Ch 10 Moriarty's

Megaton! Hub of the Wastes! Town of a Thousand Stories! The Heart and Soul of the Capital!

Throughout history there have been cities whose names have evoked awe and wonder at the mere mention: Babylon, Rome, Athens, Beijing, New York, Tokyo, Mumbai; the list could go on and on depending on the perspective and culture of the admirer. Their size and eminence may have fluctuated widely throughout the period of their existence, from mere hundreds of dwelling places to megalopolises. Each though has some claim to an eternal fame; to have stood out as representative of the civilisation and zeitgeist which brought it to birth.

In its own way, at one of the lowest points in the cycle of human existence on the planet, Megaton perhaps deserved to stand amongst such company. If the Wasteland had a pulse, it was here that it beat most strongly and stubbornly. As Arta sought for Moriarty's, one of the most famous establishments in a famous town, she may have had some sense of being at the very axis of the world she had entered. But in truth, the intense excitement that she felt would probably have been aroused by the humblest and most obscure of the scattered enclaves of the former capital. For the first time she was encountering not just one, but a whole community of people different to those with whom she had been forced to live all her life; and it was making her giddy and almost faint. The sheer proximity of so many strangers, each with his or her own individual garment and style, so different to the uniformity of Vault citizens, was thrilling and overwhelming.

Thus her journey to the taverna, which should have taken a matter of minutes, was much prolonged as she took in the unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Here a malodorous drifter in rough animal hide and an antique crash helmet would rub shoulders with a steely-eyed mercenary in full combat armour, or a soft voiced trader haggle over stimpaks with a Wasteland surgeon in a blood-spattered vest. Double-headed brahmin emitted foul blasts of flatulence while carrion birds called and rode the thermals overhead.

Near the bomb, an attractive woman in a yellow jumpsuit was tending a food stall next to a sign marked The Brass Lantern, her light brown hair set in a style resembling Silver's.

Smiling warmly at Arta, she said, "I'm Jenny Stahl, and I'm sure we haven't met before."

Returning the compliment, Arta said, "I'm Arta, and I'm sure you're right."

Jenny continued to smile. "Can I maybe interest you in breakfast? I guarantee the most competitive prices in town."

Although Simms had recommended the place, Arta was uncertain. She was not keen to down yet more irradiated food. Perhaps she should first learn more about the best eateries from the local opinion.

Politely she answered, "Thank you, but I'm not hungry right now, and I'm on my way to Moriarty's. Maybe later."

Jenny's smile froze somewhat. "Sure, go there if you prefer drinks laced with the man's own piss!"

Arta asked, "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nothing! If you want good value food and drink, you know where to get it."

Before Arta could continue on her way, an elderly man with a grey beard and a kindly expression detained her in conversation. He wore simple, tattered clothing and was standing ankle deep in the pool next to the bomb. He spoke in gentle and mellow tones:

"Can it be, a new soul to receive the gift of division? Dear child, you are welcome, welcome to Megaton! I am Confessor Cromwell, prophet of Atom."

Must be one of the religious crazies the Sheriff talked about. She narrowly avoided stepping into the water, and regarded her pip boy with alarm. "Confessor, do you realise you're standing in a highly irradiated pool? I expect the bomb is causing it!"

"Indeed I do, and so it is, dear child. The waters bathe me in the Glow, and the 'bomb', as you call it, brings the promise of new life through holy division."

Arta listened while the Confessor explained his religion. She had had little interest in such concepts before. Her father had often repeated her mother Catherine's favourite Bible verse, which spoke of giving freely of the 'Waters of Life.' But as a scientist, he seemed to see religion only as a metaphor for something else, and she shared with him the view that religious stories were to be regarded in this symbolic light, rather than taken as serious evidence of the supernatural. She assumed that he valued the passage only because of its association with his dead wife.

The Church of Atom believed that the splitting of the atom somehow created two new universes every time it occurred, thus making radioactivity a good thing. It seemed strange and even ridiculous but, like many religious tenets, impossible to prove or disprove. However Arta could not help wondering whether the Confessor's own survival, considering his advanced age, was a kind of miracle in itself. Then again he could take the 'Radaway' Silver had mentioned, though this would be directly contrary to his professed beliefs. Perhaps it would be as well to extend the cynicism she had developed towards Vault affairs to the outside world and its religions.

