The captured Legionaries stood in a ragged line outside the Fort's charred walls, stripped down to their underclothes and guarded by several of the Kaibabs and the Dead Horse. The shivered in the night air, dawn still being some way off. In front of the line, Joshua Graham, the Lone Wanderer, and the Courier stood observing them. They were all stripped to the waist, their clothes having been soaked in water from the Fort's well to get the worst of the blood out. Graham had retrieved a roll of linin bandages from their baggage to replace the ones soaked through with blood during the battle, and now looked more akin to the mythological figure the tribals and the Legion believed him to be than the gore encrusted eyesore he had been previously.
They met the Legionaries eyes each in turn, staring them down individually before moving to the next. Without armour nor weapons to protect them, the Legionaries cowered beneath their combined gaze. Finally, the Courier spoke. "Caesar is dead."
Heads turned from the now open gateway in and out of Fort Defiance, the chain of former Legion slaves that had hidden in the deepest and most secret holes and crevasses while the battle raged, only to emerge when the gunshots had trailed off and the screaming had reached a fever-pitch. They continued hauling the bodies out from the Fort, to be stripped of usable gear or clothing, searched for hidden valuables, then tossed into the firepit that already smoked and crackled with the bodies of dozens of Legionaries.
"Lanius is dead."
Some men flinched at the mention of the Monster of the East, the man who Ulysses once described as carrying all the horrors of the east into the west, to bring them down upon the NCR like a hammer. Horrors that all of these men knew well. They had been born with them, moulded by them, until the day the Legion finally came and told them to serve or die in their ranks. Lanius' name still held the weight of such a time.
"Vulpes is dead."
The leader of the Legion Frumentarii. A name that same tribals knew better than Lanius. The one that came to herald the Legion's coming. A sly fox that tricked and wheedled with his honeyed words, until the sweet turned abruptly sour, and what was given turned to ashes in the mouths of all who made the mistake of accepting Legion gifts.
"All dead," the Courier clarified, "At my hands. Their flesh is now my flesh. Their blood runs in my veins. Their spirits are mine to keep. Along with the spirits o' thousands o' yer fellow Legionaries. By right o' conquest, an' the dictate of the Old Ways."
The Courier took his tobacco pouch from his belt and made a roll-up under the eyes of those prisoners present, striding over to the firepit to light it from one of the smoking bodies. He leaned over the body, taking a whiff of the overwhelming scent of burnt flesh and hair. He took a deeper sniff as the datura added its fragrance to the mix and straightened up to blow a stream of the smoke high into the air. It lost itself against the night sky.
"Flagstaff will fall, an' Caesar's Legion will join the prestigious ranks o' great Nations that fell victim to the passage o' time. All things must come to an end, for good or ill. It is the way o' things. Ain't 'nough men left in Arizona to stage a campaign into my territory, nor enough to fight the men of the Cross."
A Texas Revelator nodded on the walls, cradling his rifle as he hummed the bars of a Church hymn, watching the spectacle between long bouts of scanning the horizon for Legion activity. On the Hospital roof, the squat form of the Browning .50 Calibre MG peaked out over the lip of the building, crewed and ready.
"Now 'ere ye stand before the new conquerors, in the wreckage o' all that Caesar built, an' ye wonder what it is to be done to ya," the King of New Vegas strode up and down the line, blowing smoke in each prisoners face and leaving a trail of it in his wake. Some coughed, Legionaries being prohibited from the imbibing of drugs or Chems, for recreational purposes or otherwise. "Some o' ye probably know or have seen what the Legion did to those who challenged them. How Lanius threatened the Hangdogs by burnin' their spirit hounds on pyres, to watch their ancestor's spirits burn in them flames for all eternity."
Any Hangdog's present nearby looked up, hot rage burning in their eyes at the memories they had been forced to endure for years under the rule of those who had threatened to do that which they held most taboo. The Legionaries in their line made a point to avoid their gaze, but some could help but look at a Hangdog who, overcome with emotion, picked up a Legionaries body and threw it with extra force onto the firepit. It exploded a shower of sparks as it crashed into the bodies that were already being reduced to blackened husks in the flames.
