The penlight flicked from side to side across Lantaya's face, illuminating both eyes in turn. The pupils contracted as the light stimulated the optic nerve, but there was a distinct lack of something indefinable in those blue depths. Some essential spark of awareness.
Elliott sighed, repeating the motion again in the hopes of discovering an abnormality hereto undiscovered by both the Wanderer and himself. None presented themselves. "Well, I'm not really a good judge of mutant biology, and I'm certainly no neuro-specialist, but physically I think she's fine."
The Wanderer, observing the proceedings from a metal lawn chair that had been dug out from under a few square foot of miscellaneous trash in the storage bays of the Zeta some years before, agreed. "That was also my assessment. She is clearly in a catatonic state, likely due to extreme emotional and mental trauma."
Elliott swept a hand through his blonde hair which, contrary to military standards, he had always kept long. He stared at the Asari, marvelling at how human it appeared. He had been down to the surface of Earth many times since his defrosting at the hands of the Wanderer, but the changes wrought by rampant radiation and ungoverned use of rapid evolutionary interventions remained a subject of fascination for him.
Looking at this being, he was reminded of the first time the Wanderer had taken him to Rivet City, and he had looked through binoculars from the observation deck at the Mirelurks waddling along the shore. Bipedal, despite millions of years of evolution in a contrary state. The tentacle-like ridges that protruded from her skull made him link her in his mind to some form of aquatic life, maybe a squid. Though how a squid developed legs and arms and consciousness, even in the presence of radiation was a mystery for him.
He suspected deliberate genetic engineering. Possibly some type of Pre-War project, similar to the Deathclaw. If it was true, it was yet another reason to be ashamed of the country he had once called his own. The blue-skinned mutant was now dressed in some of Somah's old shorts and a ratty old t-shirt with an early 70's Nuka-girl pinup he remembered idly looking at while in his waiting room at the hospital. She looked benign. Normal, even. Though maybe his perception of what was normal and what wasn't was getting slightly skewed these days.
Nevertheless, she looked less like a test subject in an experiment gone horribly wrong, and more like a beaten, abused soul who had recently fallen upon trying times. She looked like a slideshow of all the pitiable people who had filed through his waiting room at the hospital, looking for help. For the umpteenth time, he bitterly wished that he had been there when the Wanderer woken her up. As he should have been. As it had been decided that he should be, before he had gotten selfish, and blundered off like a fool to have breakfast with Somah. 'Some doctor you are,' he reproved himself inwardly, 'Leaving Omega to defrost her while you fooled around with your girlfriend.'
If the Courier hadn't heard the commotion, he thought, glancing at the tall wastelander who was currently stripped to the waist, washing himself in the infirmary basin for the second time to try and get the last of the Super Mutants blood off himself. If that old tribal savage hadn't heard and joined the Wanderer, both the Wanderer and the mutant women might have killed each other. 'If you had been there,' a more reasonable voice told him in the back of his mind, 'They would have killed you in the crossfire.'
To drown out his inner thoughts, he tucked the penlight back into the front pocket of his lab coat. He felt the words bubbling up from within him, and not wanting to complain or start an argument, he tried to keep them inside and not voice them aloud. He failed.
"You should have waited for me to get back before you unthawed her, Chauncy."
Elliott remembered back to the exuberant boy who had first unthawed him aboard the Zeta all those years ago. Black bags under his eyes, but cheerful, and self-conscious. Full of surprises and tricks. His eyes had been bionic replacements, even back then, but the eyelids had yet to be cut away to keep them chaffing on the black, metallic orbs. Elliott had almost squeaked in shock the first time he'd seen the Wanderer engage his stealth nano-bots and vanish like a ghost while they fought the Zetan.
Held against that memory of days long past, the Wanderer before him was not the least bit self-conscious. He didn't even look human anymore. But at least he had taken the time to switch his current set of governing Protocols. He hated talking with the Omega. The Wanderer before him looked contrite, but only marginally so. As if he had accidentally dropped something and was making the apologies expected of him. It could have been convincing if he had never known the real Wanderer.
"That had been the intention. You are aware how limited I am when Omega Protocols are in effect. My high-performance data storage and memory does not have the capacity to run my combat suite, my simulated personality matrix and perform the roles of a scientist or engineer all at the same time."
The Lone Wanderer, Chauncy Littlewood, stood up and brushed off his own lab coat with a casual, natural motion. All fake, simulated emotion and mannerisms. If he concentrated on the situation at hand, Elliott could almost forget how sad seeing what the Wasteland had turned his friend into made him.
"Omega made sure you were present to administer the drugs that would assist in bringing the subject safely out of Cryostasis. Once this was done, it began the process of extraction. Once you left the Cryobay its programming dictated that it complete all queued processes before moving to reacquire any lost assets."
"So," Tercorien admitted wearily, "It's my fault."
"No Elliott, this was the result of unforeseen variables that my calculations and programming did not take into account. In addition to some suspicions that I had, very well-founded suspicions that I had and did not see fit to inform you of. As such you made decisions that you might not have made otherwise. You were a soldier; you know that the officer in command bares the responsibility for all that occurs under his watch. If the blame lies anywhere, it does so with me."
Elliott turned away to avoid meeting his eyes, and instead met those of Sally, who sat off to the side. The little girl he had known for so long was now a teenager, giving him a reassuring smile from underneath her frazzled blonde hair. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of the pilot bomber jacket she wore over a faded yellow, Red Racer jumpsuit. The jumpsuit was far too big for her, and was ridiculously baggy, turned up at the cuffs and the ankles to fit, and tucked into her socks to keep her from tripping over herself.
He smiled back, and returned his gaze to the Wanderer, who was now pacing from side to side in front of the infirmary bed, upon which the mutant in question sat, legs crossed and eyes staring off into the middle distance, at something they were clearly too sane to see.
"You see, I ran numerous tests on our guest while she was still in Cryostasis. Scans of her muscle mass, bone density, nervous system, her cardiovascular system. Given her build and stature I ran this data in comparison to a dataset collected from an average human female. If she were a human, I would guess her to be somewhere in the region of twenty or thirty, living an active life with a healthy, varied diet. Evidence of impact fractures and some other noticeable wounds lead me to believe she may have a military background. Interesting, but not outlandish."
