Chapter Eleven
The long hours of dragged on slowly and almost painfully for Patrick. He had his Service rifle on his lap, ready to shoot at whoever might find him, if they were looking for him. His stomach growled at how he hadn't eaten since lunch time at Atwood, and his eyes tried to close, to remind Patrick he hadn't slept since the train ride from Winnipeg to Vault H, which felt like years, not the 24 or so hours it had been now. But he had to at least get to Red River America before he could rest.
He shook his head, partially to stay awake, but mostly at the incredulity of what just happened. Was he an outlaw now, after taking part in shooting and attacking a RAMP officer, no matter how corrupt he actually was? Or would it all blow over, and Sergeant Black would soon no longer be wearing that uniform?
In his tired daze, Patrick couldn't begin to guess.
Around 1 AM, he noticed a small object pointing out of the ground ahead of him in the pale moonlight. Patrick urged Demon closer before dismounting and, taking a few cautious steps in the darkness walked up, fumbling for his Pip-Boy Light, and shined it on the object ahead.
It was a small Obelisk, about three feet high, cracked and broken in some places, but still remarkably intact. The side he was looking at had "CANADA" etched in large letters, and on the opposite side was "UNITED STATES." On the other two sides were "INTERNATIONAL BOUNDARY" and "TREATY OF 1925."
Patrick looked at the marker for a long moment, and he could feel his heart began to pound, his face turned red in anger.
But… why? Why am I angry?
The question pierced into Patrick, and he stopped. Why was he suddenly angry at a stone marker? He shook his head. He was tired. He knew the answer: the old United States was evil, annexing Canada and dropping the nukes that ended the old world. Everyone knew that. He knew that.
How do you know that?
Another unbidden question. He was taught it. His teachers were always very aggressive about how the US was the aggressor, how they marched in and annexed old Canada before the War of 2077, and how they treated Canadians both before and after the Annexation, as little more than misguided children. The Radio, the Dominion Broadcast Service, always made the US and Americans the villains. And the American territories were a hot pocket of rebellion that just wouldn't stay down, as the news said. Even the books Patrick read that were printed soon after the Dominion was created was the same: mournful for old Canada, decrying how the long standing friendship between the two nations fell apart so quickly during the Resource Wars, but no less nationalistic about how Assiniboia would soon recover what had been lost to the US: it's patriotism, it's pride, it's strength.
But is Assiniboia really like that?
Patrick growled. He couldn't – or maybe shouldn't – dwell on it too much. His entire life, he had been told that the Dominion of Assiniboia was the best thing in the post-apocalyptic world. And, for all he knew then, it was: he went to school, there was an army and police force to keep the nation protected.
Where were they when Zach was taken? And the family destroyed?
Patrick growled again. Fine. It was the failure of the army and RAMP to keep the raiders out of Waskada that lead to Patrick now wandering in the dark south into the old USA. But that didn't mean that Assiniboia was wrong. Right?
How can you know that?
"Oh shut up!" Patrick swore at himself, making Demon's ears turn back, then give a soft nicker of tiredness and exhaustion. He wasn't doing so good going on all night like this, just like his rider. But Demon bent down and kept eating at the short, brown grass.
But the thoughts in the human's mind wouldn't be banished. In the past three weeks, Patrick had seen what Assiniboia really was, and it was a scary, terrifying reality that shattered his whole outlook when he was just a simple farmer. Assiniboia was a weird contradiction of Police State, Democracy, Autocracy and Anarchy, with a hint of Empire and nearly failed state thrown in. Was it because of the post-apocalyptic wasteland Assiniboia was perched in that required it to be like this?
Or is it the people that run the nation? The politicians, the bankers, the caravan owners, people like the Overseer and Sergeant Black, all trying to gain power at the expense of everyone else?
Patrick raised his hand to his face, groaning loudly. He told himself he would not think about this, yet here he was, talking to himself and trying to figure out all the world's ills. He already had enough problems to deal with: his brother kidnapped, his grandfather dead, his grandma injured by raiders, his nation on the brink of war and himself being dragged into it…
And what can you do about it?
Patrick stopped, and stared at the marker, the one that marked the border between two nations long since dead. He was bringing up issues bigger than himself.. What did it matter? It's not like he could stop a war between Assiniboia and the Brotherhood from breaking out. Hell, even if the Militia were drafted he most likely wouldn't make a huge difference in battles with hundreds, if not thousands, of other men and boys like him. He was just another grain of sand in the vast deserts way down south, blown about by the winds of fate.