"How they betrayed an' hung those o' the Twisted Hair on the sides o' the Interstate 40 on the road to Mojave."
The Twisted Hair from earlier, the one who had inhaled so much blood during the battle that he was at risk of pneumonia, and thereby excused work duty, stared in grim implacability at the prisoners. He was wrapped in a blanket next to one of the few fires that were not being used to dispose of corpses. Tents had been erected on the outside of the Fort, away from the bodies that would certainly begin to smell long before they were all burned.
"How the Twin Mothers were destroyed an' absorbed into the Legion as breedin' stock, their only legacy the bitter drink ye all use to numb yer wounds."
None of the Twin Mothers still survived to condemn these Legionaries with their eyes for the destruction of their tribe, of their past. The erasure of all that they had been, or all that they even could have been in Caesar's habitual thorough cleaning of all identity that might challenge that of the Legion. They had died long ago, complications from the almost continual birthing of children for the Legion war effort. Caesar's cruel punishment of a tribe that valued peace and the adoption of the feminine aspect of nature. To be raped and perverted by the strength they spurned, taught the lessons of war by those who were favoured by its spirit.
But the eyes of the Dancing Skull tribal who had warned the Courier of the ambush peered out from behind the shutters of a gatehouse window took their place. Another of the slave girls who had been used against their will, exacting a final revenge against those who had taken what she had not wished to give, throwing her lot in with the enemy of her enemy.
"By all rights, by custom, ye lived by the sword an' ye should die by the sword. Those o' ye that have already reached the end o' their Road and found the sword waitin' for them," the Courier tipped his rollup against his forehead in a lazy salute to the bodies that were being burned, "We honour ye. May we all have the balls someday when the end comes. As for the rest o' ye…"
His grey eyes tracked up and down the line with the latent cunning of a man who knew well the threats posed by offering mercy when none was due. Somewhere, a Hangdog hound was howling at the air. Probably mourning the death of a packmate.
"Ye don't get to stand there an' pretend yer proud warriors, captured in honourable combat with a greater foe. None o' that shite."
He pointed to the bodies being tossed into the firepits. Some of the Legionaries in line followed his gesture, but most were looking at the ground, unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of the three assembled men any longer. "The brave died at the front, like all the best men usually do, see? All that we have 'ere are the cowards!"
The Courier took note of who flinched when he said his last word. Those would be the ones who had been started and chided by their Legion drill masters before, enough to flinch even when the word was spoken in a raised voice. "The spies an' Frumentarii!"
No visual indication of guilt would be seen. Legion Frumentarii being such a willy breed. Any Legion explorers would be trained to blend in with the rank and file, or with the local populace. Like the striped horses of African savannah, their camouflage was against the herd and not the surroundings. "An' lastly," the Courier intoned against the crunch of sandaled or booted feet that brought body after mutilated body through the gates of Fort Defiance under the eyes of their former comrades, "Those that never really loved nor believed in the Legion to begin with. The conscripts an' former slaves. Those o' ye who never signed yer pact with the spirit o' the Legion. An' today, right here, right now…"
His face spread into a wide grin, madness concealed deep within those steel-grey orbs, but not deep enough that those present couldn't see it's glint.
"…We're gonna separate out the wheat from the chaff."
With a beckoning figure he brought the Wanderer forward to the beginning of the line. All those present held their breath. The slaves and tribals hauling the bodies tried to be extra quiet with their work as to hear what transpired over the combined crunch of their feet, and the popping and sputtering of bubbling fat in the flames. The Legionary who stood there was sweeting like a pig from the fear, the stench of urine heavy around him from the yellow stream that ran down his legs. The Courier cocked his head to the side and grinned at the man through white teeth. The man's skin instantly drained of all colours, until it was almost as white as the Courier's molars.
"Coward," the Courier proclaimed. Not knowing if this was a good or a bad judgement for his continued survival, the Legionary quailed against the flint-hard eyes that levelled themselves against him, his own eyes fixed on the ground in the vain hope that if he did not see the Monster of the West, his life would be spared. So engrossed was he in his fear he did not notice the two men stride past him until they were at the next men.
