The New Adventures of Richard Knight Read online

  THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2012 Pro Se Productions

  A Pro Se Press Publication and a Volume of the Pulp Obscura imprint

  Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

  The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  Edited by - Tommy Hancock

  Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions - Tommy Hancock

  Submissions Editor - Barry Reese

  Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Execuitive Officer - Fuller Bumpers

  Pro Se Productions, LLC

  133 1/2 Broad Street

  Batesville, AR, 72501

  870-834-4022

  [email protected]

  www.proseproductions.com

  “Flying Out of the Past: An Introduction” copyright © 2012 Tommy Hancock

  “Hell’s Hand” copyright © 2012 Joshua Reynolds

  “Richard Knight and the Stones of Heaven” copyright © 2012 Barry Reese

  “The Bapet” copyright © 2012 Terry Alexander

  “The Hostage Academy” copyright © 2012 I.A. Watson

  “Fear From Above” copyright © 2012 Frank Schildiner

  “Crimes of the Ancients” copyright © 2012 Adam Lance Garcia

  Front Cover Art by Mike Fyles

  Cover Format and Logos by Sean E. Ali

  Print Version Formatting by Matt Moring

  E-book Formatting by Russ Anderson

  The New Adventures of Richard Knight is a work of the PULP OBSCURA imprint

  PULP OBSCURA is an imprint of Pro Se Productions and is published in conjunction with titles from Altus Press, collecting the original adventures of lead characters featured in PULP OBSCURA titles.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FLYING OUT OF THE PAST: AN INTRODUCTION

  by Tommy Hancock

  HELL'S HAND

  by Josh Reynolds

  RICHARD KNIGHT AND THE STONES OF HEAVEN

  by Barry Reese

  THE BAPET

  by Terry Alexander

  THE HOSTAGE ACADEMY

  by I.A. Watson

  FEAR FROM ABOVE

  by Frank Schildiner

  CRIMES OF THE ANCIENTS

  by Adam Lance Garcia

  FLYING OUT OF THE PAST

  AN INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT AND PULP OBSCURA

  By Tommy Hancock

  There’s something to be said for nostalgia. For that feeling one gets when one hears, reads, sees, or remembers something from their past or even from before their own lifetime that sparks a feeling, a longing. A desire to not only recall a certain time or atmosphere, but to bring whatever about that era or event causes such strong reactions to bear today in some new, yet familiar way. Inspiration often rises from what has come before and although it sometimes goes nowhere except in that initial moment, occasionally it erupts phoenix-like from the ashes of work forgotten, blazing brightly and flying high into the hearts and minds of those who can take what has been relegated to the past and often forgotten and cast it as something viable for the present and destined to be remembered once more.

  That is Pulp Obscura.

  Altus Press, one of the finest purveyors in Pulp reprint collections as well as a company known for unearthing long lost jewels from the treasure trove that is Classic Pulp, and Pro Se Productions, one of the fastest growing and noted publishers of New Pulp, have found common ground between yesterday and tomorrow.

  The concept is simple. Between the two companies, a decision is made as to what characters Altus has produced collections of and is planning to release collections of that might qualify as obscure. That being, characters and stories that aren’t readily known to today’s reading public or even those who consider themselves moderate fans of Pulp fiction. Fantastic concepts that maybe only appeared in a handful of stories back in the yellow paper days of the Pulps or simply have not shuffled off the coils of antiquity to yet surface for modern readers. Once the character is determined to be rare enough to qualify, Altus puts together its reprint collection and Pro Se produces a collection of New Pulp tales featuring the characters in Altus’ collection. The books will then be released simultaneously.

  The first volume in this innovative line concerns the adventures of a rather unique member of the Aviator Pulp fraternity. Known in the intelligence community as Q, Richard Knight lives the life of a millionaire dilettante flyboy who spends his leisure time racing airplanes and living life to its fullest. In truth, he is a shrewd detective, an exceptional pilot, and a man who knows no fear, but brings justice and right everywhere he goes.

  Created by Donald Keyhoe, Richard Knight did not simply take on the run-of-the-mill enemy pilots and saboteurs other Aviator heroes did in the Pulps. He found himself exploring lost valleys, combating strange beings, and discovering occult secrets long lost to the world. This is no surprise coming from Keyhoe as he later became known as a leading writer in the UFO field.

  Knight also stood out in other ways, at least in the earliest stories that this collection is based around. He was not typically a ladies’ man, finding himself drawn to one particular woman. He also didn’t mind having a supporting cast around him, including his best pal and partner Larry Doyle and General Brett, Knight’s immediate superior. And although billed as and spending a lot of time in the cockpit, Knight was also just as at ease mixing it up on land and away from his precious Northrop.

  Tackling a character like Richard Knight, one that ended up having a lengthy history in the Pulps that will hopefully be reflected in future PULP OBSCURA volumes, is not a task that can be delegated to just any group of writers. The variety within the concept and Keyhoe’s original tales demanded that the six scribes brought to bear on this collection be as kaleidoscopic as the source material.

