"The calculations must be wrong," Lantaya concluded for the fifth time in as many hours, staring at the holographic display in observation as if the force of her gaze would compel it to reveal the truth.
"Multiple iterations of our calculations have been run, and all agree that the Relay's projected location in relation to the others in the network should be here," the Wanderer countered, calmly altering the orientation of the observation deck hologram to get a better look at the other side of Pluto's surface. The holograms orange tint reflected strangely from the black lenses inset in his bionic eyes. They seemed to glow like soldering embers, completely at odds with his perpetually polite expression.
"I still think you made an error on the calculation to account for stellar drift."
"That calculation has been run several dozen times over the last month. The last four iterations are within acceptable margins of error, and they all agree on this location."
They looked at the hologram, then, as if she trusted her own eyes more than sophisticated shipboard scanners, she switched her attention to the observation port. An unremarkable ice dwarf, suspended in the void amidst a gaggle of smaller moons, orbiting like a swarm of wayward children around their mother.
Sighing, she returned to the terminal that Somah had rigged up for her on a trolley, resigning herself to another interminable period of pouring over formulas and factors. The Wanderer remained at the holographic display, hooked up to a radio receiver he had tuned to communicate with Somah and Sally, both invested in their own specific roles. "Sally, if you would kindly rotate the ship to the other side of Pluto. Somah, please set long range scanners on high-sensitivity and direct them at the surface. It is possible that the Relay was damaged and fell into Pluto's gravity well."
"It is a possibility," Lantaya admitted after a moments thought, "But I will still rerun our calculations again. The Mass Relay network was designed to be self-correcting, even in the face of severe planetary phenomena. I've never personally seen an instance of one crashing into a planet. The Protheans were masters at designing such structures."
The Wanderer, ensconced within his study of the display, took a moment to reply. His internal processers cleared a mountain of calculations, freeing up capacity for social commitments in the time it took Lantaya to log back into the command line in the RobCo interface.
"The more you divulge to me regarding these 'Protheans', the more I feel inclined to question. A galaxy spanning galactic empire, a system of faster-than-light gateways that not only allow travel to one side of the galaxy to another, but somehow rendered impervious to stellar drift or damage of any kind. Patrons of the arts, benevolent rulers…."
"Fuckin' spirits help me!"
Lantaya jumped out of her skin at the sudden cry. She looked up in time to see the Courier slap his hand of cards down on the table, running his hands through his grey locks with a look of near insanity on his features. "How are ye doin' this to me? How?!"
Paulson, who had lost a small fortune in caps to the supernaturally fortunate tribal, grinned in the background, a rare show of emotion from the usually stoic former ranch hand. He took a measured sip of a whiskey and nuka cocktail, savouring the cool lumps of ice. Justice was slow in coming, but by god, when it came it was best served cold. He was enjoying watching this more than he should.
"Ye think ye are so bloody smart, ya Oriental fecker," the Courier growled, "I'll have me caps back from ye if it's the last 'ting I do. Mark my words, 'fore the spirits!"
Toshio sat ramrod straight at the opposing end of their small table, his cold eyes meeting the Couriers without blinking, without flinching. As was his custom, he said absolutely nothing in reply to the man he was slowly driving into a hissing fury. He just selected a card and played a King of Hearts against one of the Couriers caravans, sending the tribal into a panic trying to find a Jack to play against it to unburden his caravan once more.
Words were uttered, that were not to be repeated in polite company. Lantaya looked away once her heart stopped pounding. "You're heart rate is elevated beyond the rate optimal for workflow. If you would prefer, we could reconvene at the bridge with Sally, or in weapons control with Somah?"
"No," she shook her head, concentrating on the calculations once more, "I find them soothing to listen to while I work. When the Courier is not one step away from murder, that is. You would not believe how much more I prefer your company to those of my own race. I find the human proclivity towards blunt speech and open displays of negative emotion markedly preferable to what I'm used to. Albeit, occasionally shocking. Or perhaps it is just a novelty response," she posited absently.
"Possibly. Though, we should probably avoid discussing this particular subject at the moment. My capacity on both processing and short-term memory is redlined. I would not be able to hold forth on the subject of sociology at the present moment without reducing my work speed below optimal margins."
Lantaya chuckled lightly, picking up her cup of now stone-cold coffee and draining off half of what remained in a single gulp. She had hers black as tar, and twice as viscus. The Courier, who had taught her how to brew the beverage, had praised her good taste after sampling her concoction of choice. No brahmin milk, no sweeteners, boiled until it no longer poured from the percolator, it went for a leisurely stroll. Elliott had commented that it reminded him too much of medical school and kept a wide birth.