He tapped the side of his head with a finger, "The main differences I encountered were in her nervous system. Her brain has an unprecedented degree of neuroplasticity, and her nerves themselves transmit and receive electrical impulses with a far greater clarity than my human control dataset. Investigating further, I found many small growths up and down her nervous system throughout her body. They seemed to be benign when I scanned her in Cryo. Now that she is conscious, however, and signals are being propagated through her nerves at an increased rate, I can see I was mistaken. When exposed to an electrical current these nodes seem to generate the fields she used to combat us in the Cryobay."
"And a right fierce field they were too," the Courier cut in in his strange accent. Elliott had tried to place it since making his acquaintance, but two hundred years of diverging regional linguistics was a tall order for a humble, general practitioner. If he had to guess, he would say the majority of it was a rural Irish. "Tossed me around like a feckin' football. I'd lay a raft of caps on the lass bein' a military experiment. That, or one of Vault-Tec's schemes."
"I am reasonably certain she is not the product of the US military, or Vault-Tec. Tests of her genome to determine what genetic tampering might have occurred were… inconclusive."
"Inconclusive," Elliot, the only formally trained medical man in the room apart from the Wanderer, voiced the question they all shared, "What does that mean?"
"Means not conclusive," the Courier snarked, drying off his bare torso with a towel. It had taken him some time to get the Super Mutants blood off himself. Not because he had much compunction over running around covered in gore, but because the fastidious Doctor Tercorien would not allow him in the infirmary unless he promised to clean himself up. He was now in the mood to annoy the good doctor with petty corrections and irritating commentary.
Sally, who was trying very hard not to look at the Courier's bare chest and rippling muscle, let out a nervous laugh, that she disguised with a cough. She was a sheltered girl, having spent most of her life up until this point on the Zeta in the company of so small a number of people, she could comfortably count them off on her fingers. The Courier took no notice.
"My comparison to the human genome showed too many differences for intentional genetic engineering to be a plausible explanation. So too did the tests I ran on various aquatic lifeforms I had genetic data to test against."
"Too much? Wouldn't lots of differences make it more likely she was changed by someone, not less?" Sally queried from the corner, her face displaying her lack of understanding.
Surprisingly, rather than the two medical men in the room, it was the Courier who spoke up. "The more parts of the whole you change, the more you risk. You can alter a house, but you cannot compromise the foundation, else the structure will fall."
"Quite correct, if oddly phrased," The Wanderer agreed, "In the majority of cases I have studied, with a few notable exceptions, alterations made to the human genome have usually been kept to a minimum by the scientists working on the project. Small changes can produce large differences. A dolphin for instance, shares a large amount of its DNA with human beings, but no-one would mistake a dolphin for a human at first glance. This subjects' genetic structure is simply too different to be the result of intentional tampering."
"She ain't a sea spirit. Everyone knows they turn to water the second ye take them out the ocean."
The Wanderer blinked in simulated surprise, and Elliott and Sally had to remind themselves that the Courier was in no way shape or form the product of the civilised society they had been born into and shaped by. Sometimes, he said some very strange things.
"…A very valid point. I also doubt that she is a result of the radiation. From what I've managed to decrypt and subsequently translate, the Zetan listed her pod as having been sealed for substantially longer than humanity has possessed the technology necessary for genetic engineering. Or for natural mutation due to background radiation from the Great War. Which, I think, neatly undercuts all our previous hypotheses."
Sally and Elliott turned their attention to the only man in the room old enough to remember such a time. Toshiro Kago, the only one of those present in the room who had remained silent from the beginning, stood motionless to the side of the door leading in and out of the infirmary. Once a Samurai during the final years of the Sengoku Jidai, he now served the Wanderer in all things that Chauncy delegated to him. His scarred hands rested on the hilts that emerged from his sash, the katana the Wanderer had returned to him, contained in its lacquered wooden sheath next to the shocksword that had once belonged to General Jingwei Bao. The shocksword, a gift from the Wanderer who worried that the Samurai's arsenal was lacking the advantages of modern technology, was put in place of the traditional honour blade.
He had no comment to make, and though nowadays he both spoke and understood English, he hardly every strayed from his native tongue. He ignored their gaze, keeping his eyes on the mutant who had harmed his Master during his absence, as if she might attempt to grab one of the scalpels from the medical trolley not far from the bed and stab the Wanderer while he was in his vulnerable state, combat programming saved to his storage archive.
"Just how long ago are we talkin' here, Wanderer?"
The cyborg met the Couriers grey eyes with his own black orbs and simulated a shrug.
"Subject to errors in my understanding of the Zetan language, calendar and numerical system, I believe somewhere in the region of three thousand years."
They all turned to look at the being sitting on the bed in front of them. A living being, that was more than three thousand years old. They tried to wrap their minds around the enormity of the discovery. It dwarfed the technical ages of even the oldest of them, who felt the weight of the many years spent in Cryo heavily. Now, those years felt rather paltry in comparison to this.
"It must be an alien," Elliott finally ventured to state, "She's too old to be a mutant, too different in her genetic structure to be human."
"Which brings me back to my original point, that you are blameless in this instance Elliott. I suspected most of this before I programmed Omega to open that pod. I made assumptions of her combat capabilities based on recorded human maximums and programmed Omega with a framework of responses and failsafe's that considered all the likely scenarios. All fundamentally flawed. He had no response for her psionics that would have preserved both our lives. The instances of human entities with similar abilities are few and far between, or I might have given the possibility more consideration."
"Wait, there are humans who can do the things she can?" Sally asked eagerly.
"Some," Chauncy confirmed, "I know a mutant who has a psychic connection to an entire forest of trees. During my travels, I also met a Pre-War scientist who had through means of transplanting his brain into a massive computer system, given himself the ability to project thoughts and psychic commands over long distances. I've also had run-ins with entities that I suspect are of a more… occult nature."
Before any of those present could enquire further into this, he switched his attention to the Courier.
"I'm sure you've had similar encounters."
"I've been around. Shaman and wise men, plenty of both in Asia and Africa, and in some parts of Old Europa. Picked up a few tricks here an' there myself. The Brains' in the Big Empty, you already know of them. Then o' course, you have the likes of the Master, and Unlucky Thirteen. 'Tis an old story, but true. Met a few Mutants by way of Jacobstown who served in the Masters' army. They confirm the parts of the tale that speak of the Master havin' powers not of mortal ken."
