off the ferry from Mainside. Then it had been dark, with only scattered fires glowing in the night. Now, with dawn fully upon the slums, hazy sunlight gave thin shadows to weeds that sprouted in the cracks of buckled street pavement. Many of the abandoned buildings were black from long-past fires. And ahead, ancient skyscrapers filled the skyline. Their shattered windows showed broken-toothed gaps across the concrete faces.

  Few people walked the streets yet. Those who did either darted quick, hungry glances in all directions or kept their heads down. The choice was simple in Old Newyork. Hunt—or be hunted.

  Rotting garbage made the air sour. Occasional distant screams echoed through the street canyons, haunting the otherwise grim silence.

  It filled the old man with sadness. He had expected decay since his last sight of Old Newyork many years earlier, but nothing this bad.

  To return to Old Newyork, the old man had given up his name, his wealth, and his freedom. Less than twenty-four hours earlier—before he had stepped onto the steel ferry—he had been the single largest shareholder of Benjamin Rufus Holdings. The giant Internet corporation had assets in the billions.

  Mainside, his name—Benjamin Rufus—commanded respect and sometimes fear. It would mean nothing here in Old Newyork. Welfaros did not read newspapers or get daily newsclips on multivid screens.

  Mainside, his income was so great he could not hope to spend in a year the interest it earned in a single day. Here, where computer ID credit chips were worthless, the only currency he could carry was cash. He could not reach any of his wealth through bank machines or electronic transfers. In days or a week or a month, he would be as poor as any Welfaro. And have as little hope.

  Most costly of all was the freedom that Benjamin Rufus had given up by leaving his Mainside mansion and crossing the Hudson River. He knew that his ride on the ferry had been a one-way trip.

  As Benjamin Rufus walked and gazed at the horror of the slums, he fought despair. Dwelling on hopelessness would serve no purpose. He had much to do in the next days. So he squared his shoulders, forcing himself to pretend strength with every painful step.

  Shuffling shoe leather alerted Rufus to people behind him. He moved to the side of the street to let them pass. It was a family—father, mother, son, and daughter—all in ragged dark clothing. They huddled together in fright as they walked slowly toward the center of the slums.

  “Where will we stay tonight?” Rufus heard the boy ask. “What will we eat?”

  The family moved on before he heard the father’s reply.

  Benjamin Rufus pulled his long coat tighter around himself. He decided to follow them. He knew too well about the work gangs in Old Newyork. If this family had just stepped off the ferry, they, too, would soon find out how . . .

  Even before Rufus finished his thought, three men stepped into the street, blocking the family’s progress. The lead man—with dark greasy hair to his shoulders—carried a loaded crossbow. He pointed it at the father’s chest. The other
two—both shaved bald—carried spears made of knives strapped to short poles. All three wore black leather jackets and black leather pants.

  “Far enough,” the lead man grunted. He caught sight of Benjamin close behind the family. “You, old man, join this pitiful group.”

  Rufus stepped forward. The girl began to cry quietly. Her father put his arm around her. One of the bald men jabbed the father with his spear and forced him to move his arm.

  “You’ll be coming with us,” the leader said laughing. “We need you to work as slaves in our factories.”

  “Slaves? Factories?” The father’s voice was strained. “We did not come here to work as slaves.”

  The leader raised his crossbow to the father’s head. “Slaves. You’ll wear our tattoos and be our slaves.”

  Benjamin Rufus stepped through the small family and stood in front of the father. The leader pointed the crossbow at Benjamin’s neck.

  “Explain,” Rufus said, showing no fear. “Tattoos?”

  The leader laughed. Breath as horrid as sewer waste blew across Benjamin’s face. “You newbies are so dumb. You’re always surprised to learn that most people become slaves here. Like Old Newyork is actually going to be better than Mainside for people without money.”

  He turned his head to show a tattoo on his cheek. It was a crudely drawn scorpion. “See this? We mark you to make you one of ours. Stay in our territory, and you’re safe. You get food stamps as long as you keep working for us. We keep you safe from gangs in other territories.”

  “No,” the father said. “We’re here to get away from government control. We came here to live our own lives. We’ll make our own way.”

  The leader snorted. “That was your dream? Well it just ended. Here’s how it is in Old Newyork. Five gangs. Five territories. We found you first, you take our tattoo. Not many people make it without tattoos.”

  It had been years since Benjamin Rufus had needed to respond to a physical threat. But here, in Old Newyork, he was a world away from conference rooms and business deals. Here, in Old Newyork, he had to depend on the reactions of his old, illness-weakened body.

  Rufus uttered a silent prayer and pressed his right elbow against his side. It released a ’tric shooter from a strap attached to his forearm, hidden beneath the sleeve of his coat. The shooter slid down into his hand.

  With a calm smile, Rufus lifted his arm and pulled the trigger.

  An arc of blue light crossed between him and the leader. It hit the leader in the chest and froze him. Rufus snapped off two more quick shots, volting the spearman on the left and then the one on the right. All three stood rigid for a few more seconds, then fell.

  “’Tric shooter!” the boy said, his voice filled with awe.

  Rufus looked up and down the street to see if anyone else had noticed. It appeared safe.

  Rufus stooped and went through the pockets of the fallen men. He stood up holding folded sheets of food stamps. Rufus gave them all to the wide-eyed father.

  “Take these,” Rufus told him, “and the crossbow and spears. With the stamps and weapons and God’s grace, you’ll find a way to support yourselves before you get desperate enough for the factories.”