Somah had tried to get her boyfriend to declare it a public health hazard, after accidentally taking a sip and spending the next two hours wilting as her heart played the xylophone on her ribs.
Paulson and the Courier loved it, though the rancher needed a shot of whiskey to bring himself back down again after a few swigs. The Courier on the other hand, drank it by the beaker and spent the next twenty-four-hour period chewing through the scenery, eyes popping out of his skull as they turned feral and bloodshot. He seemed to find this an amusing pastime.
"My dear Wanderer," she smiled companionably, "I am over three thousand, nine hundred years old. I think I could stand a short delay or two in my quest to return home, if I spent it discussing the social sciences with a member of an alien species. In fact, it sounds like an admirable distraction."
The Wanderer blinked, processes rearranging themselves as his digits rushed over his Pip-Boy screen as he automated some secondary scans to run in the background while he stepped away. He reached for the HAM radio set on his own trolley, flicking the transmitter on with a finger. "Somah, Sally. Lantaya and I are going to take a break to discuss other matters. I have queued several scans to run in the meantime; if you could both keep an eye on them and let me know if they require my attention, it would be greatly appreciated."
"Sure kid," Somah's voice crackled out, "Once you get back though, I'm taking my break to go see Elliott. Mama needs some honey."
The sound of Sally spraying a fizzy beverage of some description through her nose answered this statement, followed by a series of snorts, sneezes and coughs.
Somah guffawed with laughter, sounding for all the world like a demon through the crackling connection of the old HAM radio.
The Wanderer turned back to Lani, who was grinning. "I missed this. As you grow older as a Asari, your juniors stop treating you like one of their own. Your peers become pompous and stuffy. Those older than you are so lost in maintaining appearances, that they cease to be approachable. It was utterly maddening," she gesticulated passionately to punctuate her point, as the two of them sat down at the table next to the ongoing battle between Toshiro and the Courier.
"I take it this was part of the reason you left," the Wanderer prompted her.
"Indeed. I tried to live with it. I really did," she said, her voice taking on a wistful edge. "But I couldn't. Asari society is very social, albeit not much more than your own. But the collective guidelines that everyone must follow, the never-ending barrage of social stigmas, the ever-present strength of tradition. You are forced to play a game, but you despise the rules, and no-one is willing to change them."
"Oh sure lass, tell us 'bout your real thoughts on the subject," the Courier quipped, embroiled in a furious battle to draw a card small enough to bump up his caravan by the points necessary to nudge Toshiro out of his lead, without overburdening it.
"And I tried, you know. I tried to change the rules myself. I was one of the more outspoken critics of the prevailing social structure, in my time at least. I never believed that it would gain any traction, but before I left I had a substantial following…" She trailed off, shrugging.
"Just not enough," The Wanderer concluded, "What was the premise this criticism was based around, if I may ask?"
"You may. I doubt it would seem all that remarkable to one of your race. It is rather embarrassing for me, however. Even with my status as a Matriarch, I've always been leery of sharing my beliefs. There was always a voice, whispering to me in the back of my mind, saying," she dropped into a stage whisper, her face assuming a shrewish expression with her lips peeled back to add a lisp to her words, "The opinion of one socially stunted Matriarch isn't going to be taken seriously next to millennia's worth of treasured tradition."
She looked over at Paulson's bottle of whiskey and debated within herself if it were worth taking a few slugs of the liquid to drown some of the feelings that had started welling up around her heart. She had no idea why she felt like discussing this. She suspected that she had been wanting to for more than a week, subtly manoeuvring conversations in its direction. Humans were different than Asari. Perhaps just different enough that they would be able to see her point of view.
"I've always been slightly…" She tried to think of a word that would be somewhat less unflattering than what she normally used to describe herself in her own mind. As usual, she failed miserably. "…. Awkward, when it came to socialising with my peers. The expected social graces that are so universal in Asari society have always been anathema to me. I joined the huntresses to escape this, believing that a vocation that was only called upon to act when words and negotiation had failed would be perfect for me. And I was right. I loved being a huntress. You have no conception of how liberating it is, finally being allowed to solve a problem with brute force, after being trapped in a society that only allows you to use words to solve your problems. I felt so…alienated from those around me."