"The Master?"
"Unlucky Thirteen?" Elliott and Sally enquired in unison.
"The Master was a mutant, exposed to the FEV during an expedition into the ruins of the Mariposa Military Base on the West Coast. The base grew out of the then-defunct Fort Ord in California, if that means anything to you, Elliott."
"No, I was conscripted from New York," Elliott ventured slowly, "I did my basic training in Fort Hamilton, before I was deployed to Anchorage."
"Well, that facility was being used by West Tek in collaboration with the US Army, for research into the Pan-Immunity Virion Project. Their attempts to push the boundaries of what constituted human capabilities as a defence against viral or bacterial infection, radiation and spreading conflict resulted in what we know today as the FEV virus. To be clear, this was the FEV-II strain, not to be confused with the EEP strain used to create the mutants you are familiar with," The Wanderer clarified to both Elliott and Sally.
"This is relevant, as the EEP strain causes an almost uniform loss of higher brain function and intellect. Most mutants created via exposure to the EEP strain originating from Vault 87 are violent monsters with limited intelligence and an impaired capacity for long term memory retention. I only know of two examples that break this pattern. The FEV-II strain, by contrast, has been known to increase the intellect of certain, remarkable individuals. The most notable being the Master, and the man colloquially referred to as 'Unlucky Thirteen'."
The Wanderer smiled politely at his audience, "The mutant I mentioned earlier, the one with an unusual psychic connection to a forest, was also one of these examples, and the one who originally told me the story behind the Master. Apparently Harold knew him before their shared exposure to the virus at Mariposa."
"You know a mutant named Harold," the Courier chuckled with amusement, finding great amusement in the seemingly innocuous detail.
"I'm not entirely sure what his real name is. He has several that he cycles through whenever the fancy strikes him."
"And Unlucky Thirteen?" Elliott repeated his question, looking between the two formidable figures of the Wanderer and the Courier, feeling slightly out of his depth next to their deep wells of information and experience.
"Albert Cole," the Courier stated, all traces of his former humour retreating from his visage, "The Vault Dweller. All ye need to know 'bout Unlucky Thirteen lad, is if you see an old man wanderin' the wastes with the number thirteen written on his back, ya turn right 'round and go back the other way. Fast as ye can."
Elliott, looking to the Wanderer to see if this new information was being exaggerated, only received a grim nod of confirmation in return from his friend.
"Even I know not to trifle with that man," The Courier concluded his statement.
"And you are the type to trifle with people, huh?"
Elliott turned to smile at Somah, who now entered the Infirmary to join them. She drew back in surprise at finding Toshiro standing next to the door like the world's most forbidding statue, but with a shake of her head at the Japanese man's oddities, she walked over to Elliott and inserted herself into his arms, laying her head against his chest by way of a greeting. Her dark skin and close-cropped hair stood in stark contrast to Elliott's white lab coat and long blonde locks.
"Well, I've mopped out the Cryobay with Paulson and jettisoned that Mutant out the airlock. You boys put a few new dents in the walls and ruptured a few pods. Thankfully, the owners died as soon as the fluid leaked out, or you'd have been fighting a whole mess of ghouls and raiders."
"Waste o' good food is what it is," The Courier grumbled in the background, "Right witch, shovin' a man's meat out into space."
Somah ignored the comment. Once upon a time she had been a slaver, and during that time she had known and worked alongside many odd characters. Maybe not cannibals, but the Courier's reputation and the good word of the Wanderer meant she made allowances for the Couriers' eccentricities. That, and the grey haired wastelander gave the Wanderer, and by extension her, access to technological marvels of the old world that few outside of a very select group had ever laid eyes upon.
"Thank you, Somah. And what about Paulson? Does he want to be here to discuss these new developments?"
"You know Paulson. He doesn't know, and doesn't want to know," Somah summarised succinctly, "He's gone off to the Research Deck to run through the firing range simulation. Again."
"As always," Chauncy acknowledged, "Since you were absent, Somah, I'll summarise what you've missed. Our guest is an alien, she is currently catatonic, and we are about to discuss ways to wake her up."
"The alien's lost her feckin' marbles and we need to help her pick 'em back up," the Courier paraphrased jovially.
"Huh…"
Somah glanced upwards at Elliott's downturned face for confirmation. He nodded, "It's true."
"I thought all the aliens were grey and stumpy. Is she another one of their experiments? They were turning humans into those…things, that they kept on the research deck. In those cells you opened up while we were setting up to attack the bridge. Were they turning some of themselves into these things?"
"No, after running a comparison with a human dataset, I compared it with a Zetan. It was my secondary theory. It was subsequently ruled out. And psychic powers aside, I cannot see why they would want to turn one of their own into…this."
"Well, just look at her," the Courier opined, miming the grabbing of his own chest, "I can think o' two reasons right off the top o' me head."
Elliott rolled his eyes at the casual crudity, while Somah shook her head sceptically. "I don't think those aliens cared much about sex. I'm not even sure they had the parts for it. We cleaned a lot of bodies out after the fight to take the ship. The Zetan were like old pre-war dolls."
"I'm of the same opinion," Chauncy agreed, "My research suggests they made extensive alterations to their own genetic structure in pursuit of more efficient habitation in a space-bound environment. Smaller physical bodies to limit consumption of rations, and to cut down on oxygen usage. Larger cranial structure to facilitate high brain power. A removal of any sexually related organs in what I assume was a calculated effort to control population growth. They even seemed to have adapted themselves to make better use of cryostasis. Their sleeping quarters contained variants on the Cryopods we've already showed you, Six, made for increased comfort. We pulled them out some years ago when we refurnished the crew quarters for our own use. I theorise that they adapted their brains and bodies to be incapable of sleep without the pods. This helped them to maintain work output and streamlined crude biological processes."
"And this all boils down to one thing: she isn't one of the Zetan," Somah finished for him, "Then where did she come from?"
They paused to consider this. All of those present felt that they were on the cusp of something far greater than they had ever been involved in before. The Zetan had proven hostile, and for many years the chapter of human history concerning the discovery of alien life had been considered closed, a resolution reached and cemented in place by the destruction of one alien spacecraft and the capture of the Zeta in the battle that had been seen all over the world, as a giant fireball blossomed in the sky.