So why are you here now? If you are nothing, why are you here?
Patrick turned away from the marker and back to Demon, but stopped mid-stride. Then he turned again, ran up to the stone marker and with a loud war cry kicked it with all his might.
"I. Am. Going. To. Find. My. Brother!" Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs, each words punctuated with another kick at the border marker. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop saying I can't!"
Despite the fragility of the outward appearance, the concrete marker barely budged from its spot. Patrick groaned and winced as his foot flared up in pain at the stupid move he just did.
But there was no smart remarks back in his mind. No inner doubt said anything. Maybe Patrick had scared it away. Or, more likely, it was biding it's time for when Patrick was again at his weakest.
Or maybe…
Patrick sighed, then limped back over to Demon, obliviously munching on some standing grass, and pulled off his sleeping bag. Might as well rest here for the night now, right next to a monument of a long gone world, and a reminder of how it all had changed.
The journey from the border to the town of Brahmin Crossing took the entire day, and Patrick was only reaching the town as the sun began to set again. When Patrick looked around, part of him knew it was a different land, but the differences were very small. The old road signs were in the shape of shields instead of rectangles, first of all. The old white and black route markers with a green "MANITOBA" scrawled on them he grew up with had been replaced by simple white metal shields with the number of the route. The highway he mostly followed was, according to the signs he saw, called an "Interstate," and the shield for that was blue and red, with a white 29 on it, marking it, at least if Patrick was correct, Interstate 29. But the old farms, cars and even the rusty barbed wire fences were virtually the same.
Brahmin Springs was a surprisingly large settlement: some of the buildings here were built out of wood and stones taken from the river, which made the town look nicer than most towns in Assiniboia that Patrick had been through. There were of course still buildings and home made out of any scrap metal one could find, but they were mostly on the outskirts of town as Patrick approached. But Brahmin Springs itself wasn't a pre-war town, so there was no ruins either, which made it rather unique as a town as well.
Patrick guided Demon down the interstate, before coming to a stop outside an old-world motel with some lights burning in the windows. Patrick dismounted from Demon, lead him to the trough of water outside and tied him up, which the sleipnir gratefully began to drink from. He pulled off his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, making sure all his guns were with him, before walking into the motel.
A young man with several days of light blonde stubble on his chin to match the long hair on his head was flipping through an old copy of Guns and Bullets, namely as they haven't made one since 2077. He looked up as he heard Patrick walk in.
"Can I help you?" he asked, annoyed at being interrupted from his magazine.
"Can I get a room?" Patrick asked back.
The young man answered almost before Patrick could finish. "No vacancy," he stated, turning back to his magazine.
Patrick was surprised at how the young man said that. "Is there another…?"
"No, there isn't another place you can get a room, you damn Assie," he spat out.
Patrick jerked back. "How…?"
"I can tell. All you damned Assie bastards make yourselves high and mighty, lording it over us because you conquered us. Why the hell don't you just go back to your pretty little country and leave us alone?"
Patrick stood there in shocked silence for a long moment. "I… I'm not like that," Patrick stammered out.
"Everyone says that, then the next moment they order us Americans around like we are your slaves. We aren't fucking slaves! We are free men, and we deserve to be treated as such!" the young man growled back, standing up, and letting the old magazine fall away to show that he was actually reading a cheaply printed pamphlet by the Organization for a Free Dakota, similar to the thing Patrick had read on his Pip-Boy earlier.
Patrick didn't say anything, only reached down into his pocket and pulling out his RAMP Auxiliary badge, and set it on the desk, facing the young man.
But the badge did its job. The young man immediately stiffened up, trying his best (and failing) at hiding the pamphlet. "I… uh…"
"Look," Patrick said, slipping his badge away. "I just want a place to sleep for tonight. Is that too much to ask for?"
The young man nodded nervously, before running to the wall behind him and grabbing a key. "Room 3A, just down the hall," he said, trying to force a smile.
Patrick didn't smile. "And can I have my sleipnir taken care of, please?"
"I'll get the livery stable to take care of him," the blonde man croaked.
Patrick started to walk to the door to the hall to his room. "Oh, and tell the man to be careful. Demon is a feisty thing."