This one stood taller than the first, meeting the Courier's eyes levelly. The Courier looked him up and down with a measuring gaze. "Coward, Spy, or Conscript?"
There was a perceptible pause, during which the Wanderer's coal-black eyes scanned the man's vital processes with laser focus and precision. "Conscript," the man replied eventually. The Courier sniffed the man, straining his senses to pick up his heartbeat, the twitch of facial muscles. He grinned and nodded after meeting the Wanderer's eyes and receiving a nod of confirmation, then walked past to the next. Up the line they went, asking the same simple question over and over. It was a short line compared to what it could have been. Out of the four hundred or more Legionaries stationed at this raiding outpost in the middle of the malpais, only twenty and six had survived the massacre. Most were cowards or conscripts, either men too weak-willed to pose a threat, or men who had been so recently recruited to the Legion that they held no great loyalty to their fellows.
It was a boring display. Until they reached the sixth man in line. This one had been shaking like a reed since the beginning of the display, urine running fresh down his legs in a clear stream to pool in an expanding circle around his bare feet. To the outside observer he was clearing terrified out of his mind. But the Courier was no casual observer. He was afraid, certainly. But nowhere near as afraid as he made out to be. A memory drifted through his mind, helped along by the datura smoke that drifted from the corner of his mouth, lazily spiralling upwards in the half-light.
He halted in front of the man, leaning in, and sniffing the man's neck, bent almost double at the waist to manage it. This man was only of very average height, average build, average brown hair, and average brown eyes. The Courier straightened up. "Some lads," he began, with a barely perceptible sneer colouring his tone with latent ferocity, "Are a mite too clever for their own good. Give one man a quick pass for bein' a coward, an' the rest later down the line start getting' ideas."
The Legionary stuttered out a few unintelligible words that sounded like denials in the pleading tone of a man far more terrified than he actually smelled. "The other lads piss were yellow, see? That were my first clue. Bad diet, too much work an' not 'nough rest. Turns yer piss yellow. Yer piss is clear. Good sleep, good food, plenty o' rest between work."
The disguised Frumentarius doubled down even more heavily on his lie, crocodile tears leaking out of his unremarkable eyes down his unremarkable face. This man had probably used his looks to his distinct advantage in service to the Legion, sliding knife after knife through waiting organs in dark alleyways, to vanish back into the crowd of unremarkable people you managed to pass by every day without knowing their story.
"Coward, Conscript…"
Courier Six paused for a long moment before uttering the last option in a cheery voice, "…or Spy?"
All eyes were watching now, most had even stopped working entirely to see what transpired from this tense standoff. The Courier loosed a deep, bellowing laugh in the midst of this, observed by Joshua who privately unfastened the strap on his holster, allowing his bandaged hand free access to A Light Shining in the Darkness. The .45 pistol with the Hebrew inscription was already loaded, one in the chamber and the safety waiting to be flicked off.
It was an impressive performance, but nothing could disguise his true nature from the Courier, who could smell it on him, hear it from him, practically taste it on the air. And who remembered the warning his spirits had left for him in Novac. He was as certain as certain could be. Certainly, nothing could disguise it from the Wanderer, whose abilities in the field of catching someone out in a lie was even more considerable. The Wanderer had taken some steps back from the confrontation, however. He was under Alpha Protocols to gain access to his Interpersonal Relation Suite, along with his programming related to lie detection, and was currently unable to engage in combat effectively. If violence was to be had, it would be carried out by the Courier, Joshua, or any one of the many tribals or Revelators that manned the battlements or stood guard around them.
Boone, Raul, and the rest of their especially combat-capable group were further away, where the stench of burning bodies would not other them as they rested up for the next legs of their recruitment drive. Six didn't seem to be willing to part with his theatrics just yet. "Oi, Coward!"
The Frumentarius looked up, snot drizzling from his nose. While the Courier was still looking at him however, he clearly was no longer talking to him. "Coward! Back at the start o' the line! Get up here now!"