She laughed at this, finding it distinctly amusing that she would be speaking of social alienation with an actual alien.
"I never lacked in talent in other areas, just…. this one. So, that was my philosophy. A rejection of social niceties, of the incessant insistence upon mutual understanding, of society. To have the freedom to say that you despised someone, and not have your friends and peers immediately stage an intervention to reconcile the two of you. To maintain your sense of self and find dignity in that maintenance. Not to be so eager to have others understand you, because something of ourselves should be held sacrosanct, and to ourselves."
She looked between the Wanderer, and the other men at the next table who had slowed their game to listen. "As I say," she grimaced, now feeling slightly foolish to voice it all out loud, "I doubt this means much to you…"
"Tis a truth that we oftentimes degrade the things we ourselves 'ave no talent in," the Courier commented, laying down another card on the table. "A practical man will say the only things o' value in this world are trades and tools. The spiritual man, prayers an' sacrifices. Some lads worship art an' music. And they'll all o' them spend the rest o' their time malignin' the others for their foolishness. So who's to say who is right and who is wrong, save the spirits?"
The old tribal drew out a leather pouch of rolling papers, dried datura and tobacco leaf, that he deftly extracted and fashioned into a cigarette, licking the side into place before continuing, "Ye were right to leave. There's a different sort of spirit livin' 'side ye. You'd never 'ave been happy, acting like ye were somethin' you're not. Tis enough to kill a man from the inside out, livin' a lie."
Concluding his short speech, he looked aback at Toshiro, who had played another King on one of the Couriers caravans. Unfortunately for the tribal, this one move had been enough to break the tie and win Toshiro the game.
"Fuck," the Courier swore, the curse emerging in a cloud of smoke. "Best four outta five?"
"Careful partner," Paulson snickered, "You might end up losing all them caps you won off me."
"If I keep ye here long 'nough, I can win back me caps eventually. Mark my words," the Courier intoned, tapping the tabletop, and staring Toshiro full in his unblinking eyes. The Samurai wasn't daunted in the least.
"I wasn't maligning it because of envy, or some misplaced sense of resentment at the world for not conforming to my wishes," Lantaya ground out, somewhat irritated by the response. "I was maligning it because it was stupid and wrong. So there," she added, leaning into her appearance of petulance, knowing what she sounded like, and also not willing to concede the point because of it.
"Sure, ye can be stupid, an' still be right. And ye can be resentful o' the world, an' still be right. Truth ain't the privilege o' the virtuous. The wicked have their truth, their strength, and the ears o' their own spirits."
Lantaya pondered on this, as the Courier shuffled the deck and took his turn to deal the cards. "But if the wicked have their truth, then how are they still wicked?"
"Wicked is as wicked is, an' always has been, always will be. Wicked deeds have their point, and their purpose. I can do more with a war than most good men can do with a lifetime o' charity. And sure, I'm doin' wicked deeds. But wickedness is the point. You don't help yer enemies, ye hate them, and ye hurt them," the Courier balanced a playing card on his finger, and spun it with a flick of his wrist, grinning through the haze of tobacco smoke.
"And so too do wicked men have their point an' their purpose, doin' dark deeds in dark places at the biddin' o' dark spirits. Sure, you'd never send a diplomat to fight a war, would ye? And not for nothin', I've seen a right raft o' warriors sent to kill diplomats. Outta the two o' them, I'll give ye a guess which side it usually works out for. An' the first guess donna count. But as it applies to ye, lass," the Courier kept the playing card balanced as it spun to a stop and flipped it over to display one of the two jokers he kept in his deck, considering its appearance like an omen.
"Sure," he said, still looking at the card, "Maybe I'm actin' the maggot. I know nothin' o' yer people. Speakin' outta school, so I am. Me only advice Lani, find the spirits ye serve, and do it without reservations. Ye can't spend a life tryin' to be something you're not. No matter how long lived a life ye lead."
He went back to his cards, setting aside the joker and slipping it to the bottom of the deck.
Lantaya waited for him to say more, but he was now entirely engrossed once more in the game. She turned back to the Wanderer, finding his polite expression once more at odds with the serious nature of the previous conversation. "Her vital signs suggest that your words brought her satisfaction, I'm glad," the Wanderer chuckled slightly in the Courier's direction, despite being capable of feeling nothing of the sort. "Many humans find the Courier's brand of philosophy disconcerting."