  He accepted their thanks and strode as quickly as he could toward the skyscraper street canyons. He did not have much time. His shooter would only be effective as long as it held its electrical charge. He couldn’t fight these human wolves forever.

  As he walked, Benjamin Rufus noticed the despair had been lifted from him. Helping this family had given faces to his goal. The children and the poor of Old Newyork were why he’d left Mainside, abandoning his name, money, and freedom.

  And these people were why Benjamin had left a secret Committee behind on Mainside to continue his work long after he died in Old Newyork.

  Chapter 1

  Mainside, a.d. 2096.

  On the tenth floor of a luxury high-rise on the other side of the river, a group of twelve men stood before a cot in a large room.

  On that cot lay Mok’s motionless body, draped with a sheet. Two nurses tended to the body. Monitor lines ran from the young man’s head to the computer. Other lines from various parts of his body ran to the life-support machine. The steady blip of his heartbeat echoed in the silence of the room.

  “Most of you have seen this young man on our vidscreen in the other room,” the man named Cambridge said. “I thought you should see him in real time, not virtual reality.”

  “I’m glad we had a chance to see this,” one Committee member said. “It makes him more real to us when we talk about him.”

  Some of the Committee members wore business suits. Others wore the latest fashions in training gear even though none actually went to the workout centers. All of them were in their forties or fifties. These were successful, commonsense men who did not need to wear the black silk togas of Technocrats to boost their egos.

  “As you can see,” Cambridge said to the whole group, “the monitors show that Mok is in no physical danger.”

  “And he has passed the first test,” another said. “He was not killed in the prison in Egypt.”

  “He also refused to kill an innocent man.”

  “An uneducated Welfaro,” a member marveled. “Yet he succeeded where all the others have failed.”

  “Good thing,” another said. “The others, at least, knew they were in cyberspace. They were able to yank themselves out before death struck. This one . . .”

  “Yes,” a doubting voice added. “This one really believes he is now in a castle. He has been cybered to the siege, has he not?”

  “Yes,” Cambridge said. “He is there, sleeping. You all know how the program works. He is in cyber-space. Around him, the characters and situations have been set up to respond to his decisions. Just as if everything were real.”

  “And he has a guide?”

  “Yes, someone to answer only the necessary questions. This is a test he must pass without help. He must make his own decisions.” For the first time, emotion crossed Cambridge’s face. Troubled emotion. “And let us pray he succeeds. You know as well as I do that if he dies in cyberspace, he’ll die here too. We have medtechs watching his progress on the vidscreens, but death in the castle could strike so quickly that . . .”

  A Committee member interrupted loudly, “Don’t pain yourself by bringing up this issue again. His psych-profile showed he would have accepted these risks had we given him the choice. After all, in Old Newyork he faced death at any time. Here, even with those risks, he is far safer. And his future far more promising. As it is, the test will be much more effective if he does not know he is in cyberspace.”

  Cambridge sighed. “Yes, I do keep telling myself that.”

  It was obvious Cambridge would never be at ease with the Committee’s decision. “Any other comments before we move back to the conference room?”

  “No question, but a prediction,” the doubter said. “We should prepare ourselves for failure. If the finest of our recruits couldn’t pass with all their knowledge and training, this one is doomed for certain.”

  “Wait before you pass judgment,” Cambridge said. A small smile crossed his face. “After we cybered him to the castle siege, he asked about the Galilee Man.”

  Understanding crossed the faces in front of him.

  “Yes,” Cambridge said. “Mok is searching through the ages for Christ.”

  Chapter 2

  CYBERSPACE——The holy land.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Mok awoke. He was half sitting, half leaning against one of the turret walls. He was confused by the quiet, persistent tapping sound. The noise worked into his bones. It seemed to come from the very stones of the castle.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Blake,” Mok said, “do you hear that?”

  The dwarf did not answer. Mok was not prepared to admit he liked the grumpy little man. Yet Mok knew no one else and had no other place to turn for help.

  “Blake? Blake?”

>   In the land of pharaohs, the little man with a bad temper had appeared from nowhere to offer unrequested advice to Mok. It figured that the first time Mok truly wanted the dwarf nearby, there would be no answer from him.

  Mok stood and opened his eyes wide, straining to see in the darkness. The dwarf who had been with him earlier had disappeared.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Mok wrapped himself in his coat and settled back against the wall. Running around in the dark to find Blake would do him little good. There was no sense in looking for trouble. Mok closed his eyes and waited for morning.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  No need to look for trouble, Mok repeated to himself with bitter humor. He fully believed that dawn would bring it to him.

  “Young sir,” a voice awakened him, “your father has called for you.”

  Mok blinked himself into wakefulness. He stood and faced the man. Earlier, Mok would have laughed at the strangeness. This man was dressed in metal armor of dull silver. On his head, he wore what looked like an upside-down bucket with a slit that revealed his eyes. On his feet, he wore iron shoes. Earlier, Mok would have decided it was another dream brought on by impure glo-glo water.

  No longer.

  He stood on a great castle wall overlooking hills so distant they faded blue against the early dawn. The land outside the castle walls was dark with massed soldiers. And the dwarf—before he’d disappeared—had told Mok these soldiers planned to take the castle and kill everyone inside.

  This was far beyond the dreams caused by glo-glo water in Old Newyork. Mok had been thrust into something beyond his understanding. He was finally prepared to admit it. All he could do was watch and wait and hope it might soon become clear.

  Because of that, he did not laugh at the man in front of him. Especially since the man carried a great sword on his belt. Instead, Mok waited for the man to speak. During the brief silence they shared, Mok heard the noise that had followed him into sleep.