She briefly considered accepting the Confessor's invitation to "Come to the Church anytime," taking into account she hadn't anywhere to stay. Eventually though she decided it wasn't worth the risk they might ask her to share in their lunatic desire to become irradiated. Cromwell seemed untroubled by her non-committal reply, and advised her to "Walk in the Glow."

By this time Arta was finding herself, rather than the Confessor or his sermon, to be the centre of attention. Several bystanders spoke to her, making it obvious that they knew of her Vault heritage. With a feeling of disappointed betrayal, Arta realised that for some reason Sheriff Simms had spread the rumour around town, despite her pleas to the contrary. The reactions she provoked ran the gamut from excited curiosity, to pretended indifference, to barely concealed suspicion and hostility. Some people also tried to sell her things she suspected were valueless. The feeling of being a kind of celebrity was exhilarating, yet also eventually something of an annoyance. She decided it was high time to move on to Moriarty's, and bade farewell to Confessor Cromwell.

He smiled beneficently. "Rays shower you, child!"

Nova applied fresh lipstick, and winced at the pain in her arm. The last client had been rougher than usual, but not so violent that she'd had no choice but to call for help. Or, even worse, use the last resort silenced pistol she kept under the bed. Moriarty expected her to put up with such things or deal with them, and most of the time she could handle customers verbally or sexually. Sometimes though she lost control; and then she had to balance present pain or danger with the beating she knew Moriarty would inflict, if he thought she had insufficient reason for upsetting a client and losing him money. Why couldn't the evil bastard die? If only one of the many people who hated him would kill him, very painfully. Nova frequently fantasized doing it herself, but knew that in reality the fear of retaliation from Moriarty's spider-like network of contacts would prevent her and most likely anyone else from trying. Even a brain-fucked junky like Silver had only run away, and she'd almost certainly come to a bad end.

And no one amongst Nova's clients, regular or passers through, had been willing and able, despite her considerable charms, to 'rescue' her, knowing as they did it would mean disposing of Moriarty first. Fortunately the handful that had even got so far as trying had died, shot down by Moriarty's own magnum, before they could reveal who'd put them up to it. Of course, Nova had been ready to apply the coup de grace to make sure they didn't.

Even Jericho … she sighed at the memory … had shrugged and then shaken his head.

Thump, thump, thump! That was Gob again, banging the radio in a futile attempt to get Galaxy News Radio to come through clear. Poor Gob, she thought. It never occurs to him to raise his voice to Moriarty, let alone try to kill him. And that damn station is one of the things that keeps him going.

From her usual seat near the door, Lucy West noticed Nova had descended the stairs, and gave her the kind of look that she'd become familiar with from people who weren't clients or potential clients: a mixture of sympathy, pity and contempt. I'm a whore, she thought bitterly. What should I expect?

Lucy said, "I heard in the town there's someone here that's just come out of a Vault. A young woman."

"From Vault 101?" Nova was interested and even excited, but the air of languor she cultivated so carefully didn't allow her to show it. And her sensitive radar had detected that she wasn't alone in paying attention to this news. From across the room, she felt the gaze of a pair of keen eyes from beneath a carefully preserved pre-war hat and elegant tortoiseshell glasses.

A funny guy, Burke, and not in any humourous way. Sits there in the corner most of the time smoking. Never speaks to staff except to order drinks. Only speaks to customers occasionally, and then always strangers. Has a house in Megaton that he obtained not long ago without any trouble or questions being asked. No one seems to know his first name. It's just "Mr Burke."

"That's the rumour." Lucy's clear blue eyes met Nova's challengingly, and her mouth twisted in wry amusement. "So let the freak show begin."

We pretend to be friends, but you don't really like me, do you Lucy? One of your reasons for hanging round here is so you can feel superior. I don't know what you did to get your big house; you may wear light merc armour but it's for style; you're not a fighter. I wonder whether you've ever had to use that pretty mouth of yours as I do in my line of work?

Nova drawled, "Well it's only a matter of time before she comes up here to see the famous saloon and the principal freaks."

Lucy began, "I didn't mean to imply …"

"I know exactly what you meant."