"Indeed. Maybe I should be concerned that the most favourable benediction I have ever received of my philosophical stance comes from an alien cannibal," Lantaya mused, slightly tongue-in-cheek, "But I won't endeavour to lie and say I'm not pleased at finding people of an alike mind. No matter what walk-of-life they happen to spring from."
Before the conversation could take itself any further, the HAM radio on the trolley squawked. "Kid, scanners are picking up something. It's faint, but it's definitely there. And the scanners are yammering all kinds of nonsense at me in Zetan."
The Wanderer and Lantaya leapt up, knocking Paulson's whiskey bottle from the table with one sweep of the Asari's arm. She slowed her charge to reach back and try to save it before it shattered on the floor. Her grasping hand wrapped around the Courier's wrist, his hand having shot out like a striking snake to snatch the bottle from the air. Their eyes met, cobalt blue on steel grey. Inexplicably, Lantaya found herself very conscious of the time that had past since she last had a shower, and how terribly warm his skin felt. The slim patch of hair above his left eye quirked upwards and down several times, as a roguish expression of knowing smugness settled on his features.
Releasing her hold as if stung, she turned away quickly, feeling slightly feverish all of a sudden, a warmth spreading across her cheeks. She smelt datura smoke in the back of her throat, prompting her to clear it, loudly.
"What do we have, Somah?"
"One of your automated scans is picking up the signature Lani asked us to look for. It's even fainter than she said, but it's there. And the scanners don't like it kid. I don't know what the Zetan had against these Relays but pointing the scanners directly at them is throwing up a whole brahmin-load of warnings."
"Where?" The Wanderer and Lantaya asked, perfectly in sync with each other.
"It's Charon, Pluto's largest moon."
The Wanderer manipulated the holographic display like an orchestral pianist, tapping commands into his Pip-Boy with lightning precision. He rotated it several times, zooming in on the aforementioned moon. "Charon. Largest moon of Pluto. Mean radius of 600 kilometres. So named for the ferryman across the River Styx in Grecian mythos," the Wanderer parroted of his internal archives description, "Chauncy had a friend named Charon, did you know?"
Lantaya shook her head at the rhetorical question, too tied up in her feeling of satisfaction and joy and having found what they had spent the last month searching for.
"Sally," the Wanderer called out to the HAM receiver on the trolley, "Take us in closer. I'm not seeing where this signal is coming from. Somah, where on the surface of the moon is this signal originating?"
"You're not understanding me, kid. I mean it IS the moon. It's coming from two hundred-some kilometres directly underneath Charon's surface. Right in the middle of everything."
There was a clatter and a rumbling of boots as the three card playing humans vacated their table to come and look at the spectacle. Sally was already in the process of banking the Zeta around to bring the Observation Port into line-of-sight. They could practically hear the expectant silence from Sally's end of the radio connection. She was on the Bridge, and due to being situated on the very top of the Zeta's superstructure, she could not see what she pointed the Observation Port towards.
"Fascinating," the Wanderer commented, internal processors whirring like mad, busily beavering away at several issues at once. "It would make sense. Charon has so much mass that it's gravity well makes Pluto's orbit irregular. I guess we now know where all that mass comes from. This Mass Relay of yours is embedded within several millennia's worth of compacted stellar detritus."
"I've never seen a Mass Relay so obscured before. When we find them, they are almost always clear of obstructions." Lantaya stepped forward and reached towards the hologram, knowing that it displayed the beginning of her road home. What might be an inconceivably long journey. One that for all she knew, she might not survive. In other words, a familiar state of affairs. "You said to me, Chauncy Littlewood, that you were not sure if assisting me would be the correct course of action for your people. You agreed to help me search for a relay, but you have not yet given me an answer on whether or not you will allow me passage from your system of space. With this discovery, we now stand at the very precipice of your races future."
"Of this I am abundantly aware," the Wanderer said, in the voice of calm serenity available only to those without the capacity for emotion.
"You could jeopardise the safety of your entire species if you expose them to the galaxy at large. I learned to my detriment how dangerous it can be," Lantaya pushed, "Your race is small, barely capable of leaving your ravaged world. We could be fortunate, and chance upon my people first. But what of the Zetan? What of other races, that could already be flowing through the relay network in pursuit of land and resources."
"If I didn't know any better Ma'am," Paulson commented dryly, "I'd say you didn't want us to let you leave."
