"My dear friends - members of the Enclave, fellow Americans - I console you in your time of grief. I beg you, look no further for your next move. I, President John Henry Eden, have maintained control these many years of a military installation near our glorious nation's old capital. Come. Join me here. Bring your families. Your weapons. Your aircraft. There's room for all! I will be waiting."
-Eden Transmission #1, AAF-Navarro (transcribed 9/7/42)
No one had ever told Arcade why he'd taken his first steps in a world saturated by grief. Not that he could remember, anyway. He just knew. The Oil Rig - or its absence - was a reality that shaped every aspect of his limited existence.
He had a mother who was perpetually sad and anxious. The mourner's Kaddish was his first lullaby, and the first recitation he learned to say back to her. It was normal for him to see smiles mixed with tears. He let her hold him too tight, keep him close even when he wanted to play, because he knew she needed the reassurance. From his earliest days, he learned to be the person that other people needed, sublimating his own wants for theirs.
He never knew any father other than the soldier who came home still carrying the tools of his trade, whose armor sat - eternally on the ready - in the corner of the tiny study where he retreated after dinner. Arcade loved him, knew that the world depended on his father's protection, but there was a cautious edge to that respect. Before bed on nights when his father was home, he'd creep into the sanctum sanctorum - as his mother called it for some reason - quiet as a mouse, just to sit at his feet and pretend to read the smallest of the difficult, dusty books from the shelf, a volume bound in red leather, with thick, creamy pages. That's a Latin grammar, his father told him once with a rare smile. Your great-great-great-grandfather's from before the War. You want to be a scholar when you grow up?
No, Arcade said stoutly. A soldier. Like you. But I'll still read. The big man laughed approvingly and Arcade felt he would burst with pride and happiness. He didn't have many moments like that in his life.
His grandparents, aunts, uncles, and all of the cousins he should have grown up with were dead - dead, his mother told him, because They hated us. Before he'd ever seen a map, before he knew just how much of a world there was beyond the walls of Navarro, Arcade knew that there was a terrible enemy out there. Knew that only his father's guns and Aunt Daisy's vertibird kept them from coming in here. He had never seen an Outsider and didn't want to, either. They were dirty, ignorant, mutated savages who didn't belong with real people like himself.
When he was barely four, an older playmate told him that there were cannibals in the wastes, using vivid detail to paint a picture, and for an entire year after that, Arcade woke up, screaming, from nightmares in which they were devouring him alive. Only his father could convince him - temporarily - that his fears were groundless; his mother's assurances never carried the same weight. He could see that she was afraid too, of something, and he assumed that it was the sharp teeth and slavering jaws of the cannibals that frightened her as well.
After his father died, all of that stopped. The nightmares continued - became much worse, in fact - but he stopped screaming for help by sheer force of will. He'd lie in bed, eyes shut tight, frozen in fear, refusing to surrender to terror. Lost in her own dreams now, his mother would not come to him. He was the man of the house now. He would become a soldier one day - as soon as he could - and protect her. Protect their world. Just like his father had.
She was hurting her son. Knew it but couldn't do a thing about it. She didn't need the doctor's pointed hints ("He needs to play outside more, Miriam") to know that it was her fault that he was nearsighted - and at the age of four! He needed glasses, but there were none to be had. Not for a child. The materials, the artisans, and all of the complicated infrastructure for producing such luxuries had gone up in flames, and there'd been little effort to rebuild in the years since. Every resource had been diverted to producing and repairing weapons for the war effort.
She'd been ready to be a mother, or had thought so, anyway. But alone in a strange place, far from her family, she'd barely managed to tread water for the first few months, hanging onto the hope of her own mother's visit. Then, her entire world had been pulled out from under her and it was all she could do to survive. Four years of struggling, and still she fell short.
Sometimes Miriam wished that she had been with her family when they died. Sometimes, especially that first year, she wished that she didn't have an infant who depended on her. Things would have been simpler then. She said nothing of this to anyone, fearing that they would lock her up for her own protection and Arcade's. She wouldn't have been the first driven to the brink. Everyone was in a state of shock, even people like her husband, who'd lost no relatives and few friends. One family - a man, a woman, and their two children - were found dead in their home a week after the explosion. The couple had chosen not to live in a world without the Oil Rig, and had made that decision for their son and daughter as well. Miriam was appalled at the crime, but deep down she understood their choice.