Patrick turned around and continued on to the room he had finally been given. He opened it up, dumped his backpack on the floor, un-holstered his .44 and slipped it under his pillow. Swiftly undressing, Patrick then climbed into the bed and almost instantly fell asleep, though he was worried that he was going to not wake up the next morning should that young man suddenly lash out and decide to kill him.
But that didn't happen, and Patrick got a decent twelve hours of sleep. When Patrick came out to the main lobby the next morning, after washing up with the cold water in the basin in his room and wearing another change of clothes, he found an older blonde man sitting behind the desk, flipping through the same magazine as the young man last night, but this time was reading it and not the pamphlet. This older man looked to be the father of the rude kid from last night. He was a bit shorter, a bit thicker, and with a beard and mustache, the "Ol' Prospector" look that Patrick had seen on the men who had come from the Rockies to Melita.
"Excuse me," Patrick started, making the man turn around.
"Ah, you must have been the RAMP guy that came in last night," he said, chuckling. "I do apologize for my nephew. Carroll has it in his mind that Assiniboia are the bad guys. Of course, when you are 17, you are pretty quick to judge." He picked up the pamphlet. "Of course, many people older than 17 also think this is the Holy Word."
"What about you?" Patrick asked, sitting down in the chair across from the man.
The man chuckled. "I neither wholeheartedly support the Dominion, or stand against it. I'm a businessman first and foremost, and Assiniboia has provided the economic basis and security needed to allow me to be a businessman.
"And, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is William Kovak, but you can call me Bill." He offered a hand to Patrick, who took it, and introduced himself.
Bill Kovak turned out to be one of most successful businessmen in town, running not just the motel - which used to be a pre-war structure that the rest of the town was built around, apparently, - but also a restaurant, a general store, and a decent sized Brahmin herd that supplied a huge chunk of the region with fresh meat. He wasn't mayor, but Patrick was sure he had a bit of pull in the community.
"So, tell me Patrick, why are you down here? We have an RAMP detachment here, so I'm curious as to why an auxiliary is here?"
"I'm here on Dominion business," Patrick said. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could find the Great American Caravan Company?"
"The GACC?" Bill said, before leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, they have a small outpost to the west, but they don't trade here in Brahmin Springs or with any of the other trading caravans, mine included. They seemed more focused with moving goods from the south, beyond the Brotherhood front line, and heading it up North to Assiniboia. Have no idea how they manage to do that, but they aren't exactly willing to share how."
"Why is that an issue?"
"Because south of here is basically Grand Forks, then Fargo, then the land that the Brotherhood of Steel controls," Bill said. "And it's not like the Brotherhood is much interested in trading with Assiniboia right now."
Patrick scratched his chin. He needed a shave. "Interesting. I need to investigate that."
It was hard to tell through the thick hair on his head, but Bill's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then returned and looked over Patrick. "They aren't exactly welcoming of outsiders, you know."
"All the more reason I need to look into it."
Bill shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm not going to stop you. You would most likely know the danger, eh?"
Patrick nodded. "I know the dangers, but I need to do it."
"Well, their outpost is about 20 miles to the east. They have fancy robots and heavily armed guards, but a smart guy like you should be able to get in."
Patrick snorted, but didn't say anything. He had got in and out of some hard places already, so what was one more?
The GACC Outpost wasn't anything too fancy. A few of the big Corvega's and Highwaymen on their sides formed a perimeter around a few smaller buildings, one of which looked like an old-world barn that looked like some giant monster had taken huge bites out of it, and had been half-patched by old sheet metal and plywood that had been scavenged from some old town ruin. Outside of it were some robots, Protectron shambling back and forth, along with some robo-brains rumbling over the dusty ground.
Patrick was sitting on Demon on a ridge to the west, peering through binoculars that he bought from Bill Kovac in Brahmin Springs, trying to find a way into the camp. None of the robots seem to have noticed him, and Patrick made sure that he wouldn't step too close.
In the two hours he looked around, he hadn't found a way in, and hadn't seen a caravan come in or go out. He also hadn't seen anyone wander around the camp, which raised the question if the camp was evening being used anymore.