"I do," Lantaya replied, "But I am not blind or deaf to the realities of our situation. I was the one who travelled out into the vast expanse of space, satisfied with my decision, ready to accept whatever came. I am afraid of my future, it is true. But fear is no excuse for foolishness. Not in a Matriarch, by the goddess, not in a Matriarch."
She dropped her hand from the hologram, abruptly turning away from it's light. She hunched into herself, as if hiding from it, eyes screwed tight shut against the world around her, breathing deep, controlled breaths. The Wanderer eyed her, monitoring her vitals in case she was about to have some type of episode. Eventually, she spoke once more, and her voice held all the clarity and resolve of a women who had ventured into the unknown with steel in her soul, filled to bursting with piss and proverbial vinegar.
"If it is my fate to die here, never to see my home or people again, then I could think of worse places to die."
She opened her eyes and met the eyes of those present. Most particularly the Wanderer, as it was he who was the appointed captain of the vessel they were abord. None other could make the call.
"Whatever your decision is," she spoke in a perfectly dignified tone, "I will abide by your ruling."
All were silent, watching the Lone Wanderer, Lantaya most of all. She wished shoe could see the streams of code that rippled back and forth behind those coal black eyes. Wished she understood what sort of mind designed this being, and how it's decision making functioned. But he was a black box. Made to be utterly implacable and incomprehensible to any but itself, any but the Alpha. The Beginning and The End. A closed loop system.
It crossed its arms and looked between those present with its unnatural gaze.
"It would be wrong of use to decide the path of our species at the word of one man, or even via a committee. Very wrong indeed," the Wanderer stated, "But we don't have much choice. Humanity is fractured, nothing more than a loose collection of tribes, societies and factions that inhabit the wastelands, sometimes in competition with one another, sometimes at peace, sometimes embroiled in conflicts that only mean so little because they are nothing to what came before. I cannot calculate what each might do, how each might conceivably react to the knowledge of what we have discovered here today. Not with certainty."
He absentmindedly rotated the hologram of Charon, studying it from all angles as he tapped in commands and highlighted various cracks and caverns on the moons surface. Searching out structural weaknesses.
"But I for one," he turned back around and crossed his arms resolutely, "Do not think we have much of a choice. Humanity has already been discovered. The Zetan know of us, this much is certain. They had two ships here, full to the brim with test subjects, stolen property and records stretching back hundreds of years. If humanity is to have any chance of surviving in this rapidly expanding universe we find ourselves in, steps must be taken to venture out into the galaxy. To find and assess possible enemies and allies. Acquire technology and resources. To break new ground."
His gaze turned to the Courier, searching the tribals countenance for common understanding. "I would be interested to know your thoughts on this, Courier. Your support in this endeavour might be the difference between resounding success or catastrophic failure."
Attention shifted to the King of New Vegas, who cradled his bottle of whiskey like a new-born babe, still puffing on his cigarette. Smoke drifted around his person, hazing his expression in drifts of datura and tobacco scented whisps. What wasn't obscured by the smoke was hidden under his hair, long grey locks falling like a curtain on either side.
The Courier took one last puff of his roll before plucking it from between his lips and emptying his lungs of the smoke in a long string of smoke rings. In the wake of this, he took a pull from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Tales told o' young men who leave their people," he said, voice rough from the smoke and spirits, "Walkin' the road less travelled, to find an' kill monsters. To cut them up, take the pieces back to their tribe. To make the future from the flesh. That," he pointed to Charon in the Observation Port, "Is our road. An' if ever there be a man who delighted in killin' monsters, 'twas me. We're venturin' to the edge o' the map, were unsteady hands first scribed the words, 'Here there be monsters.' Yay or nay, say ye? Yay, say I. A thousand times, yay. What are the rest o' ye thinkin' then? Yay or nay? Does ye want to go on the mother o' all road trips?"
"Hell yeah we are," Sally hollered through the radio in youthful exuberance, "This is going to be so cool!"
Toshio nodded towards the Wanderer, a retainer to his master, willing to travel whatever road he was set upon.
Paulson nodded, resolute as ever.
Lantaya's heart swelled several sizes and felt for all the world like it would burst from her chest. Her dignity melted away, and she leapt forward and hugged both the Wanderer and the Courier in turn, beaming from ear to ear.
Unnoticed in the hubbub, Elliott entered with cup of coffee in one hand, took in the atmosphere in evident surprise, and then sighed heavily.
"I've missed something again, haven't I?"
No-one paid him any mind, so engrossed were they in Lantaya's obvious joy.
"Really have to stop leaving to get coffee," he grumbled.