Any contact with the Zetan from that day onwards had been sporadic at best, and the Wanderer had kept a watchful vigil. It seemed that after all these years, the book had finally been reopened. His central processor hummed and whirred, propelled by the most fundamental and integral part of his programming. The man he used to be had sacrificed everything he was and everything he might have ever been to create him.
He was the lonely Sentinel. As Three Dog once put it, The Last, Best Hope for Humanity.
He could not predict if all he had worked to rebuild would survive contact with another alien race, especially if they turned out to be as technologically advanced as the Zetan, or as malevolent. He would have to find out.
"That is not a question even I can answer," The Wanderer confessed to his companions, "But we have a responsibility to find out. And I'm aware of only one place we can be sure to find answers."
He focused his gaze openly on the alien women sitting on the infirmary bed, to make it abundantly plain the track his thoughts ran upon.
"Not to be all Negative Nancy here," Somah said, which was a sure sign that she was about to be one, "But we kind of traumatised her into a basket case. I don't think we'll be talking with her anytime soon."
"I'm confident we can manage something. Prior to the war some promising work was being done with electroconvulsive therapy…"
"Yes Chauncy, that's a wonderful suggestion," Elliott said with a heavy layer of sarcasm, "Let's just cut open my patients skull and jam live electrical wires into her brain. Just to make absolutely certain that we cause a diplomatic incident with the new alien race."
"Open brain surgery is not strictly required," the Wanderer clarified, seeking to allay any concerns, "It would only be a mild course of a hundred volts or so in five second bursts. If by some unfortunate series of events the subject does manage to die during such a relatively benign treatment, I must remind you that she has been missing for close to three thousand years. I'm sure anyone among her people who might come looking for her, already believes her to be long dead."
"Chauncy," Elliott ground out in what was for him an extremely severe tone of voice, "If you kill my patient, I will wait until you are under Alpha Protocols, strap you to my operating table, and cut you open like a medical school cadaver."
"I was not saying that I would go out of my way to kill her," The Wanderer clarified, simulating surprise at the hostile response, "I was simply clarifying that it would be very unlikely to cause a diplomatic incident."
"Sure, 'twas your ugly mug that caused the last incident. Only reason you or her isn't smeared 'cross a wall right now is 'cause I was there to talk the lass out of it."
The Wanderer looked at the Courier through more simulated surprise. If he still possessed the human ability to feel emotion, he would be feeling rather put upon in this moment. "It is true that my physical appearance is somewhat off-putting. Since my more obvious upgrades, I have delegated much of my face-to-face negotiations to intermediaries. It has never been an issue before…"
He looked to Somah and Elliott for support. Elliott grimaced and looked away, while Somah held out her hands in front of her with a conciliating, if rather pained smile. "Uhh, it's pretty bad kid. Not going to lie."
The cyborg turned to Toshiro, whose absolute focus on the catatonic alien became, if possible, even more acute.
"Very well, I see I shall have to look into more comprehensive upgrades to rectify this issue." If a humanoid cyborg with no emotions to speak of could sound prim, Chauncy managed it. "Courier, we had several collaborative operations scheduled for today. If you don't object, I think it may be best to reschedule, or better still to place them on hold entirely until I have resolved this situation."
"Not a bother at all. This is more interestin' than railway lines or crop rotations in either case. But when you say 'I', I'm assumin' you actually mean 'we'?"
"If you wish to observe, I will not try and prevent you. You have free access to the Zeta as we agreed, just as I have access to the Big Mountain Research Facilities, as per our arrangement."
"Of course," the Courier agreed with great good humour, "But what I mean is, as I've said before, if a comely alien lass is involved then I very much wish to be involved alongside her. And not for nothin', I think you could use my help."
"I don't quite follow. I thought our agreement already stipulated my access to the Big MT facilities…"
"That's all fine and dandy, sure, but I didn't say the help of the Brains, did I? I said my help."
"Of course we appreciate the offer, Six," Elliott coughed and tried to phrase his statement diplomatically. "But both the Wanderer and myself are competent medical professionals, and we have access to a wide range of facilities and resources. And, well…. you're not exactly known as a scientist. You're a tribal. The only thing you have to offer that we might need are the facilities at Big Mountain."
"Lies and slander," the Courier cried out in his most bombastic voice, "I not a tribal see, I'm from a clan, ain't I."
There was a brief pause as cogwheels turned in multiple minds. Finally, Somah tendered the question that they were all thinking in her usual, blunt fashion. "What the fuck is the difference?"
"I'm shocked an' appalled by your ignorance," the tribal wastelander intoned gravely, "Spelt different."
He reached inside the pocket of his combat pants and retrieved his necklace from the depths, placed there while he cleaned the blood from his body. "Here's a touch o' clan wisdom for ye. Sometimes," he intoned, pulling the sprig of datura root from among the strange collection that hung from the leather cord, "One of the clan would fall into a sleep so deep that we could not wake them. An' the Shaman would say your man is trapped in the Nightmare."
The Courier made an intricate motion with his hand, and with a flourish produced a Zippo lighter that appeared in his hand, which he proceeded to toss into the air. It spun upwards, artificial lighting glinting on the dull, tarnished surface, only to be snatched out of the air as it reached the zenith of it flight. In one fluid motion he had the lid open and lit the datura afire. He smirked and flipped the lighter closed again.
His audience watched closely, entranced despite their scepticism that this would lead anywhere aside from more of the theatrics the Courier seemed so fond of.
The old tribal swept the burning sprig from side to side under his own nose, leaving distinct trails of smoke drifting and dissipating in the air. He inhaled deeply, still smirking as if he knew the punchline to a joke the rest of them had never heard.
"An' the only way to wake a soul trapped in the Nightmare," he continued with a significant look, before stepping across to the medical bed and holding the sprig of burning datura under the aliens nose, "Is to make them Dream."
They stared at the burning sprig and the curling smoke for a pregnant moment, expectantly looking for a reaction. A second passed, and the small sprig of datura started burning the Couriers' fingers. He didn't give any indication that he minded however and held the spring steady as the smoke was pulled up into the aliens nostrils.
"Look," Sally whispered into the silent room.
The alien's leg twitched, and in the suffocating silence of the room, they heard her as she inhaled audibly. The smoke vanished into her mouth, only to reappear as she exhaled a deep breath.