Eventually Patrick noticed one Protectron who wandered in a rather random pattern around the outpost, colliding with other robots, walking in zigzag lines before going in circles, before stopping and randomly firing at a random spot on the ground. The programming on it must have been faulty, but there was something about it: it managed to walk past the robots that maintained silent vigil at the gates. Patrick focused on the clunky machine, and noticed a red metal patch that was out of place on the front of the robot, similar to some of the other robots that were walking around. Patrick theorized that the metal device must have been a security card that would allow anyone that held it to walk in without a problem.
Patrick urged Demon to move closer to where that wayward Protectron was wandering, and pulled out his R91 assault rifle that he hadn't used since he got it at Waskada. He aimed down the iron sights, following the robot until he was sure it was out of range of the other protecting robots. Patrick pulled the trigger, and the gun barked out three shots, clanging off the metal. The robot shuddered to a stop, and the robot turned its upper-body to face where it was being shot from.
"Hostile threats detected, please stand by," the robot shouted in it's monotone, firing from its two arms as it started walking up the ridge toward Patrick, though most of the laser bolts failed to even come close to the sleipnir nor its rider. Demon still snorted and shuffled back and forth as the bolts of red energy shot towards them, but none were close.
Patrick fired three more shots, then three more, all of them clanging off the Protectron. Patrick grabbed Demon's reins and turned him around, and galloped him down the hill, then circled Demon around to appear behind the robot. Patrick pulled his rifle out again, and fired it some more, making the robot stumble again, struggling to figure out where it was being fired on. Patrick fired some more, before his assault rifle clicked empty. Patrick yanked out the curved clip, and reached into a ammo pocket and pulled another clip, and clicked it into place, before pulling the trigger and firing at the robot again.
"Target acquired!" the robot shouted again, firing it's three lasers. However Patrick continued to fire, this time nearly one handed, while he used the reins to wheel Demon around and around the robot as it continued to shoot it's lasers.
Eventually, after expending another clip, Patrick jumped off Demon when the robot was facing the wrong way, and used the butt of his gun to knock it down.
"Incapacitated: unable to continue," the Protectron stated after it fell down and was unable to get it's clunky body to stand up again. "Initiating self-destruction sequence."
Patrick gasped, before jumping back, just in time before the glass head of the robot exploded. Demon whinnied and reared up in shock as electronic bits and glass flew past. After a moment Patrick finally stood up and looked around, and saw that the destroyed robot was totally inert. He stood up and dusted himself off, and walked over, looking at the red chip attached to it. Patrick noticed it had some writing on it, and most of it had been painted over. What he could tell was that it was used as an identification chip, which made Patrick grin. It was exactly what he needed to sneak into the Great American Caravan Company.
Patrick mounted Demon again and rode on over to the outpost. Each robot that came close flashed its warning lights, but as it came close and managed to scan Patrick, it read the red identification card, and apologized in it's robotic manner, and carried on with it's programmed path.
"Identification please," the two Protectron's at the main gate chimed out at the same time. Patrick flashed the chip again, and after a moment both Protectron's glass domes blinked green. "Welcome to the Great American Caravan Company. Please enter."
Patrick grinned and carried on in. "That was remarkably easy..." he muttered to himself.
"Hold it right there, trespasser," a human voice shouted, making Patrick pull Demon to a snorting halt, and the Assiniboian grimace.
Patrick turned around to see a 50 some-year old man in a rugged set of clothes, holding a 10 mm pistol at him. "Alright you… what are you doing here?"
Patrick chewed his lip. "I'm here to trade with the Great American Caravan Company," he said.
"We don't trade with individuals," the man said, aiming his gun more securely. "Get off that sleipnir."
Patrick slowly climbed down, making sure his hands were visible at all times. When he climbed down, the GACC man came around and grabbed hold of Patrick's backpack, and quickly began to rummage through, pulling out Patrick's Service rifle, his 10 mm pistol, the R91 assault rifle that he used against the robot earlier, and his unused knives, as well as other food and medical supplies. The man grumbled, and tossed the backpack to the side. Patrick was thankful that the man hadn't noticed the .44 Magnum on his hip… yet.
"You have no goods that we would want to trade with anyway. So I'm going ask again," the man said, aiming the 10mm pistol again at Patrick's head. "Why are you here?"
Patrick took a deep breath. "I'm here on RAMP business," he said. "I'm just here to investigate some… irregularities that have been found up north."
"And what would those be?" the man said.
"Large payments to Vault H, and how supplies from your company ended up in the hands of gangs and criminals in Winnipeg," Patrick replied.
