Chapter 22: Conditional Friendships
Barabbas had been on the trail for hours, Belua pausing every few miles or so to sniff the air or relieve herself. After one such pause, Barabbas took out his wineskin and drank, the sweltering heat punishing even his disposition. "Do you require some, as well?" he turned behind him to see the rear of his concubine, who was positioned across the flank of his beast on her stomach, secured with the rest of the baggage.
"No, my master. I'd rather we wait and find water," her voice wheezed in response.
"You will not pass out on me, will you? After getting the last of your sick out of Belua's coat, I doubt you have any fluids left." He tugged on Belua's reins, grinding the beast to a halt. He dismounted, dragging his servant off her mount to the dusty ground to get a better look at her. With the amount of sweat, he'd have suspected that her whole body would become pruned by sundown.
He pulled out his wineskin, and Kyra's parched mouth immediately sealed. "Enough with your insolence, whelp," Barabbas growled. He forced the nozzle into her mouth, and the putrid concoction emptied into her throat. Once, the Legion had used an ancient tribal medicine called "Bitter Drink" to treat wounded and dehydrated soldiers. With the necessary ingredients in short supply in the Texan Wastes, however, certain improvisations were forced, resulting in a far more potent though much less pleasant drink.
It was all Kyra could do to resist the urge to gag, as the watery muck tasted like it had been fermenting in an old boot that had been found on a corpse. Eventually, her master pried the wineskin from her mouth. Just as she was about to spit out the dreck, Barabbas clasped his hand over her mouth, going so far as to pinch her nose shut. "…Swallow," Barabbas ordered. Kyra obliged, feeling violated.
Barabbas finally released her, leaving her to heave and hack on the ground. As amusing as berating and mocking his servant promised to be, another issue attracted his attention. Namely the interlopers steadily gaining on his position. Taking his cleaver from the saddle, he strode behind his mount and readied himself to meet the riders as they approached.
There were seven of them, all canis equites, the elite dog cavalry of Imperial Dallas. As they approached, Barabbas could recognize a few familiar faces. The leader, in full centurion regalia, was one of his chief lieutenants during the southern campaigns. And most of the rest were his own honor guard. Barabbas had explicitly ordered no one to follow him to the west. His mood began to darken.
As the central rider came to a halt, he held out his hand to order the rest to cease. Dismounting, the centurion took his helmet under his arm and approached the rogue legate. "Ave, true to Caesar," Falco began, saluting.
"What are you doing here?" Barabbas snarled. Kyra's ears perked up, seeing her master surrounded by warriors he wasn't happy to see had gotten her attention. If this interaction escalated, it was quite possible that these formidable-looking soldiers could get the better of even her hulking brute of an owner. As her hope began to rise, it was doused by another hypothetical thought; what would they do to her afterwards?
"I come bearing a message from Caesar himself," Falco bowed his head, his weathered skin and salt-and-pepper hair giving him a distinction found only in the most senior members of the Legion. "Return home at once and abandon Pariah to the exile of her choosing."
Barabbas stormed up to the smaller centurion. One of the riders instinctively took out his thermic lance, only to hold back upon a gesture from Falco. The legate towered over his centurion messenger. "I take this journey of my own volition. Even Caesar has no authority over me in this matter."
"This message was co-signed by the Oracle," Falco continued, not blinking. "The two greatest powers in Dallas both agreed to send us to retrieve you and return you home. Not a common occurrence, no?"
Barabbas fumed. "And should I refuse?" he asked, voice level.
"I hoped you wouldn't," Falco answered, sadly.
Barabbas wordlessly returned to his steed, grabbing Kyra by the back of her tunic's collar as he secured her back on his beast. Mounting again, he was about to leave when two of the riders circled around in front of him, blocking his path.
"…Damocles… Uriah…" Barabbas acknowledged the two brazen riders, both tried and tested veterans of many southern campaigns.
"My legate, I know this is a hard request. I tried to find another to volunteer for it," Falco bowed his head, apologetically. "You are needed at home."
"Is not your nephew capable of handling such matters himself?" Barabbas spat, derisively.
"…I can hardly remember the day in which Scorpio did not make such ambitions known to me," Falco confessed. The knot in Kyra's stomach felt like it was about to rip in half.
"I was promised a month. I shall have my month," Barabbas growled. "And should you try and hinder me, you shall become just another obstacle."
The riders surrounded the legate. Barabbas eyed them all as best he could. He recognized Falco's subordinate, Drago, as well as veterans Quintas and Sulla. Hypatia, a member of the Legios Amazonia, was eying his servant. As he did, Falco rode up beside him and began glancing over his men. "…Funny, I could have sworn I've brought more men," Falco muttered. "Seven in all? Less than a contubernium. How embarrassing. One man short of a full unit."