Then the sprig burnt out entirely, and the Courier leaned back with a satisfied expression on his bearded face, pinching the tip of his tongue to cool his scorched fingers. Elliott breathed out a shaky breath, and Somah whistled, "Where can I get some of that stuff."
"I'll hook ye up, sister," The Courier winked, slyly tapping the side of his nose with one blackened index finger.
Chauncy cocked his head to one side and observed the alien closely for any signs of consciousness. She didn't move again, still staring at nothing in particular. "Interesting," he concluded, switching his attention to the Courier and regarding him thoughtfully, "Do you have more?"
The Courier grinned, "If there's one thing I have in abundance Wanderer, it's drugs. Let me get my duffle."
In no time at all the Courier was back with his pre-war, US Army issue duffle bag. Despite protests, Somah and Sally had left in Toshiro's company. None of them were judged to have anything to add to the proceedings, and as the Wanderer put it, the fewer unfamiliar faces the alien had to deal with if the Courier managed to wake her up, the better. Said Courier was busily tending to a small portable stove, upon which he was boiling a foul-smelling concoction of datura root, purified water, and several other strange additions. Most notably, two carefully chopped glowing mushrooms.
Elliott, who was once more internally convinced that he was the only sane human being present in the room, was currently attempting to reason with the two wastelanders. Due to them both being extremely stubborn, pig-headed fools however, he was making little progress.
"I just don't think it's a good idea to feed undocumented alien life glowing mushrooms!"
"I assure you Elliott, they are perfectly safe to ingest. I myself have eaten these on many occasions."
"You're a fucking cyborg!"
"This was prior to my cybernetic upgrades."
"Why in god's name were you eating glowing mushrooms in the first place?!"
"Research."
Elliott wrung his hands in front of the Wanderers expression of polite enquiry, despairing for the sanity of the world, and more importantly, for himself.
"Research for what?! They're glowing mushrooms, growing in a highly radioactive wasteland! What do you need, a giant billboard saying, "Warning: May Cause Cancer?!" You metal-headed moron!"
Turning away from the cyborgs expression of polite understanding, the doctor moaned in exasperation, "A totem pole? Really?!"
The Courier shrugged, holding up the carved wooden chunk about the length of Elliott's forearm. In the Courier's hands, it looked to be the size of a child's toy. It was cut in the traditional style of native American tribals, the stylised heads of geckos, yao guai, bighorners, horses and praying mantises. All the animals that symbolised the original tribes of Zion. Sitting atop the pole in a position of honour, and prime importance to the carver, there was a carving of a figure standing at the mouth of a cave, dressed in a long coat, holding a rifle at the ready.
"Aye, a totem pole. Sorrows' gave it me, in return for tellin' them a tale 'bout their Father. It's traditional!"
"Traditional? How is it traditional for you?! I thought you were from Europe! That's a Native American carving!"
"Aye, I'm from Old Europe, or there abouts. But we don't want to be goin' about this the same why my clan did."
"Why not? What about your old, wise shaman, or whatever?" Elliott questioned.
"We don't want to go to all this trouble wakin' the lass up, only to traumatise her all over again, now do we. Would you be liking to wake up to a bunch o' heads and cocks cut off an' stuck on poles?"
Elliott leaned back, thoroughly repulsed by the mental image.
"Why would you do that?!"
"T'were the only parts we didn't eat o' course. That would be disgustin'."
"That'swhere you draw the line," Elliott exclaimed in a voice that was getting noticeably shriller and more hysterical by the second.
"Listen lad, I know you Pre-War folks had weird ideas and customs an' all, but I'm not eatin' another man's genitals. Even if he is no longer attached to them. An' everyone knows ya don't eat the brain. Liable to give you the Shakes."
"But why put them on poles in the first….no, nevermind. Nevermind," Elliott gave up, rubbing the bridge of his nose to ward away his rapidly growing headache, "I don't care, just use the damn totem pole."
"Thankin' ye greatly, your highness, I'm sure. I'll get right on that."
Six plucked the metal mug from the stove, took a deep, experimental sniff, and sighed with satisfaction. "Aye, now dats the stuff. Quick, Wanderer, get the funnel. I'll hold her mouth open and you shove it down her throat!"
Meanwhile, within the confines of her own mind and happily safe from any knowledge of what the three wasteland stooges were doing to her in the waking world, Lantaya sat, shrouded in darkness. A bone-numbing cold seeped through her body, chilling her to her core. Primordial shapes and gibbering sounds surrounded her on all sides, flittering around in the darkness. The distant roar of terrifying green giants, and the cackling laughter of savage aliens, some with tangled grey fur, and others with coal black eyes, horribly scarred and disfigured. A memory of being tied down by metal restraints, as tiny grey beings poked and prodded her with cruel metal implements.
She could feel all of this, pressing in on her from all sides, heavy and suffocating. She kept her eyelids screwed shut against the blackness, a childish part of her psyche convinced that as long as she kept her eyes closed tight, the darkness around her and the beasts that dwelt within could not harm her.
Then a memory of coal black orbs, around which the waxy white skin had been peeled away like strips of dead flesh came unbidden to her mind, and she flinched at every imagined touch, convinced that at any moment the knife would cut into her eyelids, tearing them from her skull to make way for the tendrils of ice-cold ink that would slither across the surface of her brain. She couldn't be trapped down there again, where pieces of herself vanished, consumed by the hungry darkness, until nothing remained but her eyes, suspended in the void, unable to do anything except watch. Unable to scream.
Past the sounds of the void, and the imagined feeling of the darkness trying to find a gap in her skin exposed to the outside, so that it might worm its way like a burrowing parasite under her skin, she felt a warmth begin to spread. Starting somewhere in the region of her throat, and migrating downwards through her chest to its destination, at the very centre of her being, it radiated heat throughout her body.
Already pulled up into herself, knees flush with her chest and arms wrapped around them with her face concealed from the darkness behind a barrier of her own limbs, her grip tightened with cataleptic strength. Desperately, as if she could hold the warmth within her, so that the darkness could not reach it and swallow it up, leaving her chilled to the bone once more.
The crushing pressure of the darkness lessoned, as if the heat radiating outwards from her skin was pushing it back, forming a protective barrier around her hunched form and the sounds of the chittering, gibbering terrors retreated to what felt like a safer distance, still unseen. Sweet, blessed relief.