"The Great American Caravan Company does not trade with bad guys," the man replied. "So it must be someone else tarnishing our name."
"What name? I've never even heard of you guys until recently," Patrick said. "You don't trade with other towns, I've never even seen a caravan, or any supplies shipped by you."
"Because we don't nose into other people's business!" the man growled. "We move the supplies we are contracted to move, and that's that. Nothing flashy, nothing big, nothing wrong. Just business."
"Then how do you have the money to pay Vault H hundreds of thousands of pounds?" Patrick asked. "If you aren't trading that much, how can you make so much money?"
The man growled. "Enough! I oughta shoot you in the head and get rid of you right now."
"Fine, do it," Patrick said, making the man blink in surprise. "Shoot a member of the RAMP Auxiliary. In Assiniboian territory. In an area that, if I remember correctly, is still under martial law. The Army could easily brush aside those robots outside, considering that they must not have been in great shape to begin with. And then what will happen? I'd think you'd rather live than have to face not only the RAMP, but the Assiniboian Army too."
The man's hand was trembling, though from worry or from holding the gun upright for so long, Patrick didn't know. He finally lowered the pistol.
"There, was that so hard?" Patrick asked.
The man sighed. "Alright, look. The GACC was my company. I spent years down south, trading between different settlements, even got the robots to help me transport goods from place to place. I had a pretty good life. Until the Brotherhood of Steel took over my town in South Dakota, and basically made me work with them."
"What do you do?" Patrick asked, lowering his arms finally. "Also, what is your name?"
"Kevin Verman," the caravan man said. "It's my job to go across the border and take stuff from BoS suppliers up to Winnipeg."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. All the packages are specially sealed. In the event they are tampered with, explosives will destroy the contents. So I've never looked."
Patrick frowned. "Then the money paid to Vault H, where does that come from? And the computer supplies they make?"
"The money is all counterfeit. All of it was printed down in Brotherhood territory, and brought back up. They are indistinguishable from the actual Assiniboian Pound notes. That's how I paid Vault H. The computer parts all go back to the Brotherhood for… whatever they do with it."
Patrick took a deep breath. "That's… not good."
"Yeah, and if the BoS finds out that I just told you all this, I'm dead. You'll be dead too."
"I can take care of myself," Patrick said.
"And the Fist of Steel has killed almost anyone that their Elder has told them to kill," Kevin replied. "I'd recommend just leaving, and going back to where you came from."
Patrick shook his head. "I can't. But don't worry about me."
Kevin shrugged. "Your loss." He looked around. "Eitherway, I need to go. Maybe west. Gotta get out of here now. You better leave as well."
Kevin scurried away to a hut nearby, leaving Patrick standing in the middle of the packed earth courtyard.
Well, that was surprisingly easy to sort out, more or less. Patrick thought, walking over to get his backpack, wandered around the otherwise anti-climatically abandoned place to see if there was anything useful, and climbed back onto Demon when he was sure no one else was there he could talk to.
As Patrick and Demon left the outpost, Patrick began to think.
"If the Great American Caravan Company was a front for the Brotherhood of Steel, then why wasn't there Brotherhood soldiers or agents at the outpost to protect it?" he thought out loud. "Why was there only a single man at the camp? Shouldn't there be more people?"
"Very smart man, you are," a woman shouted at Patrick, only a few feet away. Patrick yanked on Demon's reins, pulling the sleipnir to a halt.
Patrick looked over to see a woman in a ragged robe with bits of metal attached and dangling from her clothes. Despite the appearance of a ragged and dirty vagabond, she held herself with a dignity and grace that bespoke someone higher than she was imitating. And the large laser pistol in her hand didn't help things either.
"And you are just the guy I wanted to talk to." She chuckled, walking closer to Patrick. "Come on, come on, I won't shoot you. I just want to talk."
"How can I trust you after you pulled a gun on me?" Patrick asked, his own hand reaching for his .44 Magnum.
"To be fair, you can't," she said. "But I've been meaning to find you anyway, so why don't you come down and we can talk?"
Patrick looked at the woman for a moment, but eventually Patrick swung down, and walked over to the woman, pulling Demon along with him.
"I'm Paladin Lord Ariel of the Brotherhood of Steel," she said, giving a small bow, "and I've been sent to meet with you by the High Elder himself."
Patrick tied Demon to a nearby pole. "Oh really? Why would he want to talk to me? I'm just an ordinary Assiniboian."