Once the commotion had died down, and Lantaya had stumbled over numerous expressions of gratitude and approbation, and Elliott had been filled in by all present, they finally confronted the truth of the matter. It's heart and core.
"This is not going to be as easy as saying go, and going," the Wanderer chided all present, shooting the Courier a look, and receiving nothing but a cheeky and unrepentant grin in return. "Sure, ye need to keep morale high, don't ye?"
"Before we go any further, Matriarch Lantaya T'Rali," the Wanderer focused back on the alien, "We need to come to a concrete understanding. You are aware what risks we are running, undertaking this expedition. This 'Road Trip', as the Courier would have it."
She nodded, gravely.
"Then it is my duty to make sure you are also aware of the part you must play to uphold your end of the bargain. And a bargain it is, Matriarch. You have your own role to play. We are now partners in this endeavour. Do you agree?"
Again, she nodded her agreement.
"Then you will give your word, that whatever may come, you will keep the existence of our race a secret. The location of Earth, our capabilities, our identities, every single detail of what you may learn here, as it pertains to humanity and to Earth, you will retain in confidence. You will not breath a word of this, even to your own people. The time and place of humanities entrance onto the galactic stage, whatever the state of such a stage may be, will be left solely up to our discretion, and no other."
The Matriarch paused, knowing the weight such a promise could entail. And how hard it might be to keep, should things not turn out for the best.
"An' be makin' no mistake lass," the Courier joined in, walking up to stand by the Wanderer's side, "Ye scientific types don't lay much stock in Oaths. Ye might not think an Oath in sight o' the spirits holds any weight more than yer average word given. But even if ye don't believe in them, know that I am the voice o' my spirits. Any Oath given to them, before me, I will uphold. An' ye know how far I'm willin' to go, to punish those that cross me," he said, voice deathly calm. "That cross them."
For the first time in weeks, she felt memories not her own well up inside her mind. She allowed them entrance readily enough, and her eyes gazed once more into the past.
She was the Courier once more, and this time the experience was crystal clear, albeit missing context.
His calloused hands were wrapped in entrails, torn from the still moving body beneath him. Wrapped around the bodies neck, the guts stretched like rubber, choking the life from the recombinant form even as arms flapped weakly against the Couriers chest. She could feel the blood against her skin, as if it were really her own.
The Courier looked up just in time to see a human soldier in red and black armour be plucked back by a burst of gunfire. A figure strode past him, combat armour over desert camouflage. A red beret, emblazoned with words that she knew were there without even having to see. 'The last thing you never see.'
"Thankin' ye, Craig," the Courier mumbled through a mouthful of blood. Not his own.
A grunt came back, as the sniper emptied two precise shots into the back of a soldiers head, drilling right through the apricot, as all men who wore the red cap were trained. Craig turned back around, holding the marksman's carbine at the ready, the stock of another rifle, also desert camouflaged, poking over his shoulder. A cold, fierce expression, gazing in fascination at the man beneath the Courier's weight.
"So," the sniper spoke, anger hiding behind layers of glacial contempt, "This is him; Caesar."
The Courier cackled. She watched the drops of spittle mixed with brood that dripped from his mouth, seeping through the beard until it dropped onto his victims face. "This be he, alright."
She felt the Couriers arm raise and fall in slow motion. The first blow fractured the orbital bone, the second broke the cheekbone and split the eyeball wide like jelly. The arms stopped their ineffectual flapping, and dropped to the earth inside the tent, blood seeping into the ground to join that of the fabled Pretorian guard that lay like shattered husks of meat and bone.
The third and fourth blows were delivered with the elbows, staining the Courier's elite riot duster with gore, splitting the cheek so deeply that the shattered remains of teeth were clearly visible to all that watched. The last blow came not from the Courier, but from Craig, the sniper. His combat boot lashed out, collapsing the already compromised structure of the skull entirely. Grey matter seeped from between shards of bone, held together only by shreds of lacerated scalp.
"Thumbs down, you son of a bitch," the sniper stated, lips peeled back over snarling teeth.
"Aye," the Courier said, looking down on the unmoving corpse with evident satisfaction, "That should 'bout do it."
Blood dripped silently from his chin, making streaks of colour in his salt and pepper beard.
"The flesh o' kings," the Courier intoned, over the sounds of combat raging in the background. His head bent down to within an inch of the flesh beneath him, teeth reaching out eagerly for his prize. "Guessin' tha' makes me a king now, don't it da?"