The younger blonde woman grimaced slightly, then carried on the conversation regardless. Nova only half listened. She had drifted off into another of her fantasies, involving Lucy and Jenny Stahl from The Brass Lantern. As the vast majority of Nova's clients were male, her own sexual interests were mainly lesbian, though this particular daydream was a kind of revenge on the two women for their privileged status in Megaton. In her position of relative powerlessness, it was some consolation that they couldn't stop her doing whatever she wanted with them in her head.

Jenny usually wore a dowdy jumpsuit, and acted rather like a prude, so it suited Nova to imagine that underneath it she had on the sexiest, naughtiest underwear one could find these days, the shameless hussy! Lucy, she decided, would do well enough with her present mercenary garb, except that the little slut would be 'going commando' with respect to undergarments. Having dressed her dolls, Nova mentally whisked them away to a favourite setting: the slaver pens of Paradise Falls, transforming herself and Lucy into big bad guards, and Jenny into their cowering captive.

Nova began Jenny's imaginary humiliation by setting her to work buffing their boots with her tongue, then made her stand on a chair to remove her jumpsuit, and reveal her shamefully risqué lingerie. While Lucy ripped off her underpants, Nova undid her bra, and the two of them were giving their full attention to Jenny's deliciously exposed and vulnerable naked form, when the saloon door swung … and the dream vanished like smoke.

That's her without a doubt. The look of a lost child, and the jumpsuit beneath the jacket. If she thinks she's going incognito, then she doesn't know this town.

And she's quite the lovely one! Not even twenty, I'll warrant. I wonder when she'll try to avail herself of my services. Most Vault escapees don't have the caps and die before they can get them. I make occasional exceptions, and for this one I might. Pity for her to go to waste on some jerk. Because she'll end up in somebody's bed pretty soon. They all do. Reaching for that crumb of comfort, that last flame to consume them before going out forever.

Even that scientist guy on some crazy mission wasn't able to resist …

The young woman observed the room carefully, in particular casting a puzzled glance in Burke's direction. Surprisingly he reacted by raising his hat ever so slightly, a curiously old-fashioned gesture. In response, she clasped her hands nervously in front of her.

Her gaze took in Lucy and Nova, then slid away. Seeming to sense the weight of expectation, she took a couple of strides towards the bar. Gob had disappeared into the backroom, but he was returning now, and Nova could guess what was coming.

I hope she doesn't upset him too much.

Arta's skin crawled as she saw a nightmarish creature emerging from a side room behind the bar. It looked much like the undead zombies in Grognak and the Legions of Darkness (Issue twenty). Its face was a horrifying mess of rotting flesh, in which two cloudy eyes stared like poached eggs in fry pan full of offal. A few tatters of black hair clung to its putrescent, earless scalp and shreds of skin flapped around its neck, revealing the vertebrae behind. She could see the exposed sinews of its arms and the musculature of each finger, although the rest of its wasted form was mercifully and bizarrely hidden beneath a tattered t-shirt and a pair of corded trousers.

Arta began to back away, her hand moving towards her weapon, until she realised she was the only person in the room reacting in this way, and that most of the patrons were watching with undisguised amusement.

Ignoring her for a moment, the apparition delivered a heavy thump to the radio on the bar, which continued to emit static. Then it spoke in a thick guttural tone:

"Morning, smoothskin. Is there anything I can get you?"

"Wh .. wh ..what are you …?" Arta gasped.

The zombie-like creature held up its hands protectively in an obvious gesture of fear.

"Don't hit me!" it pleaded.

Somewhat reassured by the creature's timidity, Arta examined it with fascination. Its resemblance to a walking corpse was uncanny, but it evidently lived and breathed in some way. Could it be a human suffering from some terrible, wasting disease?

Before she could speculate further, it spoke again. "I work here, you see. I'm not like the ferals. Mr Moriarty made me the barman. I know most people aren't used to ghouls that talk and serve them drinks."

Arta felt her head throbbing. So many new and different things had occurred, and here she was talking to a zombie … a ghoul, he had called himself. Another one of President Eden's 'enemies', she remembered.

Noticing the creature was still watching her apprehensively, and trying to ignore the faint smell of decay, she asked gently, "What happened to you? Are you ill?"

The creature nervously twitched its nose, or rather the skin remaining around the gap where its nose should have been. "Ill? You don't know about ghouls?"