Barabbas turned to look at the centurion. "…Your age appears to have not been kind to you, old friend."
Falco looked away. "I might not have spent enough time seeking out volunteers as suggested. I only need but one man to complete the compliment. Have you any suggestions?"
"…Might I ask a question?" Barabbas offered. "Should this new member happen to outrank you, what would that mean for your mission?"
"My legate," Falco stated. "You know as well as I that the squad leader supersedes all rank within the contubernium. That would apply to any previously assigned mission, as well."
Barabbas looked at Falco, eyes betraying nothing. Falco stared back, his face a stone mask. As the moments passed, a crack began to form by way of Falco's lip, turning upwards as Kyra felt a rumble before her. Barabbas let out a hearty chuckle, shooting out his arm to clasp in with Falco. A cheer was let out from the surrounding group as Barabbas leaned forward to embrace his old teacher and friend.
"It is a great risk you are taking, my amicus," Barabbas told his ally.
"You're in charge, I'm just following orders. You're the one taking the risk," Falco grinned. This just caused Barabbas to laugh even louder. He took another moment to look over his newfound allies. He'd fought with them in many campaigns, and each and every one was a distinguished warrior and trustworthy comrade. Barabbas was willing to go into the Unclaimed Wastes alone, but he'd have been lying if he said he wasn't glad he did not have to.
Kyra had started the day comforted by the notion that there was no way it could get any worse, being hung inches from the rear of a disgusting animal and the beast he was riding on. Somehow, the fates had seen fit to educate her otherwise, and she was now surrounded by lackeys, one of whom was no less than the blood relative of he who ruined her life, as much as there had been to ruin.
"We've been chatting with some Frumentarii units before we joined with you," Damocles announced as he began trotting behind Barabbas. "No sightings."
"That being said, most of them answer to the Oracle," Sulla admitted. "Which would make finding your sister difficult enough, seeing how de-incentivized they'd be."
"Hold your tongue," Drago scolded. "After all, we have one of hers among us."
"Amusing," Hypatia answered, causing Kyra's ears to pick up. "She merely founded my unit, we've been left to our own devices ever since. If the Frumentarii will not aid your mission, my legate, perhaps one of my sisters shall."
A female legionary? The very notion flooded Kyra's mind with countless stories of false promises and deceitful tales to lull in gullible women for a life of servitude. Now here was one who carried herself with the same pride as the others, as a soldier and not a follower or slave.
"Enough. We can finish planning by nightfall after we set up camp," Barabbas ordered as the rest of the riders fell in behind him. He snapped the reins as his spurs dug into Belua, directing her forward as the rest of the men followed suit.
Cade knelt atop the bluff, overlooking the encampment. The wonderful thing about following large groups was that there were only so many directions they could maneuver. They could only carry the supplies they had on them, and scavenge to make up the difference, but without water, there was nothing they could do but follow riverbeds and scrounge up wells. That made them easy to track.
With his binoculars, he observed the campfires through the tents, seeing the featureless shapes milling around. He focused largely on the center of the camp, the most logical position of where the leadership remained. With his current objective solidified, Cade now had two problems at the forefront of his mind; getting in, and getting out.
He chomped on an oatcake as he observed the lines of egress from the camp. Already he could mark out patrols and checkpoints on the border. No matter, all he needed to get around that was an alibi. He was a trader. Without an escort or caravan. Strike that, he needed a better alibi.
As the moon climbed higher into the sky, Cade put away his binoculars and decided now was the time to find a quiet place to rest and wait until morning. Thankfully, the bluff he'd been scouting on was right next to a dry gulch that would give him ample shelter. As he climbed down, he wondered about his two targets. Larain, provided he was miraculously alive, would no doubt have ingratiated himself within the AEG for practical reasons alone. Extracting him didn't promise to be a complicated issue, provided he wasn't questioning his own loyalties. God forbid he had a sudden change in ideology during his tenure down there, but at least it wouldn't be as pathetic as switching sides for pussy.
Perhaps after reconnecting, they could formulate an idea to tackle the Rosa issue. Loyalty to the McGrath family aside, the RMX had raised and trained him, so he was bound if not by sentiment so much as by obligation to handle this mission should the opportunity arise. So far, his current plan was separated by two parts, an easy one and a hard one, and obligation aside his debt to the RMX wasn't so steep that he was willing to take a permanent dirt nap just for eliminating the target.