The Courier froze in place, teeth poised to take a bite. It was now that Lantaya understood just how abnormal the Courier was. She could feel how his senses functioned, embedded within his own memories as she was, feeling the world around him, as he felt it. The taste of blood on the air, vibrations running through the ground, a whisper of cloth on skin. The Courier turned his head, slowly to the side, to look at a man in a dishevelled chequered suit bound in ropes.
"Well, goddamn," the man spoke past a split lip, grinning wryly at the man he'd shot, "You're a scrapper baby. They didn't stand a chance. How about me?"
Lantaya blinked, and her own eyes opened and closed. The Courier stared at her still, the Wanderer's face right next to his. They awaited her answer.
"Yes, I do," she replied, "And yes. I give my word. My Oath…" she hesitated, wondering if speaking in terms akin to the Couriers would be disrespectful, or false. In the end, she decide that even if she could not bring herself to believe in spirits, the Courier Oath was real enough for even the most fervent sceptic to be compelled into the usage of metaphysical language. "My Oath in front of your spirits. Humanities secret will never pass my lips, as long as I live."
The Courier nodded, leaning back, immediately satisfied by a few words that should hold no more weight than the breath spent to utter them. But in that moment, Lantaya felt as if she was bound up tighter within those words than in long lengths of steel chain.
The Wanderer studied her more closely, black eyes intensely focused. Then his polite smile returned, and he turned back to all assembled. "Splendid. She seems to be telling the truth. To business then."
The Courier clapped his palms together with relish, rubbing them together like a kid on Christmas. "Fuckin' road trip lads."
Sally could be heard celebrating through the radio, trying but failing to keep her jubilation to herself.
"The devil is in the details," the Wanderer stated to all present, "As with many things. The first order of business: Charon. We need to crack it open and extricate the Relay. Thoughts?"
"Well," Somah crackled through the radio from down in weapons control, where the main console for the shipboard scanners were located, "We have a honking great Death Ray down here, don't we? We blast it enough, eventually it'll crack open. I'm worried about the Relay though. We don't want to damage it."
Lantaya shook her head, monetarily forgetting that Somah wasn't there to see it. "No, the Mass Relays are virtually indestructible. You could fire mass accelerators at one all day and night and it wouldn't make a difference."
"Courier," the Wanderer prompted, "I recall you saying at one point that you were a demolitions expert for a number of years, when you still lived in Europe. If we can find natural fissures and cracks in Charon's crust, I believe that we could expose and widen them utilising the Zeta's main gun, then plant munitions to widen them further. If we take a more considered approach to this than simply blasting away without care, we can reduce the time spent accomplishing our ends substantially."
"S'truth, with enough munitions I can crack that fecker open like a hard-boiled egg. But I'll be needin' help. Six hundred kilometres in radius is a whole raft o' land to cover, 'specially in zero gravity."
"Robots," Somah volunteered over the radio. "We have a bunch the Zetan left behind. And Chauncy has a bunch too. The Zetan robots can function in space, and the ones we have I can modify for operations in vacuum. But the number we'd need," she sighed and clicked her tongue over the connection, running crude calculations in her head as she tried to work out the amount of time she'd need to accomplish such a task.
The Wanderer, for obvious reasons, finished the calculation first. "We would need help. Specialised help. I know two roboticists in the Capital Wastelands that owed my Creator a few favours. I can also trust them to remain silent. Although, they may be somewhat unpractised in the field of aerospace engineering. It is a sadly neglected field of study on Earth. I could familiarise myself with the core elements of course, but we could accelerate our timetable if we could source some subject matter experts…"
He simulated a sigh, "I'm loath to ask this, but is anyone here acquainted with some Hubologists? They are the only ones I know of with the inclination to study such fields."
"Kid," Somah's voice came out over the radio in an authoritative bark, "If you even think of asking those raving lunatics for help, I will shove a pulse grenade down your throat."
The Wanderer nodded gravely, "I understand. It was just a thought."
"I know a lad," the Courier said, offhandedly. "And he ain't a Hubologist neither. He an' I helped shoot a cult o' Ghouls up into space a while back. Some sort o' rocket scientist, solid man. A bit odd, but sure," he grinned, displaying his bright white teeth, "Which of us ain't, am I right?"
"And you can trust him to keep this confidential?"
"Sure, he ain't the social type. An' not for nothing, he might be able to put us in contact with those Ghouls, maybe get ourselves some astronauts into the bargain."