Lantaya hugged the warmth within herself cherishing its presence as the nightmare faded away around her. The warmth was within her now, without her, beyond and behind her, above and below. Almost as if she were lying in an expanse of warm sand, with blazing rays of sun caressing her skin from on high. Snuggling down into the soothing coarseness, she felt grateful for the reprieve. No longer trapped with eyes wide open in the darkness, the blissful repose of sleep denied to her, but unable to truly wake.
Peace.
Peace….
"Wakey, wakey sleepyhead."
Her eyes opened to the scorching brightness of the sun. She grimaced, shading her eyes with a hand, staring at the bright blue sky above her. Clouds drifted lazily across her vision, and a figure stood above her, eclipsing the brightness.
Stretching herself out and feeling the satisfying pop of her spinal column responding to the motion, she squinted at the intruder upon her revelry. Something about its outline was strangely outlandish, distinctly Un-Asari-like in it's appearance and size. Her mind brushed over these details however, smoothing out that which couldn't be reconciled with the whole. "Do you mind? You're blocking my sun."
The intruder glanced backwards over it's shoulder at the sun, hanging proudly in the Thessian sky, illuminating the public beach and the revellers in its comforting warmth. It turned back with a shrug, "Sure, not a bother at all. Nice place you have here, lass."
Lantaya blinked, wondering how to respond. It was a public beach and could hardly be referred to as 'her' place. She settled on the diplomatic and non-committal, "Thank you, I've been coming here for a long time. I enjoy my time here."
The figure stepped out of the way of the midday sun and, instead of moving away and leaving her to her own devices, sat down with a heavy thump and stretched itself out next to her. Lantaya grimaced internally, cursing herself for deciding to visit the beach, rather than staying in her lab at the Attena Academy, safely ensconced within it's walls.
Resigning herself to the expected social niceties, she plastered on her best Matriarch's smile and addressed her new companion. "I don't believe we've met. I am Matriarch Lantaya. And you are?"
"Courier Six," the reply came from between grinning white teeth, and suddenly her mind was assaulted by a string of images. Bloody lips drawn back over sharp canines. Clenched fists striking exposed flesh with crushing force. A figure walking a lonely, deserted road into the middle distance, long coat fluttering in the breeze. Six messengers standing idly in a dark room, as a small, coin-like object was placed into a waiting palm. The sixth of six. 'Sergent Pearse, viens ici maintenant!'
She blinked in confusion, the vision fading away as quickly as it came. It felt almost like a melding, but somehow not. Banishing it from her mind, she moved the conversation along to be free of the conversation as soon as possible and go back to her nap. "You're name is "The Sixth Messenger"? That is a very unique name. I don't believe I've ever heard it before."
Her companion chuckled, a deep, base sound that rumbled up through its chest like a distant landslide. "Messenger? Sure, suppose I am one at that. I've delivered many a message in my time. What about you? What are you when you're not sunbathin'?"
Lantaya frowned at the question. It was oddly phrased. She, like most Asari had lived for long enough that the many fields she had gained a measure of competence in were somewhat difficult to disclose over the coarse of a single sitting. The most common phrasing of such a question was, 'What holds your attention currently?'
"I'm a researcher at the Attena Academy. My focus is the mapping and exploration of the Mass Relays. Though I have involved myself in many other walks of life in my time. I'm something of a philosopher, actually."
"Philosopher? So, you're a wise women then?"
An old, withered hag, eyes rolling back into her skull. Fragrant smoke packed into the walls of a wooden hut, swirling up under thatched roofs. 'The flesh of the dead is the strength of the living.'
Lantaya blinked in confusion, wondering if she was being mocked. It would certainly be a change from the usual dullness of most conversations. Everyone was always so diplomatic and non-committal, especially her fellow Matriarchs. Always full of 'maybe's' and 'possibly's', never a confirmation or a denial. "Some think wisdom is my due. I am a Matriarch, after all. But I have never liked the presumption that age, and wisdom are necessarily the same."
"Sure, there's a fair bit o' truth in that. Oi, you there!"
The Courier's voice echoed oddly about the beach as he flagged down a passing server, dressed in the gossamer thin beach dress popular among the influential and stylish. She smiled politely, holding out her bowl filled with fragrant elasa. Along the sides of the bowl, numerous ornate mugs were hung by hooked handles that rested in specially formed divots. By tradition, you were expected to address the server before taking your drink, but the Courier barged up to her and slipped two of the mugs into the bowl with seemingly no compunctions whatsoever, filling the mugs to the brim and walking away with a backwards shout of, "Thankin' ye kindly, lass."
Lantaya held a hand over her mouth to mask her amusement at the server's expression of concealed surprise, mouthing the words of acknowledgement and polite greeting that she had been robbed of the chance to say in such an abrupt fashion, her mouth still sent the words tumbling forth on autopilot, even though no-one was there to listen. The words trailed off and the Asari server turned around and stumbled off, thoroughly caught off guard.
"Here, have a sup' of this. These folks seem like a nice lot, free drinks and all."
"Indeed," Lantaya agreed politely, looking into her mug with a raised eyebrow, which crinkled in hesitation. "I didn't realise the servers carried elasa. I would have thought they would carry something sweeter. Yalthe juice, maybe."
"Ye don't like it?" The Courier enquired, taking a hefty swing of his own mug, and smacking his lips audibly. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
"No," she corrected him quickly, "I love it. It's an acquired taste, however. Many think it is too bitter. They call it Sorrow's Companion."
Another vision engulfed her. Children crying at the edge of a river. Threats circling from all sides. A guardian standing vigil from the shadows. 'Forgive me Mama'.
She took a sip, savouring the pale green liquid. Although sharp and cold, it did nothing to tame the heat that still radiated from her belly. "I think it's perfect for hot days. It's one of my favourites."
They sat companionably, looking out at the bright Thessian ocean stretching off to the horizon, as the sun illuminated the droplets of surf like glittering gemstones. Their fellow beachgoers formed a comforting background of indistinct voices, blending in with the soporific, steady sound of the waves lapping at the smooth expanse of sand.
"Tis like something out of a story," the Courier commented. "Do you get to come 'ere every day?"
"I suppose it is rather idyllic. I've never thought about it before," she replied, between mouthfuls of elasa, "No, I'm actually rather a shy person. I spend most of my time occupied with my work. I don't even have the correct clothes for the beach," she gestured awkwardly at her tight-fitting underclothes from her time as a huntress, emblazoned with the icon of an old-fashioned songblade, backed with a floral wreath of Aha leaves. It was the nearest, most practical alternative she had to the more traditional flowing dress used as beachwear these days.