But she would never hurt Arcade, not even to protect him from the future. Or so she told herself. She carried him everywhere she went for the first year, setting him down only reluctantly, never letting him out of her sight. When he starting crawling, she put up barriers in their sitting room to make a safe place for him to explore. Nothing could be safe enough, she found. One afternoon, when he was nine months old, he found and swallowed a button before she could grab it from him; for weeks after the danger had passed, she refused to let him out of arm's reach. But when he began to walk - and, importantly, when he began to show signs of vitamin D deficiency - she knew she had to do more to keep him healthy. Had to take him outside.
She tried. Oh, she tried. Tried to translate the games of her own childhood for him, tried to imagine that the off-white picket fence framing their dust-bowl backyard was the reassuring walls of the playroom that she'd shared with her sisters. She helped him make mud pies, dig roads for his toy truck, and find bugs, and tried not to show him how terrified she was of having no ceiling but the bright blue sky. Her imagination showed her fallout raining down on him, settling on his bright blond curls. Worse than that, in her mind's eye, she saw the distant walls breached as enemies came storming in. Everywhere she looked, she saw disease and death for her baby. She never lasted more than an hour before she found she couldn't breathe for terror. The safety of being indoors was an illusion - the rational part of her mind knew this - but it was her only retreat all the same.
Only every other night - when her husband was home - could she feel something close to security. He might be distant and tired, but she knew he was trying to hold things together for the three of them. Every now and then, she saw a glimmer of the man she had married; in turn, she wondered if he still saw the woman he had fallen for in her.
Miriam didn't think very much about the mysterious invitation. Had heard about it, of course - everybody had within a few months - but she adopted her husband's line in rejecting it. It was too far a trip for too uncertain a goal. What if it was worse than this? It was better to stay here, as close as she could get to her lost childhood home.
The first time Israel heard about the voice on the airwaves, a month after the loss of the Oil Rig, he laughed. Bitterly. A trap. It had to be. Or a diversion - Maxson's army of techs could have bounced the signal around, making it appear to be from the distant east. Anything that drew off a significant portion of their forces, leaving Navarro vulnerable to attack, would be a win for their enemies. That alone made it a mistake to consider such a move. He refused to consider it seriously, and was thankful that the Enclave's depleted leadership appeared to be dismissing it as well. Chain of command aside, Colonel Autumn would have been no one's first choice for acting Commander-in-Chief, but he was at least a sensible tactician.
The second time it came up, a year or so later, it was from the lips of a friend - no, an acquaintance - and he sounded brashly hopeful. Leonard Carrington, a burly mechanic who thought more with his hands than his head, was an associate of convenience, not of preference. Their wives were friends, their sons playmates. That was the only connection they had.
He held his tongue in the circle of men and women, all of whom had come to the commissary to collect their family's ration box for the week and then lingered to talk. He listened to them. He tried to understand their perspective - they were afraid, scarred by loss (as they all were), and desperately wanted something or someone to save them from their predicament. But for anyone to believe - as Carrington so confidently asserted to his hangers-on - that this John Henry Eden was anything but a convenient fiction was naivety of the highest order. Still, it wasn't his place to try to dissuade people from finding hope in obscure signs; he would save his comments for when it mattered.
An opportunity for such discussion came in the spring of '47, just a few weeks before Arcade's fifth birthday. The radio signal had never stopped; the voice had made its appeal a dozen different ways, as patient and confident as ever. For the survivors at Navarro, the situation was growing desperate indeed, so few soldiers remained to them now. While they didn't lose many people, the losses they did suffer were devastating to morale and security. Twenty-four hours on, twenty-four hours off, and still they could barely adequately patrol their holdings, which had shrunk to Navarro and its immediately vicinity. Young people were moved into training two years earlier than usual; older ones were recalled from retirement if they were still fit for active duty.
There was one bright spot in all this: driven by necessity, only a month after the loss of the Oil Rig, the powers-that-be gave Ebenezer Johnson a full pardon along with permission to rejoin Judah Kreger's unit, making it a little less of a skeleton crew. Eb was thinner and quieter, but took great pleasure in becoming an "uncle" of sorts to Arcade, and Israel was glad of their renewed companionship, even if it wasn't the same as before.