His thoughts were interrupted once he got down to the gulch by the noxious odor of decaying flesh. Looking down, he saw the originating corpse. According to the hairstyle and markings on what remained on the flesh, this one had been one of those tribal recon troops Cade had spent the last day or so ducking and avoiding. Of course, the eviscerated bowels were still something of a mystery. Animals ate their meat, whatever had done this quite simply had to be psychotic.
"Outlander, do not move!" the voice announced as Cade rose his hands. Two of those tribal soldiers began to approach him, one holding a hatchet and the other a shotgun. From the opposite end of the gulch, just above the rim, another holding a rifle pointed down at him. Finally, just to complete the trifecta of agitation, a black-armored marshal came to join the scouts.
"…Tachike," the shotgun-wielding tribal announced as he knelt down to inspect the body of his former comrade. The other two trained their weapons on Cade as the marshal slowly approached.
"…Can you tell me what you are doing in the area, friend?" Cade could just tell he was smiling behind that gasmask.
"…I'm a hunter," Cade said. "I was tracking a quarry and the trail led me to the area. I just found him like this a minute before you four arrived. It is four, right?"
"Let's leave the questions to me," the marshal answered, essentially confirming it to Cade. "How long have you been in the area, Mr. …"
"… Fletcher," Cade answered. "Keith Fletcher. I just set up a camp last night. I spent the afternoon looking for water."
"And where might this camp be?" the marshal asked. "I don't think our scouts have reported anything of the like, to be honest."
Cade wasn't a fan of talking, let alone lying on the spot. Whether or not these thought he was responsible for the death or not, they were determined to have him brought to the camp to answer the rest of their insipid questions. Being brought into the AEG against his will, confiscated of his weapons, and under the direct supervision of hostile forces were terms he could not accept. He reached into his belt and pulled out his knife, the three tribals immediately on high alert, barking commands at him to drop the weapon.
"…Go ahead," he offered the knife to the marshal. "Investigate. Is this the murder weapon? That's where this discussion is going, isn't it?"
Gingerly, the marshal took the blade off of its owner and knelt beside the corpse to inspect both it and the weapon. A minute passed where the only gesture the marshal made was a shake of his head. "…The body's been here too long. This knife is too clean. And the marks don't even begin to match up. We're talking machete length minimum." He returned the knife to its owner. "…Got any other weapons you care to share with us?"
"I'm carrying everything I have on me," Cade shook his head.
"What about back at your camp?" the marshal offered.
"Am I a suspect?" Cade asked.
"Until we can rule you out, you are," the marshal admitted.
"Charged with a murder I didn't commit, then?" Cade quietly assessed. "…Well, what's four more?"
Cade drew out his revolver as he dove between the two tribals surrounding him. Before they could register a response, Cade fired a round at the marshal's helmet. It grazed the side of the armor, but what it had struck was the piece of radio equipment linking this marshal with the others. It also had the added benefit of causing the marshal to flinch, allowing Cade to begin dispatching the tribals at his leisure.
Immediately he began to wrestle the shotgun from the arms of the tribal soldier. His partner, enraged, struck at him with the hatchet. It was all Cade could do to try and parry away the blow with his revolver, the double-teaming allowing the shotgunner to overpower the gunslinger, allowing him to crack the stock of his weapon into Cade's cheek. While gratifying, it also blocked the clear line of sight for the rifleman waiting atop the gulch, allowing for Cade to go into action.
Instead of blocking the next blow from the hatchet, Cade caught his attacker by the wrist, twisted his body to the ground by the arm with one hand while the other snaked his revolver under the hatchet and blew out the kneecap of the shotgunner. From that position, he forced the restrained body of the hatchet soldier on top of him, further dissuading the rifleman from getting involved. At this point, the marshal had recovered and began to take stock of what was happening in front of him.
Cade immediately threw his revolver straight up in the air, and act so brazen it basically demanded the attention of every spectator observing the fracas. This moment was all the time Cade needed to draw out his knife, skewer the hatchet man under the jaw, retrieve it, throw his knife at the marshal, with just enough time to catch the gun as it fell back to earth, allowing him enough time to plug a bullet into the rifleman. Not quick enough to stop the other bullet from hitting him in the ribs, though.
As Cade collapsed on his stomach, the marshal got back to his feet, the knife having been embedded in a secured plate of the black armor, not that Cade was surprised, for he hadn't considered the move anything more than a distraction until he could bring his real offense to the table.
"…You know what?" the marshal spat as he tapped uselessly into his radio transmitter. "Fuck taking you in alive," he swore as he pulled out a brush rifle. Cade felt the crisp and cool air of the world around him at the moment. He could hear the faint insect humming of life surrounding him. Colors had become more vivid, sounds more distinct, smells and feelings sharper than before. Cade felt alive.