"And you? Do you come to beaches often?"
"Who, me? Nah, I'm here on business. Deliverin' a message."
A purposeful stride through a doomed cathedral to the violence of an old, dead world. Giants standing ready to deliver their final message to the unsuspecting. 'You came all this way for answers. Only currency I have.'
"Who for, if you don't mind my asking?"
"For you o' course," the Courier chuckled, "I'd hardly be sittin' here talkin' with you without reason, now would I?"
"Ohh, I apologise," she ran the conversation back in her mind, realising that Six had probably approached her to pass on a message, and she had immediately cut him off.
"I'm so sorry, I did not realise. Did the Academy send you? What is the message?"
"That you need to wake up. Ya need to open your eyes."
A crowd of arguing figures, pushing, shoving, trampling. Raised voices. The palpable smell of violence and hot tempers. 'The clan needs to open its damn eyes, stop livin' in the past!'
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You're dreamin', lass. You need to wake up," the Courier repeated, taking another swig of his drink.
"I'm clearly not dreaming. We are sitting on a beach, drinking elasa, surrounded by others. And I also clearly have my eyes wide open. I'm looking right at you," the Matriarch countered, quirking the corner of her mouth in expectant amusement. She was enjoying this odd conversation despite herself. It felt something like the beginning of a drama vid. Maybe Six was a student under one of her philosophical contemporaries, trying to engage her in some sort of verbal sparring match.
Was this the beginning of an argument about the structure of reality and self-awareness?
"Lani, may I call you Lani?"
"You may," she acquiesced in a gentle tone.
"If your not dreamin', then how did you get here?"
Lantaya began to reply, but stopped suddenly, her mouth hanging open. She usually walked from the Academy to here when the mood for sun and relaxation struck her. She usually very much enjoyed the walk down the ocean side promenade, lush with cultivated flora. It was odd then, that she could remember nothing of the walk here.
"I'm…I'm sure I walked here, as always." She cast around for her clothes, that she generally left in a pile nearby when she stripped down to sunbath. They were nowhere to be seen. Her quirked lip lowered, and her heart dropped. She hadn't lost her clothes, of all things, had she? They had her identification card for her lab in them.
"Is that right? Like always, is it? And how is it that on a day when you can't quite recall comin' here, the serving girl just 'appens to be serving your favourite drink? Somethin' that you can't remember them ever doin' before?"
"That doesn't mean anything. It's just a drink," Lani argued back.
"And how is it that, if this is real, no-one has said nothin' yet about how I look?"
Lantaya blinked at the sudden non sequitur. "What about how you look, are they supposed to comment on exactly?"
"What do I look like," the Courier asked, "Describe me."
"You want me to…describe you, to yourself?"
"Aye, go on. Have a go."
"Well…." She tried. She really did. But no matter how much she focused on the Courier, she could neither make out the features of the figures face or the characteristics of the body. The clothes were equally obscure to her. Even the memory of her brief moment of uneasiness when she first made out the outline of the Couriers' form against the sun was like a fleeting memory, like smoke on the breeze.
"Ye can't do it, can ya?" She had the impression of lips pulled back over bright white teeth, mocking her inability to perform a task that should have been simple to do.
She looked around her. Taking in the midday sun, illuminating the waves in a way that was, suddenly, just a little too perfect to her eyes. The droplets only glittered that way when the sun was rising directly behind them. The flying droplets didn't even form when the tide was this gentle.
The gossamer dresses were all wrong. The prevailing fashion had changed many, many times since those dresses had been worn by so many. These were the beach dresses of her youth, held up by a collar around the neck. She remembered the very year that the fashionable style changing to a single strap that cut across to the opposite shoulder. She even met the designer who coined the style, many years later at a party in Serrice.
She looked at her underclothes, remembering the day when she had thrown them into the trash in a fit of rage, after her old huntress leader had spoken out against her, citing disagreements with her controversial philosophical views.
'Who are you who don't know your history?'
"This isn't real," she whispered.
Switching her attention back to her strange, otherworldly companion, she fixed it with her most penetrating gaze. "If none of this is real, then are you real?"
The deep chuckle again, far too deep to come from a Asari throat, she finally realised. "Real, not real," the Courier waved its arm dismissively, "Who can tell."
"It's a simple, yes or no question," the Matriarch snapped.
"Ohh, is it now?" The Courier sprang up and struck one of the passing beachgoers with a vicious backhand blow that Lantaya, despite all her years as a Huntress, had trouble following with the naked eye. She cried out in alarm but could not spring up in time to prevent the blow landing. The Asari burst into smoke, dissipating on the sea breeze like vapor. The smell of datura filled the air. "If this isn't real then, why did ye get up! Why did ye cry out! If this isn't real, why are ye afraid!"
She backed away as the Courier advanced upon her suddenly, looming over her as it hissed its next words into her face, "If this isn't real, then why don't ye go back down into the darkness, face down your demons. What are ye afraid of?"
A battle line of grim soldiers, marching to their deaths in the name of a new-born nation. 'Kǒngjù zài wǒmen xīnzhōng méiyǒu lìzú zhī dì.'
Lantaya licked her dry lips, and reflexively looked for her mug of elasa. It lay in the sand, it's contents turning the ground a darker shade of brown. "If this is a dream, then how do I wake up?"
"You've stared for too long into the Dream. It's not a place for those o' mortal ken to call their own. It belongs to the dead, and those that never lived."
The Courier backed away and started walking away up the beach. "Come along with me, lass. I can show ye the road out o' here. You'll have to walk it yourself."
Lani stared after the Courier for a moment, then glanced back over her shoulder at where she had been sitting. The beachgoers chattered, the sun sent down it's golden rays, and the faintly sweet aftertaste of the bitter elasa stuck in the back of her throat.
"Well? What're ye waiting for? Come on now, we'll walk an' talk."
She spun back around and pursued the Couriers retreating back. It took her a few seconds. The Courier walked with long, even strides that ate up the distance at a far greater pace than her comparatively short legs. As soon as she caught up, the Courier continued on with the cryptic explanation.