Four and a half years into the fallout from the disaster, talk of the invitation arose again in earnest, on a formal level. Autumn had announced a town hall meeting of sorts, down in the below-ground assembly hall. It wasn't an open forum, exactly - though it professed democratic principles, the Enclave preferred to take a more authoritative approach when it came to weighty decisions - but Israel's rank earned him a seat in the room. Walking in, he spotted Judah at the far end of the room and took an empty place beside him. It had been only an hour since they'd disembarked outside of the hangar at the end of yet another long circuit around their perimeter.
"Long time no see," the captain murmured, hiding a yawn. "Did you have a chance to go home before you came here?"
"Briefly." They'd returned from patrol several hours later than expected. Miriam had been asleep when he went to drop off his gear, and shower. Arcade was already in their bed, which is where he ended up most nights after waking from his nightmares. The sight of the two of them had spurred his resolve to come to this meeting despite his exhaustion. His family deserved to have a representative here.
Judah was watching Autumn up on the dais, a frown creasing his stern face. "Dawn has had enough of this, especially when she heard that Nicholas would be drafted on his next birthday. She'd hop in a vertibird with the kids tomorrow if it meant an escape from all this. She was furious that she couldn't come tonight. David's not senior enough to be here either, but he wants to be a part of the delegation that leaves, if and when that happens. Says he's old enough to make his own decisions." He grinned, a little painfully. "There's a girl there, of course. She feels the same way."
Though the separations of rank had broken down somewhat in the past few years, it was unusual for the taciturn captain to confide in a junior officer. It was either this display of confidence or weariness that made Israel forget his reserve at last. "Leave? For what? Empty promises with no proof - turning tail like we're afraid of that rabble? They're not getting through our lines this year, or the next, or the next… why should we give up a sure thing for a pipe dream? Burn up the last of our fuel on the word of a stranger?" His voice was too loud, and people around them turned to look.
Judah looked at him side-eyed, surprised at his outburst. "I think you need to sleep, lieutenant. Maybe don't talk anymore tonight if it's going to come out like that."
"Yessir. Sorry, sir. We all do." He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes hard. He was tired. He'd spend the next twelve hours sleeping, and the precious time after that trying to be a father and a husband. Rinse and repeat. He was thirty-five, but felt much older. His schedule was a strain, of course, but not enough to account for his problem. His heaviest burden was one he didn't even understand.
What Judah didn't know - what nobody knew, though both Daisy and Miriam had pestered him about the change they saw in him - was that Israel had left a part of himself behind that day at Arroyo, now almost five years ago. Or maybe it was just that a passenger had crawled into his head - the strange old man, now long dead. It was as if the witch doctor's dying curse had infected the part of Israel's mind that had previously been cool, collected, and calm, leaving a harmful resonance that chipped away at his surety and sanity.
What made it worse was that he could consciously remember only a part of what the old shaman had said. The incomplete prophecy overlay his dreams:
"You have destroyed our homes, and thus you will lose both of yours. The cradle on the basin of tears, and the little refuge on its lip. You have killed… You have stolen children... Your son…"
What about my son? he asked the voice furiously, tossing and turning in bed until Miriam shook him awake, eyes wide as she asked him what was wrong.
He couldn't tell her. Part of it was because he really didn't know - when he tried to recall the specifics of his confrontation in the old man's jungle of a garden, he could recall only a grayish mist wrapped in dark green. And part of it was shame. He'd killed defenseless tribals that day - it hadn't been the first time, or the last - but the sequence of events had left a bad taste in his mouth. One side of him wanted to blame his friend for this. Eb's condemnation had forced Israel to confront himself, and what he found there he didn't like. They had never discussed that day, not even on the sniper's return, but it remained an unspoken barrier between them. One had done his duty, and the other had forsaken it, but Israel suspected he felt more shame than his friend did.
The long and short of it was that Israel was afraid. Felt that he'd already lost a battle that he had yet to fight, but was forced to go through the motions all the same. He wondered, in the quiet moments when he was alone, if the warning that he would lose his home compelled him to cling perversely to Navarro at all costs. That perhaps he could have listened to Eden's words with an open mind were it not for the goading voice in his head. This thought never lingered long. His motivations, desires, and commitments were his and his alone. He had to believe that.