"It's the radiation, hon." Arta turned at the sound of the languid, smooth as silk voice. The woman who had spoken was leaning casually against a wall not far from the bar. Her rich, velvety tones were heavily laden with sexuality, and her appearance was seductive and striking. She appeared to be in her late twenties to early thirties, retaining a good figure and possessed of a beauty enhanced by her maturity. Her red hair hung in close ringlets above well-drawn brows and pale features that were proudly defiant, as though issuing a challenge to the world.

The woman sauntered forward to inspect Arta with nonchalance. "You must be the girl out of the Vault." She held out a hand. "I'm Nova, and this … " indicating the ghoul "this is Gob. If you can get round his appearance, he's really quite a sweetie."

Arta noticed from the ghoul's posture that he seemed embarrassed by Nova's praise. She took the proffered hand, finding it smooth and a trifle cool, and holding it perhaps a little too long. The woman's grey-green eyes lit up with amusement, and her wide, sensual lips twitched upwards.

Arta found herself blushing, and after giving her own name, asked quickly, "You were saying something about Gob? Has he got radiation sickness?"

"Why don't you ask him? He can speak for himself."

Arta turned to Gob, who said rather awkwardly, "It ain't exactly sickness, Miss Arta. It's more like … a change. Some people exposed to radiation alter until they become like me. I ain't gonna die from it, and it doesn't hurt or make me feel ill. But because I look like a zombie, people get afraid or angry. Some shout at me or even hit me."

Arta said horrified, "That's awful! I mean, if it's not your fault …"

The ghoul shuffled uncomfortably. "I guess it's because of the ferals too."

"The ferals?"

"They're ghouls who've lost their minds and become savage. They mostly live in the old metro tunnels, and they kill and eat any humans they come across."

"Oh, I see." Arta wondered again about the strangeness of the world she had entered. "Well, don't worry Gob, I can tell you're not like them. I'd buy you a drink if I had any money."

The ghoul made a gesture of astonishment. "No one ever offers to buy me drinks. Except …" he looked a little shy "except Miss Nova sometimes." With a mixture of enthusiasm and caution, he added, "You can trade goods with me directly, and I'll give you the best discount I can. But don't let Mr Moriarty know about it or he may beat me."

Arta was shocked again. "He beats you?"

Gob shrugged, and Nova cut in, "That's just what the bastard is like. He treats Gob more like a slave sometimes. Maybe worse. He'd probably do the same to me more often, if he weren't worried about leaving marks on his prize asset. Instead he's got other ways to make my life miserable if I step out of line."

Confused Arta asked. "You work for him too? How are you a prize asset? What do you do?"

Nova gave her a look of amused tolerance. "I thought you might be able to work that out for yourself, hon'."

"She's the town whore."

Arta started, as a harsh voice spoke right behind her. She turned.

The man who confronted her was somewhat less than medium height, but powerfully built. Sweat sheened his balding head, and dripped from his dark, bristling beard. He had an exasperated look about him, as though everything he saw offended him, yet at the same time an air of cock-sureness, as if believing himself sufficient to handle whatever slings and arrows fortune might throw his way. His face had the aspect of a veteran: lined, sun-browned and world-weary, and his assault rifle and heavy combat armour showed signs of much use, modification and repair.

He stood almost nose to nose with Arta, so that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Irked by his disdainful expression, she stared back insolently, and for a few heartbeats their gazes locked one with another. Then the man bared his teeth in a grin that was the beginning of a short laugh, and with easy but irresistible strength thrust her aside. He made his way to the far end of the bar, and pulled up a stool. Seething with resentment at being manhandled, Arta turned back to Nova, who seemed unruffled.

"Jericho's a great one for calling a spade a spade – and he's called it right, that's what I do." Examining Arta's expression, she added, "You do know what a whore is, don't you, girlie?"

Feeling somewhat patronised by Nova, Arta said defensively, "I've read about them in books." She decided not to mention Silver.

"Well, there's a limit to what books can teach. That's something particularly true of my profession. And before you ask, its one hundred and twenty caps, upfront."

"I …I … wasn't going to ask!"

"Sure, hon', I believe you."