  All six authors in this collection are known writers in what many call the New Pulp Movement, but they all have their own distinct styles and definitely their own individual takes on Richard Knight. Some stick very much to the source material and reflect rousing tales that easily could have appeared in the original magazines alongside Keyhoe’s work. Others take Knight in directions slightly off the beaten path while still preserving the core of the character as presented in the Altus collection. Each one, however, presents a story with enough action, adventure, plot, and punch to make even the staunchest Pulp aficionado take notice.

  THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT is the first flight for PULP OBSCURA and this maiden voyage could be in no better hands than the people involved in bringing this wonderful hero to life once again.

  Tommy Hancock

  1/21/12

  HELL’S HAND

  by Josh Reynolds

  It was 1934 and the LZ 120 Skanderbeg slid through the night sky, trailing its reflection across the dark waters of the Atlantic. Then, a shadow fell across the top of the airship as something moved between the Skanderbeg and the moon overhead. The groan of strange motors filled the air. A moment later, a crimson bulk pierced the clouds that lingered in the upper atmosphere and a malign grin that was yards across leered down at the Skanderbeg as if in eager anticipation.

  Hell’s Hand, the Red Ship of the North Sea and the Terror of the Atlantic Skies. It had no identifiers or markings as such, but it had a face...a titanic, demonic leer that covered the front o
f the gasbag. It had been painted without subtlety or artistry. It was the scrawling of a madman or a bevy of paint-splattered apes and in its expression was every negative, primitive impulse of humanity.

  In that respect, it was merely an expression of its crew and captain. They had trawled the skies of the Channel, the Hebrides and the North Sea for weeks now and had added to the nightmares of pilots, fishermen and navigators alike. It slithered out of the black clouds like a red dragon, wreathed in flame and smoke.

  No one knew where they had come from or where they went. But when they struck, it was obvious where they’d been.

  A series of mechanical coughs sounded and mooring cables sliced through the night, hooking into place at varying points across the Skanderbeg’s airbag. Despite the strong ocean winds that coiled and lunged among the cables, a dozen figures shimmied down the lines with practiced ease. Beneath the moon’s idiot grin, these interlopers dropped to the surface of the bag and extended further cables, these semi-rigid to account for the lashing wind. The second set of cables slithered down the curve of the airbag and hooked in at points just above the Skanderbeg’s gondola.

  With an agility born of experience and grim necessity, the devil’s dozen began to descend, like men rappelling down a smooth cliff-face. Each man wore a tight-fitting, featureless hooded uniform of black and a military harness of stiff fabric. From the harness dangled the tools of their trade, glinting in the moonlight. One by one, they reached the top of the gondola, their footwear making no sound on the metal.

  At a signal from the leader of the expedition, one squatted and gripped the edge of the gondola’s roof just above a set of windows. With his other hand, he pulled a spider-legged canister off of his harness and then leaned over and attached it deftly to the window. The canister exploded a moment later and took the windows with it. Before the smoke had cleared, the men dropped inside. As one, they drew stubby pistols and the leader fired a burst out the window to catch the attention of those passengers unlucky enough to be in the Skanderbeg’s dining room at that moment.

  “Abandon all hope, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, letting the smoking barrel of the Steyr M1912 rest on his shoulder. His voice was muffled by the contortions of the mask he wore; it was a grotesque thing, like the face of a vampire bat by way of Bosch, carved in metal and plastic and as black as his uniform. His eleven companions wore similar masks, each one hideously unique.

  As the horrified passengers stared in shocked silence at the demonic invaders, two of the latter went to the dining room’s door, which led to the rest of the ‘A’ Deck. They took up places on either side, pistols ready. Somewhere on board the airship, an alarm bell was going off. Crewmen rushed toward the door and the gunmen met them with laughter and bullets as they painted the corridor with blood and bodies.

  “Abandon all hope,” the leader repeated as the echoes of gunfire faded. “And abandon your valuables while you are at it.” He gestured and the rest of his men began to move through the tables, checking wallets, passports and travel papers. He heard the rumble of another concussion canister going off to starboard and smiled beneath his mask. A second group of invaders was seeing to the lounge on the opposite side of the deck.

  “We’ll be done in a minute, Raum,” one of his companions said, stepping close to him.

  Raum grunted. “We still have to check the rest of the ship.”

  “Do we have time?” the other man said, his tone betraying a hint of nervousness.

  “Do you want to go back to Him without having done so, Shax?” Raum said quietly. Shax swallowed audibly beneath his mask and shook his head. Raum gestured to two of the others. “Vual, Bifrons, come with us. The rest of you, wait here.” Raum led the others to the door. “Report,” he said to the two men on the door.

  “Alarms, but we’ve got the crew pinned below decks,” one said.

  “Good,” Raum said, stepping out through the door and over the cooling bodies. Shax and the others followed suit. They all had their weapons at the ready as they split up and began to move down the two narrow corridors of sleeping compartments. Most passengers, unless they were sleeping or ill, would be out and about in the public areas or the smoking lounge on the lower deck. Raum checked the lock on a door and then kicked it open. Empty. He began to ransack it, pulling a thin nylon bag from within his suit. Money and jewelry was all that was allowed.