Ariel chuckled. "You are very modest for your many achievements thus far." She waved Patrick to dismount off Demon. "The Brotherhood knows much of your achievements so far: defeating raiders, defeating cannibals, wiping out traitors throughout Assiniboia for your government. Very commendable, I must say, even if we do not agree with the results."
Patrick finally swung off of Demon and landed on the ground, kicking up dust. "So why do you want to talk to me if you know I'm both an Assiniboian and have been working against you?"
Ariel drummed her fingers together. "It's because we believe that you have only not been shown the truth, what Assiniboia actually stands for, and that due to lies and propaganda you are not aware of what the Brotherhood hopes to accomplish."
"Alright then. Tell me," Patrick said, crossing his arms, Demon's reins still in his hand.
"And open minded too… maybe we can work something out," she said with a smile. "We have learned the history of Assiniboia, as we have learned knowing your opponent's background is as important as their tactics and weaknesses. Your nation was established by the remnants of a pre-war government, that of old Canada, and set it up in such a way as to guarantee their power and success in a world that no longer exists. The name 'Dominion' is one example, as it used to be the name of the former colonies of a great Empire that spanned the world, and whose flag is still placed on your new nation, though no one knows what 'Great Britain' was. Their so-called 'democracy,' is only open for those that agree with the Dominion, and elections are not as free and open as they could be.
"The Brotherhood, as you would not have been told, was created from those that served the United States of America, but revolted when they realized the immoral and inhumane experiments that scientists conducted were evil and despicable. Our first great leader, Roger Maxson, lead the Brotherhood on a quest to reclaim the technology from before the Great War, and to preserve it, and eventually reintroduce it into the new civilization that would rise from the ashes and radioactive ruins of the old.
"The Brotherhood of Steel was first established in California, and after a great fight against monsters that were created from the same horrid experiments that Elder Maxson revolted against, a faction was sent to the Midwest to pursue and destroy them. That was nearly 50 years ago. The Brotherhood, unfortunately, has split again and again as those that disagreed with the leaders of one group Brotherhood left to establish new factions. However, we tolerated this, and there has been peace amongst the Brotherhood States of the Midwest.
"The one this far north is known as the Minneapolis Brotherhood of Steel, and we believed that we must help the people of the Wasteland to adapt to the technology we have, including allowing those strong, brave and smart enough to join our ranks. So that is our goal: to rebuild the Wasteland in a new world of peace and security."
"Then why did you burn down Fargo 18 years ago?" Patrick asked.
She didn't even blink. "It was because of faulty intelligence. We were not aware of the existence of Assiniboia before that time, and the people of Fargo were both insolent and demeaning the Brotherhood Paladins and Knights who were sent to explore the town. The Brotherhood, however, maintained our fire and did our best to not let the situation escalate, as we had no interest in fighting. But when we were fired upon, we had to retaliate, and the commander decided the best way to prove our strength and to set an example of what happens when our patience is exhausted was to burn the town, kill half the men and women, and take all the children back to the Brotherhood."
"But the RAMP and Army managed to wipe out that force," Patrick said.
"I cannot deny that. Assiniboian Snipers and sleipnir riders killed all but one of the men of that force, and that man, Paladin Ezekiel, is now the Elder of the Brotherhood. That unprovoked attack on our men at Fargo lead to the First Assiniboian-Brotherhood War, which was vicious, deadly, and costly, and done much damage to the people of North Dakota, Minnesota, and into the homelands of Assiniboia." Ariel sounded genuinely regretful as she said it. "But now the madmen in Winnipeg seek to bring war to the Wasteland again, and the Brotherhood is standing up against the forces of imperialism and the old-world mentality that lead to the Great War that erased the world of life 140 years ago."
Patrick stood there. The memories of the other night near Atwood came flooding back, the self-argument he had. But he finally shook his head. "No."
"No?" Paladin Ariel said in surprise
"No," Patrick firmly stated. "I cannot agree with everything Assiniboia has done. I have learned a lot since I've set out only two weeks ago to find my brother, and how my image of Assiniboia has been tarnished. But it's still my country, and I might be able to help make it a better place."
"You can do that by helping the Brotherhood," Ariel replied. "We do not wish to destroy Assiniboia. North of the old border, Assiniboia is strong, powerful and mighty. But south of those old stone markers, the ones that mark the old, arbitrary line of two great nations, the people are held in involuntary bondage, and the Brotherhood wishes to help those people."