The man Nova had called Jericho was meanwhile sniggering. "She read about them in books! Listen to the educated lady! Wish I could've read them kinda books when I was a kid." There were several crude burst of laughter from around the tavern. The number of Megaton citizens crowding into the place, and their interest in the proceedings, was growing all the time.

Nova said reprovingly, "Give her a break, Jericho; she just got out of a Vault."

"No kidding? And there's me thinking she flew in from La La Land! Well tell her to stay out of my way. I hate them Vault arseholes." Jericho drew his stool closer to the bar, and signalled to Gob for service.

Arta was flushed from embarrassment and anger. She said heatedly, "I'm quite capable of looking after myself, and don't aim to get in the way of anyone, especially drunks with no manners." Turning back to the ghoul, she asked pointedly, "Gob, I'd like a glass of clean water please. I gave almost the last of my supply to some poor guy who seemed to have been left outside the town to die of thirst."

"I'm sorry, Miss Arta, I wish I could oblige you. But we mostly only serve beer and spirits."

From his bar stool nearby, Jericho gave a bark of laughter. "You did what? You gave that beggar pure water? Jesus, he must've thought Christmas came early!" He waved a hand dismissively. "Well, if you were hoping to get any more in Megaton, forget it."

Arta gave him a look of panicked incomprehension. "What are you talking about? Surely you must have more purified water?"

"Surely? Nothing! We're lucky most of the time if we get enough of the irradiated shit. The pipes are in that bad repair they're leaking constantly. Look, doll, the radiation's in everything here: in the water, in the food, in the dirt. You eat and drink it till you're sick. Then, if you can steal or trade any, you take Radaway. Or if you can't, you crawl away and die, like your friend out there's going to do, in spite of your …" his voice contained a snarl of contempt "misplaced altruism."

Arta said slowly, "No, that can't be true. There's got to be somewhere with decent stuff to eat and drink. Somewhere pure and clean." She looked round at the sceptical audience. "There has to be!"

Jericho's shoulders were shaking. He said, "Darlin', you just popped out of that hacienda! Maybe you should pop yourself right back in … before someone pops a cap into your screwed up little brain!" He guffawed loudly, most of the patrons joining in the mirth.

A trace of longing coming into his rasping voice, Gob mused quietly, "Hey, maybe she's right …"

"Shut up, Gob!" Nova's calm but authoritative tone instantly commanded the ghoul's silence. To Jericho, she said, "I thought you'd had your time tormenting innocent little girls."

"Hey, can't nobody crack a joke round here? And ain't it about time she knew the … " another chuckle "other facts of life?"

"She'll find 'em out soon enough without you fucking with her head." Then in a kinder tone, "Hon', Jericho here's acting like a class A arsehole, but he's telling you the truth. Pure food and water are as rare here as a newborn with teeth. You gave away what many would kill for."

Arta met Nova's sympathetic eyes. She looked sincere, but she had to be wrong or lying. No way was she eating and drinking any more irradiated crap - she'd die first. Her mouth formed the stubborn line which had often led to her father saying, 'There's Artemesia in that mood again, everybody duck and cover!'

Fixing Jericho with her hardest stare, she said, "I know it's out there. Else why did that poor bastard ask me for some? As for you, you big jerk-off, you probably don't have a large enough dick to squirt out a thimbleful of irradiated piss, let alone get yourself a decent woman who isn't a whore."

The bar rocked with laughter; Arta noted with satisfaction that neither Jericho nor Nova joined in, and thus her remarks had hit their intended targets.

Jericho drew his lips across his teeth. "I guess you think you're pretty clever, Miss Fancy Pants. Yeah, maybe somewhere that shit exists. But you sure as hell ain't gonna find it. Oh, you can talk to Moira at Craterside, and she'll tell you some moonshine like she always does to get clean arses like you to share in her craziness. You can even chat with nice Mr Burke over there. But you'll end up getting fucked, one way or another."

Arta asked Nova, "Just who is Burke? Why would he know anything?"

Nova gave her a tight smile. "If I knew anything about him, hon', I surely wouldn't want him to know it. After all, I'm just a whore." She turned on her heel, and walked up the rickety staircase.