The first Legionary they had spoken to cowered in the line, his knees visibly knocking together as he struggled to keep upright. One of the tribal guards grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up the line, dragging that man's feet through the dirt until he was level with the Courier, and locking eyes with the member of the Frumentarii. The Cowards eyes darted wildly from side to side, from man to man, his pupils dilating into deep pools of blackness in response to the adrenaline being dumped into his body. His limbs shook like reeds in the wind, so violently that the tribal who held him in place thought he was trying to shake loose. He was kicked in the back of the knee, bringing him down to a kneeling position. From this spot, he gazed up at the Courier in unabashed terror.
"Do ye recognise this man, Coward? Was he a Frumentarius?"
A wild gyration of the man's heartrate and scent answered his query, but he was nothing if not a man of theatrics. "Answer me ye fuckin' cunt, or I'll cut yer balls off an' jam them down yer throat!" He roared in a voice that echoed off the walls of the Fort and caused the Coward to squeak in fear.
"Yes! He is a Frumentarius!"
The disguised Frumentarius, his cover blown by his less highly trained subordinate, decided to drop his ruse. His eyes narrowed in anger and aiming to get himself killed by the guards so that he would not be captured for questioning, he lunged at the man with the speed of a striking snake. His grasping hand was engulfed in a crushing fist an inch before the strong fingers would have wrapped around the Coward's throat, and the Courier shoved his smoking rollup directly into the man's excessively average, brown eye. The Frumentarius screamed as the hot ash scorched his sight from one orb, grabbing at the Couriers arm to try and pull it away, put missed as the Courier pulled it away and lurched forwards with his entire bodyweight behind the massive headbutt.
His victim collapsed to the ground in a spray of dust as his feet kicked up the ground around him. The Coward was dragged roughly back by his tribal guard and shoved back into line, where he studiously refused to look at the captive Legionaries on either side of him. "Shame that," the Courier said, looking at his ruined roll-up with a raised eyebrow, "I was just startin' to enjoy the show."
He flicked it away and advanced on the Frumentarius, who had rolled sideways into the foetal position, clutching his broken nose as blood soaked his hands and chest. The Courier reached down and grasped an impressive handful of brown hair in one meaty paw, lifting the man to his knees as he gasped in pain at the rough treatment.
"Have ye forgotten Caesar's dictate, Frumentarius? Kill no Courier? I met one o' the Frumentarii who hadn't walked with the Legion for years, an' he still upheld his oath without question."
The Courier shook the man's head, ripping a chunk of brown hair away in a stream of blood from the torn scalp. It soaked the hair around it, plastering it to the man's skull in a stream of crimson to join what already streamed from his nose. "Oaths made 'fore the spirits are sacred," the Courier intoned through gritted teeth, "An' people don't treat them with the respect they deserve. I am a Courier."
"Courier Six," he shouted this to all assembled in another primal roar that echoed through the landscape all around them. Most of the former slaves, Revelators, tribals and prisoners in attendance had stopped moving in sight of the brief madness that seemed to have taken hold of the giant, grey haired man with rippling muscles and a feral gleam in the depths of his grey eyes. "An' my message heralds the death o' a Nation. Death to the Bull, and all that stand beneath its banner."
Laughter greeted his proclamation. He glanced down at the Frumentarius, who knelt with his hands limp upon his lap, blood dripping from his broken nose and off his chin from the stream that draped his hair upon his scalp like wet leaves in autumn rain. The Legionary looked up at him, and in his eyes the Courier saw Caesar. The Rage of his Spirit, still alive and well despite the death of its prophet. Edward Sallow had passed on his final legacy and become the martyr that would inspire men to glory for years to come. "The Legion gave me everything, Profligate," the Frumentarius spat through a thick coating of blood, "A home, food to satisfy, women for my pleasure, and a cause to call my own. It gave me strength, and purpose. Nothing that came from the West ever gave me a joy to match marching underneath the banner of the Legion. I became someone."