"But if I help you, then I will be considered a traitor by Assiniboia," Patrick said.
"Won't the knowledge that you helped the people under oppression live a better, more fulfilling life help you?" she asked. "What do you want instead? Money? The Brotherhood has great wealth. Power? You help us, you will be made a great leader. Fame? Your name would live in the annals of the Brotherhood forevermore."
Patrick exhaled. "All I want - all I've ever set out to do – is to find my brother. I don't give a damn if I have no money, if I'm forgotten or if I lead anything. All I want is to find my brother, who was kidnapped from his home by raiders, and is now missing."
Ariel paused for a moment. "Seeking to reunite a family is a great ambition."
"Can the Brotherhood help me find my brother?" Patrick asked.
"I… I cannot say." Ariel held out her hands. "It's an unfortunate thing to have happened, but there are more important things in this world."
Patrick growled. "There is nothing more important than my family."
"The Brotherhood is a family," Ariel replied. "The most important family in the world."
"Then why did you all start breaking up? Why, if you are a family, are you seeking to destroy Assiniboia."
Paladin Ariel stood there, stone faced.
"But if you can't help me, then I will not help the Brotherhood," Patrick said, turning around and climbing back up onto the impatient jet black sleipnir behind him.
Ariel stood there. "I understand, and respect, your decision, even though I'm disappointed. Patrick Morrison, the next time we meet, I cannot guarantee I, nor any of my brother's or sisters in arms, won't try to kill you, as much as your loyalty and dedication would have made you a great Paladin of the Brotherhood." She gave a low bow. "Mr. Morrison, I bid you a fond farewell."
Patrick nodded in return, and led Demon back to Brahmin Springs. After a few moments, he turned around, but the vast, windswept prairie gave no sign to show another person had once stood there.
Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note ERROR
The True History of Assiniboia
Distributed by the Organization for a Free Dakota
The Dominion of Assiniboia is a lie. It's a tool of corrupt oligarchs and imperialist warmongers who seek only to enrich themselves at the expense of the people. The Rediboine Trading Company, and it's exorbitant monopoly and prices on the most essential food, medicine and other supplies, is the best example, but we can tell you of many others.
They expand into lands that were never even remotely considered theirs, all in the name of "civilization." But the "civilization" they bring to areas like the North and Midwest Commonwealths within their grasp is a sham. They crush all free speech that is counter to theirs, impose heavy taxes for an army that kills and maims all opposition, they demolish the councils, the mayors and governments of the towns, settlements and lands they claim as their own, all in the name of removing "anarchy" and "tribalism" from their monolithic One-World Order. They redraw borders to suit their own goals, dividing families and communities.
They say they enshrine free religion, free speech and free voting, but every month our shamans are killed or imprisoned, while their "Christian" faith is given preferential treatment. Anyone who dares exercise free speech and speaks out against these crimes are taken away in the dark of night by the Red Terror, their "Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police," who are nothing more than brutish guard dogs for violent masters. And when does voting occur? If you are in a territory, never: the army maintains a dictatorship until the fat cats in Winnipeg decide the people are safe enough to vote for them and not anyone who opposes them. If you are in a district, you get to vote only for the candidates that they approve, all of whom are in the pockets of the Rediboine, the CPR, the Army, the Bank, the fat-cats on Wellington Crescent. Even the so-called "Grits" Party, which claims to support the rights of those in Dakota, do nothing more than talk, with no action. The Tories and Whigs are even worse, as they don't even talk about us, unless it's to humiliate and torture us more.
This is not freedom. This is tyranny. This is the government of the few, by the few, supported on the blood, sweat and tears of the many.
There is a way to bring this rotten structure down. Civil disobedience: fight the oppressors with love, know the evil they perpetrate, but do not comply. Make them force you out of your chair of Freedom that you all sit in.
DO NOT LET THEM WIN. DO NOT GIVE UP. ASSINIBOIA WILL DESTROY ITSELF WHEN THE PEOPLE KNOW THEY ARE LIED TO. SPREAD THIS FAR AND WIDE. MAKE EVERYONE KNOW!
*Code to allow further transmission to follow:*
HO**D922-#)0*DW82002F)KDO022KG990S-SKRK44MFOF0-F-S0W2M2O2S