  Shax, checking another room, gave a cry. Raum hurried to join him. “What?” he said, entering the room, pistol raised. Shax was hunched over a suitcase. He turned and showed Raum an ornate box. Raum grabbed it out of his hand. “We are not here to loot the luggage, Shax,” he snarled. “Just grab the cash and sparklies.”

  “Why shouldn’t we snatch a few bits and bobs for ourselves?” Shax said, getting to his feet. “If we’re here after all...”

  “His orders were very clear, Shax, or do you fancy explaining yourself to Him?” Raum said darkly. He gestured toward the ceiling with his pistol and Shax shuddered. He looked at the box and then tossed it back into its suitcase with a sigh. The captain of the red ship did not tolerate dissent. He was, in fact, infamous for that.

  There was a thump from the wall. Shax ignored it, but Raum looked up sharply. “What was that?” he said.

  “Likely Vual or Bifrons filling their pockets,” Shax said bitingly.

  “Unlikely. They aren’t as foolish-or as greedy-as you,” Raum said, heading for the door. “Come on.”

  Bifrons was waiting for them in the corridor. He stood beside the stairwell leading down to the crew quarters. “I sealed the bulkhead to ‘B’ Deck,” he said. “But they’ll be through it in a few minutes. We’re running out of time, Raum.”

  “Is there any word from the others?” Raum said.

  Bifrons shook his head. “As quiet as the grave,” he said.

  “Say...where’s Vual?” Shax said.

  ***

  Richard Knight awoke in darkness. He rolled out of his cot a moment later, setting his feet into his shoes and retrieving the M1911 Colt hidden beneath his pillow. Briskly, he dressed, his mind assembling the facts his senses had brought him. He had heard an explosion. Alarms were going off below decks. The temperature in the cabin had dropped; that meant there was a window open-or smashed-somewhere close by.

  Knight felt neither panic nor anxiety. Such things had been beaten out of him by the life he’d led. Racing planes at high altitudes and higher speeds was a place and time where panic led to a messy death. And beyond his hobbies, the job of a freelance espionage agent wasn’t one for the faint of heart.

  As ‘Q’, he served the cause of justice, seeking out those who would threaten the peace and stability of the world. Often enough, that task led him into conflict with hard, dangerous men for whom war and slaughter were the holiest of hymns.

  He heard the thud of feet on the deck outside his door. Automatically, he checked the clip of the Colt, ejecting it into his hand and then sliding it back into place with a gentle swat of his palm. They were early. He hadn’t expected them until later.

  The raiders were becoming a nuisance along the Atlantic air routes, hijacking planes and airships alike with a degree of daring that would put any cinema swashbuckler to shame. Knight had to admit that for sheer theatricality, demon-masked pirates were a new one by him. He flipped open his suitcase to reveal a portable transmitter. Devised after much trial and error, it was good for altitudes and distances far in excess of the normal wireless sets.

  “Doyle?” he said softly, into the microphone. Larry Doyle, a former marine and Knight’s partner, was supposed to be shadowing the Skanderbeg from above in Knight’s specially modified Northrop. “Doyle, do you read me?”

  “I...ead yo...ick!” Doyle’s voice erupted in a spurt of static and Knight hurriedly turned the volume down.

  “I can’t talk, pal. The foxes are in the henhouse,” he said hurriedly. “Light a fire and come out swinging when I give the order. Until then, get a lock on them and keep out of sight, no matter wha
t.” Without waiting for a reply, he switched the device off and covered it back up. No sense in giving the game away if he could help it and he trusted Doyle to keep his head. He was many things, was Doyle, but foolhardy wasn’t one of them.

  Then Knight crept to the door and reached for the handle. It rattled before he could grip it and he jerked his hand back. He hesitated for a moment and then moved to the wall of the compartment. When the door opened, he was behind it, out of sight of the intruder. Cool-eyed, Knight surveyed the man who’d entered the compartment. His mind recorded the nylon harness with its myriad safety catches akin to the sort mountaineers wore, the black outfit, and the pistol holster. He elbowed the door shut and cocked the automatic.

  “Drop it,” Knight said. He didn’t expect the intruder to reply and he was proven correct a moment later. The man spun and Knight froze as he caught sight of the leering, demonic features. The paralysis only lasted a moment, but the man seized the advantage. A black-gloved hand chopped down on Knight’s wrist and sent the Colt clattering to the floor as a forearm rammed against his throat. Knight managed to slide his hand up between them at the last moment and his fingers dug into the meat of his attacker’s arm like steel hooks. Instinctively, Knight’s foot shot out, hooking his opponent’s ankle. He jerked back and the masked man fell back onto the cot with a grunt.

  Knight fell with him and jabbed stiffened fingertips into the hollow of his throat, cutting off his oxygen as well as any cry he might have made. The man jerked and gurgled and his hands flew to his throat. Knight jerked him around so that the demon-face was pressed to the cot and his arms slithered around the man’s neck and head. He jammed a knee into the small of the man’s back and then, with a shake of his shoulders, he broke his opponent’s neck. The man jerked once and then lay still.