The black lizard appeared without warning, crushing the marshal in one fell swoop. As the world around Cade began to return to its dull colors and muted sounds, the lizard let out a laugh. "Now dis trap eckseedid even my most wildest eckspecktacsons!" it crowed. It looked around at the four other deceased corpses and one wounded gunner getting back to his feet. The man jabbed a needle into his side, his posture straightening as he braced himself to combat the oncoming beast.
Sawney lowered his head and bull-rushed the wounded gunner. Cade grabbed the hatchet, and with all his strength swung the weapon as hard as he could into the skull of the beast right at the moment of interception. The monster bowled over him, the two tumbling over one another as the lizard's momentum carried him further away. Cade, battered and wounded, immediately dragged himself to his feet and bolted over to the dead marshal to retrieve his knife.
As Sawney picked himself up, he groggily noticed the pain in his head. "Ugh, what now?" he groused as he felt the handle sticking from his skull. Deathclaw hides were incredibly dense, and their bones even more reinforced, especially around select areas like the head. So, while a hatchet sticking out of a brain was enough to put down most creatures, unfortunately, it would do no such thing for Sawney.
"What a pain," Sawney grumbled as he delicately moved two of his fingers around the handle. "Bad enough I only just got away from my siblings, now I have this thing to bother me. How hard did that human hit me, anyway?" he thought aloud as he watched the figure retreat further down the ravine. "Probably for the best I leave that guy alone. I mean, I have more meat than I usually get on these hunts and-" the hatchet was dislodged from his head "dat humie certly knows how to getz plenty o' odda humiez dead, hahahahaha!"
Vulpes oversaw the growing camp. In the weeks since the call had been sent, the Res had been flooded with various Liberty Clans, all armed and apparently willing to combat the invaders. He remembered the names Kenzie McGrath had told him during one of their last meetings. The Elsmund-Grant Family. The Hooper Collective. The Tran Kyle Community. All names that supposedly stood for the same thing, and yet could only unite under the threat of outsiders that threatened to compromise their paltry existences.
It was through dealing with groups like this that made him realize the wisdom of Caesar's mission. Take one hundred people, and at any given moment they will push and pull one another in a thousand different directions. Give them a leader, and the issue will inevitably be amended. Of course, finding a leader like Caesar proved difficult on the best of days. Finding a leader on the level that Caesar had thought he was proved to be dangerously close to impossible.
Of course, his mission was not to be a visionary, but a strategist and tactician. He had to look over the assets, formulate a plan, and execute it to the best of his abilities. As such, he had been able to quantify and assess how his disparate allies could be used.
The Liberty Clans were by far the most numerous of his potential troops. They were, to their credit, experienced wastelanders, they didn't need to be taught how to survive. They also possessed "chrome courage" as Kenzie was wont to put, the notion that there was no dispute with a solution beyond that of a discharged firearm. And every now and then a gang would have members that were such capable survivors that they'd almost pass for NCR Rangers with their skill and dedication.
Of course, what they possessed in enthusiasm, they lacked in cohesion. The Liberty Clan gunners were skirmishers, at best. From what he could see from the intra-rivalry disputes between the different clans, a gunner sticking and fighting wasn't something he could count on. There would be no valiant charges, no last stands, no committed assaults with this lot.
Fine. He could make do with this. If the Liberty Clans couldn't hold a line, then they could reshape the battlefield at a moment. One couldn't outflank a formation when there was no formation. How does one out plan a strategy when there was no strategy? So long as they could be trusted to shoot into the AEG before their morale completely shattered, all Vulpes had to worry about was making sure they were positioned correctly and that they oversaw their purpose before the Allied Expeditionary Group inevitably crushed them in an open engagement.
The Pelt-Brutes were quite the opposite. These hide-wearing traitors weren't so much warriors as they were animals, relentless with their low cunning and fanatical bloodthirst. In his time he had spent among their numbers, he'd gleaned some extra knowledge about their culture. Knowledge that could prove useful under the right circumstances.
Contrary to their primitive and philistine natures, they had a strong sense of ancestral worship and believed in an afterlife that resembled a warrior's paradise. The Bloody Plains, they called it, and while its description sounded like Hell to most, for the Pelt-Brutes admission into it was the ultimate goal of their lives and time on this earth. Everything, from pelts taken to enemies devoured to broods sired to dying in a manner befitting of a warrior, was taken into account when one passed from one plane to another.