"The Dream is the home of the spirits, those from beyond and behind, from above and below, within and without. They live within all things, give all life. Their home is where they keep their knowledge. Since they exist in all things, they know all. And ye came here, looked for too long, and took knowledge ye weren't ready for. As punishment, you were banished to the Nightmare."
Lantaya blinked at the flood of semi-intelligible, spiritualist language, and shook her head. "I'm not a religious person, Courier. If you expect me to believe I'm trapped in a spiritual realm inhabited by fantastical beings, you'll need to try quite hard to convince me."
"I don't give a tinkers damn what ye believe, Lani. You're trapped in a Dream, inside a Nightmare, and you need to pass a test to get out. If ye don't believe that, then that's grand. It remains true in fuckin' spite of you."
She reigned in her first instinct to argue against this but shut her mouth. What the Courier said was true. The truth was true in spite of what people believed. And it would remain so, no matter how deluded this messenger was about it.
"Why are you here? Are you a part of my subconscious? Some sort of figment of my imagination? And why are you helping me."
"I'm here to help you. And for a given definition o' real, I'm just as real as you are. And I'm helpin' ye because I made an oath in front of the spirits to do so. An' an Oath in sight of the spirits is sacred."
"Do you always speak in riddles and spiritualistic rambles, or is this just for my benefit?"
"Sure, the shaman who taught me said I had to keep up appearances. Have to act the part, don't I."
Lantaya shook her head and rolled her eyes. Suddenly, the sand in front of them burst upwards in a geyser of howling wind and whipping sand, blocking their path up the beach with a wall that seemed for all the world like a localised sand storm. She shielded her face, and stopped in her tracks, but her companion continued on at a brisk pace. "Don't stop. It won't do nothin' to ya."
The Courier vanished through the churning wall of sand without a backwards glance.
Lani glanced backwards again, to see what the rest of the beach was making of this spectacle. The beach was completely devoid of life, serving bowls and abandoned clothes lying on the sand, while sunscreens and towels flapped forlornly in the salt air. The only sound was the whirling wall of sand behind her and the waves running up the beach. Even the distant sounds of pedestrians on the promenade had fallen silent, and she knew instinctively what she would find if she went to confirm their absence.
She turned around, pinched her nose and her eyes closed, and walked into the sand.
It didn't feel quite how she expected. The twisting, whirling wall of sand looked as if it would strip skin from her flesh like a blast of a biotic warp, but it felt as if she just stepped through a line of freshly washed laundry hung up to dry. She opened her eyes as soon as the sensation was gone.
The Courier stood in the middle of cracked road, stretching off into the middle distance, bisecting a desert that encompassed the world around them in its entirety. Sand, as far as the eyes could see. In some places on the road, sand had buried it up to thigh height. The very air smelt like a breath from ages past. It felt Empty, as if life had been sucked out of the land, and the ways in and out had been sealed from intrusion.
As she approached, the Courier held up an arm to bar her way. "No. Not that way. That's my road."
She stared past him, shaking her head. "It looks like a barren wasteland," she commented, "Where does it lead?"
"Where do any roads lead? To the end, o' course."
"Why are you following it?"
The Courier shrugged, "I always have. And, not for nothin', I'm a messenger. I have a message to deliver."
Lantaya looked at the horizon, listening to the wind whisper about spirits and curses, about shamans and wise men, about wars fought and battles won. About a world engulfed in nuclear fire. 'Thought carrying that Chip would end you, no… you got lives in you, hard to kill. Storms, bullets… sand and wind, yet still you walk. For now.'
She didn't know what it meant. "Who to?"
Lips peeled back over white teeth in a grim smile, "This message? At the end of this road? This one is for me. None other."
The Courier turned around and pointed back the way they had come, "You're road lies that way."
She turned to look. The darkness met her eyes, a deep pit that feel down and down into the blackness, like the void of space, arrayed in contrast to the sandy, sun-baked desert as earth was to sky, or darkness was to light. Both, equally inhospitable, but polar opposites in spite of their similarities. She heard the gibbering, chittering demons far below, welcoming her back to the Nightmare.
She took a step back, and turned back around, only for the Courier interposed itself between her and the safety of the desert beyond. "I don't want to go back," she told him.
"When I made that Oath to you, Lani, I said that the battle was done, and you had nothin' to fear," the Courier spoke, solemnly uttering each word as if each held its own, special significance, "It was a lie. I thought it were so, but it wasn't. The battles not done, and ye can't leave 'til it is. So go down there, face down your demons, and wake up."
The Matriarch gritted her teeth and nodded. She took a backwards step and watched as the sand burst upwards once more on the horizon and washed towards them like a tsunami. She held the Couriers grey eyes with her gaze and realised abruptly that this strange being that had plummeted into her life to point out that it was nothing more than a waking dream, might not even be real. It was a feeling that she had never experienced before. Certainly, their acquaintance, if you could even deign to call it so, had been nothing more than the moment between heartbeats, but in some way she could not entirely explain, it felt meaningful. Spurred on by this feeling, she asked her final question. "Will we see each other again?"
The Courier reached out and placed a hand on the side of her face, and for the first time she felt how worn it's fingers were. She had lived for more than nine hundred years, and even she did not have fingers that felt that old.
"If the Nightmare let's ye go, sure. Just remember, deep breaths, and whatever ye do, keep your eyes wide open."
Then the Courier put its hand on her chest and shoved her backwards into the pit. As freefall sent her stomach rising into her throat, she watched as the sand engulfed the horizon on all sides, entombing her below. The Courier, already turning away from her, was swallowed by the maelstrom.
And suddenly, she was there once more, curled up into herself like a frightened child. The darkness pressed in from all sides. The darkness closed in once more. The heat in her chest was dying out, and every instinct she had told her that once it was extinguished entirely, she would have lost her chance. She had her eyes closed.
She breathed deeply. Filling herself to the brim with air. Then again. And again, until the pressure in her chest built up like the beginnings of a storm. The pressure grew in her throat, and instead of the darkness trying to force its way in, she felt something trying to force its way out.
She opened her eyes. A room faded into view. A penlight flashed across her face, making her put up a hand to block it out with an involuntary grimace. It flickered out, and dropping her hand, she looked into grey eyes, and a bright white smile in the middle of a leathery, alien face.
"Welcome back, Lani."
Lani blinked, and despite of her confusion, smiled back at the figment of a half-remembered Dream, "Hello, Six."