"Real astronauts? You said these Ghouls live for a considerable time," Lantaya questioned eagerly, "Did they receive their training as space pilots before your Great War?"
"Space pilots," the Courier guffawed with laughter, "No lass, these ain't no bloody space pilots. Spirits, they were a bunch o' religious fools who we launched off into the great beyond like feckin' bottle rockets. But if they survived, they'll 'ave more experience than most. Beggars can't be choosers, now can we?"
Lantaya blanched, wondering if she should reign back the humans and encourage a more slow and methodical approach. Unfortunately, both of the two main instigators were the type of people to skip straight over walking and learn to run during the marathon.
"So, we have a rough plan of action. I have several other small jobs that we can undertake at the same time. Paulson, Toshiro: I need you to gear up and teleport down to Earth. Make your way to Rivet City and contact our man. Fill him in on the details and tell him I need one of his teams. Professional men, used to operating out in the wastelands for extended periods with no support structure. He will know the best men to pick. Also tell him to find a list of people for me. I will write out the list and give it to you before you depart."
The rancher and the Samurai both nodded in understanding of the Wanderer's words and left the room to prepare, feet rumbling on the metal grating.
"Somah, continue on with the preparations to crack open Charon. Observe the scans I have set in motion to collect data on structural weaknesses we can exploit in the moons surface. Ready as many of the robotic workforce as you can. Run targeting data through the ships computers. Be productive. You know what to do."
"Aye, aye captain," the engineer acknowledged before cutting her connection.
"Elliott. I need you to go down to Cryobay again. I have a very specific Cryopod I need you to open. Don't worry," he said, cutting off Elliott's objection, "The occupant is not anyone dangerous. If you follow the reawakening procedures as arranged, you should be fine. Just in case, have Somah roll you out a pair of Guardian drones and a controller device. I will pass on the Cryopod number before I leave."
Elliott grimaced but nodded forlornly. "Okay Chauncy, I just hope you know what you're doing."
The medic went to leave but paused next to the Courier. He reached out and plucked the bottle of whiskey from the Wastelanders grasp without so much as a word. "Oi, that's my hooch ye bastard!"
Tercorien just looked the tribal in the eyes as he poured the last mouthful left into his coffee and placed the bottle back in the Couriers hand. "Trust me," Elliott said casually, "I'm a doctor. This stuff is bad for your health."
He took a deep swig of his coffee and sauntered out as if stealing alcohol from homicidal cannibals was a regular activity. "Ballsy fecker," the Courier grinned after him, "I think I'm startin' to like that man."
"Sally," the Wanderer addressed the Zeta's pilot through the radio, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to pull a rather long shift. You're the only pilot we have besides Somah and our best. Somah will be occupied for the foreseeable future. You'll need to pilot us back to Earth on the double to get Paulson and Toshiro groundside, hold the ship in orbit until I've performed a few duties on the planet's surface, then pilot the Zeta back to this station so that Somah can continue her work."
"Are you kidding me, I won't be able to sleep for days after this! We're going to explore space, Chauncy! This is awesome!"
"Do you need anything? Everyone is going to be occupied, and you might be stuck on the Bridge for a while."
"Ohh…sure, a sandwich and a Nuka Cola might be nice. Ohh, and your lawn chair! And a few comic to read. And my sleeping bag!"
"I will request Somah to send them up with a Guardian drone. Don't distract yourself too much. Keep your eyes on our course and your ears on the radio."
"Yeah, of course. I got you, man. No sweat," the nineteen your old pilot responded, confidently.
"And what of myself?" Lantaya enquired, "Will I be assigned a duty. I would very much like to assist your efforts."
"The Courier and myself are both heading down to Earths surface. We will collect this scientist of his first, and any other personnel he might see fit to collect as supernumeraries. Then we will teleport to the Capital Wastelands to contact my own selection of recruits."
"An' we could use an extra gunhand," the Courier finished his sentence blithely, "What 'cha say Lani? Want to see the sights while yer here?"
They felt the acceleration of the Zeta past the dampeners as Sally manoeuvred the captured alien mothership back towards Earth, banking sharply away from Charon so she could gaze out the Bridge window at the moon that concealed the gateway to the galaxy at large within itself.
Lantaya nodded, "I would. Though I'm woefully ill prepared for such a venture. What will I need to take with me?"
The Courier grinned with an almost sinful delight.
"Guns, Lani. Lotsa guns."