He took Judah's advice and sat on his objections through the meeting, though he heard equally vociferous sentiments (on both sides) from men and women that looked as drawn and weary as he himself felt. In the end, little was decided, other than a new resolution that Autumn and the other leaders would begin submitting a series of questions to John Henry Eden for the first time. Up until this point, fearing a trap, they'd maintained radio silence for more than four years. Now, perhaps, it was worth learning more about the man who claimed to represent another lingering remnant of America's glory. Israel resolved to wait for the so-called president's answers and to bring a composed argument to the next meeting, one month from that day.
He would never have the chance.
Israel had fully intended to be home for Passover. Had made a rare special request months before that had - wonder of wonders - been granted. His off-day before the holiday was the happiest he could remember. Miriam actually sang as she prepared parts of the meal ahead of time, adapting the traditional recipes to their limited fare. Israel left the door to his study closed that afternoon, choosing instead to sit at the table and listen to his son practice reading the Seder questions aloud and helping with the pronunciation. That night, he and his wife made love for the first time in a very long time, and his sleep was for once undisturbed by spectral voices. He allowed himself to hope that they were finally coming to the end of a long tunnel, that whatever happened in the future, at least they'd be together.
His next shift passed quickly, aided by joyful expectation. Shortly before they were supposed to turn home, however, hours before his family expected him, their team received a priority message over the radio. A foot patrol had gone missing - a detachment of four, including David Kreger, Judah's older son. Daisy didn't wait for the order, but immediately turned their craft back to refuel. In the time that took, Israel sent a brief message to Miriam from the hangar terminal, conveying all the love and apologies he could fit into the textbox. Then they took to the air again and combed the wastes in a grid pattern, flying as low as they dared, until sundown left them with a quarter tank remaining. At that point, Daisy glanced back, a question in her eyes for the captain.
"One more hour," Judah said hoarsely. "Just one more hour, friends. Please."
It was Moreno who spotted it from his position on the right side of the craft. He pointed, calling out above the noise of the rotors, and soon they all saw where it lay, caught in the strobe pattern from their searchlights. It was a man, one of theirs by the clothing, limbs splayed out, armor stripped off and nowhere in sight. After a cautious survey of the area, Daisy set them down about twenty meters from the body.
Israel unbuckled his harness, but hesitated to take the lead. It was Judah's order to give. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. "Lieutenant…" Judah's voice was pleading. Israel didn't need him to spell it out. He wouldn't have wanted to be the one to identity his son's body either.
"I'll do it."
He made his approach, trusting his fellows to watch his back, but still keeping a wary eye out lest their enemies had gotten smarter. Their sensors had detected no advanced technology other than whatever gear the dead soldier still had on him and no heat signature larger than a mole-rat for a quarter-mile in any direction, but it was always possible the Brotherhood had acquired stealth technology. Not likely, but possible. It paid to be cautious.
The man was certainly dead, but the cause wasn't clear at a glance. Israel knelt to turn him over, needing to see his face, and in a moment - as Daisy, trying to be helpful, directed one of the vertibird lights in his direction - he had his answer: it was Judah's son, barely eighteen years old. Attackers - it could only have been the Brotherhood of Steel - had burned David with laser fire, leaving his torso a charred and blackened ruin. The grief Israel felt for his captain was deep and sincere, but it was immediately swept away by fear when a final piece of information clicked into place. The boy had been lying on a pulse mine - an electronic signature that their sensors had noticed, but which they had interpreted as a communications device - and it was rigged to go off at the slightest change of pressure. Even as he watched, the bulb on the top of the device blinked a rapid countdown too fast to be an actionable warning.
Still kneeling, he turned his head back toward the vertibird, dimly grateful that the others had hung back, far out of range of the EMP burst. He wished he could connect with another person one last time. To shout the news to Judah, perhaps. To offer his consolations. To say goodbye to Daisy and Eb. To ask that they pass on his love to his family. Most of all, he didn't want to see the deadly charge arc out and attach itself to his chestplate, blasting through his protections and overwhelming the delicate electricity of his heart. He struggled to come to terms with this abrupt and pointless end, but found he couldn't. The time had run out.
Last words. That's what people do, right? But he had nothing profound to say and no one close to hear it. He began anyway. "Miriam-"
Before a second word could pass his lips, there was a brilliant flash of light and then there was nothing, not even pain.