Watching her go, Jericho said grinning, "Damn right you got on Nova's tits. Not wise to do so unless you paid for it. That mouth of yours'll probably get you killed sooner or later. I'm betting its sooner. Look girl, I been all over the Wastes, and I can tell you this. When you've slept among the corpses of your enemies so long you can smell to an hour how fresh they are, when you've pumped that much jet and psycho the shakes are rattling your teeth, when you've eaten Mirelurk meat so raw you can feel the rads hopping onto your tongue, then maybe, maybe you can call yourself a real Wastelander. See life out here ain't like in a Vault. You do certain things to survive or you ain't gonna make it through at all. You can bet your sweet arse on that." He downed the rest of his drink, and made for the saloon door. Apprising that the show was over, most of the customers eventually followed suit.

Arta was left at the bar with only Gob for company. She glanced across to the corner table, where the man with the glasses and the old-fashioned clothing Jericho had called Mr Burke still sat alone. But now he seemed to be looking at her in some disapproval, rather like a father whose daughter has taken up with disreputable company. Blowing out a cloud of smoke that obscured his features, he turned his face away.

Polishing a glass, Gob ventured, "You oughta be careful of Mr Jericho, Miss Arta. Miss Nova tells me he used to be a Raider." Looking at her sidelong, he added, "Nova's all right. If you're nice to her, she's nice to you. Well, mostly."

Arta said, "I'm sorry, Gob. I guess I shouldn't have upset her. I can tell you really like her." Gob put a hand to his cheek in embarrassment, dislodging a flake of flesh. Arta did her best to pretend she hadn't noticed. She asked, "What are Raiders?"

Gob shook his head. "Bad people," he said.

I've spent so much of my life without meeting anyone new. Yet for the moment, I'm glad to be left alone, or at least alone apart from this ghoul. However exciting socialising can be, I need time by myself, space to reflect on things. To consider what's happened, and what to do next. It seems like I'm no closer to achieving any of my goals.

Arta looked up, and saw Nova leaning on the balustrade of the upper level. When she saw she had Arta's attention, Nova placed a finger over her lips. Then she lowered the finger and crooked it in Arta's direction.

Gob muttered, "See ya, Miss Arta," and made no further comment.

Nova met her at the top of the stairs, and immediately took her hand firmly. Arta thought she could sense a barely perceptible tension in the grip of her fingers, and in the stillness of her face. Without speaking, the older woman led her to a door right of the stairs, which she unlocked. She drew Arta inside, and re-locked it.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a large bed as the main feature. Nova sat on it, and invited Arta to do the same.

What does she want of me? Arta sniffed the air. The odour was unmistakable. Does she want me … does she want us to …?

Nova continued to hold Arta's hand, and look closely into her eyes. And Arta suddenly realised: Nova was afraid.

Suddenly she began to speak. "Most people don't get to see this room without paying a lot of caps for the privilege. I've brought you here because it's the most private I can get without attracting attention. Not for the usual reason, you understand?" Arta nodded.

Nova continued: "I gather from what you've said that you're looking for some way to get clean food and drink. Well, you were right. There's a way to get things like that, but it involves having lots of money and influence. I can get you those, but only if you help me in return. Are you interested?"

Arta said, "Go on, I'm listening."

"Before I say anything more, I need to know whether you're able and willing to use that gun you carry. I assume it's not just for show?"

"I've used it. I've used it to shoot at people and things."

"Very well. What I want you to do is shoot and kill my employer, Colin Moriarty."

Once again I have to take issue with the Wiki dates, mostly with Jericho's which makes him about sixty. He ain't that much a veteran. Nova also seems like Silver in being more on the mature side than Wiki suggests (its the voice, and it is an amazingly sexy one).

Another interesting point is how familiar the citizens of Megaton might be with Vault escapees. Supposedly 101 was closed for at least the last twenty years, although I wouldn't even take that at face value. I mean how hard was it for a teenager to escape, even while security was actively searching for her? How much easier would it be for someone in authority (like James)? And wouldn't it be quite possible to 'fake' the death of such an escapee so no one noticed? (Perhaps a horrific accident with Andy's flamethrower).

Apart from that, there could be other Vaults which for some reason weren't listed (or had been erased) from the database in Vault Tec HQ, with a similar regime to 101. And Megaton would probably be a magnet for anyone trying to get out, as one of the safer places in the Wasteland.

Oh, and thanks to bbbb8484 for spotting my name typo, now corrected. Its the sort of thing that can slip through the net.