Vulpes could use this. Offer enough prizes and loot and there'd be no end to the volunteers who would willingly throw themselves into the flanks of their lines and cut into the chaff from California. To his amusement, the notion of witnessing the Pelt-Brutes' rituals firsthand would shatter their morale on a level even Inculta himself would be impressed by. So, if the Pelt-Brutes wished to act as the mongrels of old, Vulpes was willing to oblige them.
That led to his next group, the Ministerio de Hex. Sour memories welled up in him as he remembered their bizarre rituals and nihilistic beliefs. At least with the group's namesake out of the picture, he could anticipate a modicum of civilized behavior or failing that, at least some dependable discipline. The highest praise he could offer these was that they were by far the most professional fighters he had at his disposal.
The Ministerio were warrior monks in the most literal sense of the term. As rigorous with their martial duties as their sermons, these killers clad in the cloth were some of the most humbly brutal individuals Vulpes had ever come across, to the extent that they could be considered individuals. The process of joining the Ministerio was calculated to annihilate the last vestiges of personality in its newer members, as few as they were finding these days. Upon completion, their new personalities would emerge with time, as was seen with that suspicious-looking bishop Nemesio.
These men would be the spine of his upcoming plan, his wall upon which the AEG would throw itself against. With the right motivation, they could bulwark even the most ardent assaults, casualties be damned. Yeah, Vulpes could work with them. He could work with all of them.
From the prior evening, Kenzie had dispatched a few of his more subtle agents, led by Daphne, to glean some information from the approaching army in a manner that they were quite familiar with. According to the woman herself, there was a spring to the north that often held refuge for nomads, and was a popular spot for merchants of all kinds. Daphne herself was a co-owner of a popular cathouse in the area and was admittedly quite well-versed in espionage.
Which led to today's issue. Vulpes was forming something of an expedition of his own. Committing all his forces now, as poorly-coordinated and clumsily led as they were at the moment, would risk a gamble he did not have the disposition to play. Instead, he was looking for a select-yet-sizable group to engage and harass the AEG while the rest of the machinations he planned could proceed.
When the battle, the true battle commenced, Vulpes was determined to choose both the time and the place. He already had an arena in mind, but for now, he had to entrust that particular plan with Kenzie and the rest of the rabble. Victory or otherwise was a secondary concern for Inculta. He just wanted the Bear and its pets to suffer.
From the call set out, he gathered up roughly one hundred or so gunslingers from various clans, about sixty or so eager young Pelt-Brute savages, and twenty holy sicarios from the Ministerio, with one face even he was surprised to see.
"I only wish to accompany my brothers to the north," Nemesio said as he bowed his head. "I do not wish to steal the reins from you. On the contrary, I am quite eager to see how the legendary Fox of Caesar wages war."
Vulpes eyed Nemesio suspiciously. Though few were enthusiastic for the Legion's former master of spies to join their ranks, Nemesio did not share the trepidation of the others. Suspiciously so. Vulpes was curious as to why Nemesio, of all people, was so eager to greet him so warmly. He loathed being unable to get a read on anyone, ally or otherwise.
"…I welcome your assistance, dear bishop," Vulpes smiled.
Nemesio seemed to smile back, taking another hit from the gas. "May the Revelation bless our path forward."
"And may it rain down misery after misery upon our foes," Vulpes added. Together, the two joined their ragtag group to the north, on the march to intercept the AEG before it reached the Res.
Excerpt from the Judicial Marshal Basic Training Guide and Manual
Ministerio de Hex: A breakaway remnant of the Iglesia de la Santa Sangre, this new hostile element lacks the reach of its predecessor, though it is no less lethal for it. As of lately, upon the incarceration of Padre Hex, the group has been steadily losing ground in Mexico. Unfortunately, they've lately been taking up residence in the Unclaimed Wastes. The Ministerio is an apocalypse cult in the truest sense of the term, not to be conflated with the Followers of the Apocalypse. Their mission had been to finish what the bombs failed to accomplish, and as a result, the blood of countless victims have stained their hands. Fortunately, with their repulsion from the Sierra Madre Supermax, they've yet to make another attempt against the Mojave Nation. Be careful when engaging, despite their lack of self-preservation, they are well trained, well-armed, and not easy to break. If in danger of being overwhelmed, do not hesitate to call Nellis for support- Deputy Chief Natalie Boone
Armor piercing is a must. Do not engage in melee, some of them have explosive vests. Ambush whenever possible. Listen for the chanting -Deputy Chief Craig Boone
A/N: Personally speaking, I'd be really stoked if I could get some engagement and feedback outside of the usual suspects for this chapter (looking at you, Eruch and Interfectorem) Seriously, if anything is going to influence this fic going forward, it will come from those two guys out of all of you. If you have something to contribute, anything that can't be confused with spam, please share.