The Legionary shook his head, slowly from side to side, calm despite the mortal peril that surrounded him on all sides. It was the end for him. He was using his final words to open his spirit to the world and show what rested at his heart. The Red Banner of the Legion Bull. He raised his head up high and smiled through bloodstained teeth, the picture of pride and arrogance even in the face of death. "The Legion will rise again. Ave, True to Caesar!"
His proclamation was met with an angry growl that rippled through the ranks of those around him, including from a few throats in the line of prisoners themselves, men who had been conscripted from the tribes of Arizona and forced to serve to replenish the ranks lost at Hoover. Men who had not yet been infected by the spirit of the Legion. By the Spirit of Rage that Edward Sallow had brought to Arizona and let loose among the Blackfoot. Joshua Graham stood and shook his bandaged head sadly as he realised that the war in Arizona would likely drag on for years yet. Flagstaff, if it were manned by men such as this, would not fall easily.
The only one who didn't seem at all put out by the Frumentarius' defiance was the Courier. His face spread into a wide grin, something wild and untamed underneath the surface of his eyes. He understood what he was seeing, and it filled him with a strange sort of vicarious pride. He laughed, not in derision, but in genuine admiration. "That's more fuckin' like it!" He shouted. Even the Frumentarius was surprised by this, staring at him through his miserably abused face, blood still staining the earth beneath him.
"Ye got a strength in you, lad. Just for that," the Courier reached forward and grasped the man's face on either side of his skull, almost tenderly. Then, with a sudden cataclysmic jerk, snapped the unfortunate's neck to the side with a crack of separating vertebrae. The Frumentarius slumped to the side, his prideful smile present even in death, only slightly coloured by the brief moment of surprise he had felt moments before his spirit had left his body. "Ye get to die quickly."
Those present watched as the Courier straightened up with a handful of dust from the ground, rubbing it on his hands to give his hands back their grip and cover over the slickness of blood. Turning back to the line of prisoners, he strode back to them. One of the tribal guards darted forwards to pull the recently deceased away, but the Courier's voice cut sharply across his footfalls in the tribal's own tongue, "Leave that one there. I'll be dealing with him."
The tribal, a Kaibab with the traditional vest of pliable wooden rods woven into a serviceable defence against blades and clubs, backed away from the body immediately as the Courier returned to his spot at the front of the line. His steel-grey eyes swept those present, taking one last look at those he had left to check. He and the Wanderer advanced on them in silence, broken only by the inevitable question that followed. "Coward, Spy, or Conscript?"
Once complete, they stood back and allowed the prisoners to be divided into their two remaining groups. The Cowards, and the Conscripts. Once the shuffling of feet had died away and they were arranged in two neat rows facing one another across the dusty stretch of the roadway, the Courier proffered his ultimatum to the mass of expectant ears. "Now let me tell ya how it's goin' to be! You conscripts, who were dragged from yer homes and made to wear the colours of a Nation that were never yer own. Who stewed for years in hatred an' resentment of yer taskmasters that whipped an' abused you. Now is yer chance to take back control o' yer lives, to serve yer spirits once more in the ways they see fit."
The Conscripts listened intently, those who had been reticent before meeting his eyes now that they understood the aim of the Courier's little theatrical display; Just who he had been trying to weed out with his interrogation. "I met a man once," the Courier declared, "Who said to me that once the Legion were broken, it might separate back out into the tribes that gave it birth. He weren't that hopeful o' this bein' the case, but said it were a possibility regardless. But here today, I see what remains o' those same tribes steppin' back out o' History and into the light o' day."
His hand tracked over the tribals who stood around them, his hand being followed intently by the watchful eyes of the Twisted Hair, who focused on his usage of the word 'History'. "Kaibabs, Twisted Hairs, Hangdogs…" His hand trailed over the guard tower through which the eyes of the slave girl could still be made out, peering at them through the slats of the shutters. "…Dancing Skulls," he concluded with a grin, as the eyes vanished within the tower in a squeak of surprised embarrassment at being discovered.
"Whatever yer ways and customs were prior to the comin' o' the Legion Bull, ye can return to them now in the safety o' Zion. Under the protection o' the Dead Horse and the Sorrows."
Shaman White Bird, high on the battlements behind the squat form of the M2 Browning, nodded in silent agreement, along with what little was left of the Dead Horse contingent that had accompanied Joshua from Zion. They had borne the brunt of the casualties, being by far the most numerous of the tribals present and the most committed to the cause. Many of them had earned honour amongst their fellows that night, many of those for their sacrifice.
"Or…"
The single, softly spoken word seemed to echo louder in the ears of those present than the great, resounding bellows that the Courier had emitted prior to this. The Courier let them simmer in the tension, while he rolled another cigarette from his pouch and lit it from the open flame of his old, tarnished lighter. "Or ye could take the fight to the Legion. Always more room for fightin' men in the ranks. It's a good life for those with the stomach for it an' ye can practise yer customs however ye please. Sooner or later, what remains o' the Legion will need to be dealt with. An' the more o' ye that are willin' to fight on that day, the better it'll turn out for all o' us."
He pointedly did not offer this option to the Cowards, who he knew would never take it regardless. He had eyes only for those who had run from the fight as a final revenge against the Legion, not expecting to survive, but being adamant in their desire to die with one final insult to their tormentors present on their lips.
Leaving that decision to those who had the right to make it, he rounded upon the other line of prisoners in the faint light of the now approaching dawn. "Cowards!"
His voice was markedly less considerate than it had been with the conscripts, or even as it had been with the Frumentarius before his swift end.
"Tis a cruel fact o' life that all the brave men die while the cowards survive," he spat the words, turning his gaze to the body of the Frumentarius who had shown him so much courage in the face of death, true to the wishes of his spirits to the very end.
"An' if he weren't my enemy this day, an' if ye weren't needed to fetch an' carry, an' if it were really my place to act as yer judge," he spoke the last with a sideways glance at the Burned Man, who stood to the side with his narrowed eye fixed upon the prisoners. The Courier held this glance for long enough to make it clear to those present just who they owed their continued existence to. "I'd be burnin' yer corpses rather than his."
"Most wouldn't be able to tell which o' ye was which," he stated, "But I have the favour o' my spirits, an' I can see yer fuckin' souls laid bare 'fore my eyes. I'll not offer ye the opportunity to fight against the Legion. Ye'd take the chance then grow fat on the praise and rewards o' violence against an enemy that's already dyin' under the beatin' sun, then when the time comes to fight against impossible odds, like we did today, ye'll turn and run like a pack o' fuckin' cowards. If I had to die for my spirits, I'd rather do it at the side o' a better class o' bastard then ye."
"So," he concluded, striding over to the Frumentarius he had killed and hauling the body up onto his broad shoulders with barely any visible effort, "Today ye reap the unjust rewards o' cowardice. An' I hope one day, ye run across a man whose hands ain't tied and who serves a spirit stronger than that of Fear. An' he spits ye like the pigs ye are."
With one parting gob of spittle projected far from his mouth, landing at the feet of the first Coward who had sold out his former comrade to save his own skin, and with the body of the Frumentarii slung over his shoulder and his rollup clamped between two fingers, the Courier, Lone Wanderer and Burned Man left the proceedings as the surviving prisoners were informed of their new duties. They walked upwind of the burning bodies, past tents that had been taken down from inside the Fort to be set up outside the walls, away from the carnage inside. Outside these in the circles of firelight, freed slaves tended to the casualties that could not work. There were not many of these, as most that could be healed by stimpacks were already mobile and assisting with the over-abundance of tasks. Many of those that remained were also young, and many attractive, albeit behind the signs of abuse and suffering.
To provide the space needed to hide an extra Centuria of Legionaries within the Hospital, the Legion had emptied the slave pens in the basement by slowly reducing the influx of slaves and slowly slaughtering those that remained. The process had emptied the required space, whilst maintaining the appearance of a functioning slave encampment to Graham's tribal spies. Those few slaves that remained, those lucky enough to have been kept for the pleasure of their captors were therefore men and women of a very particular type. Docile, obedient to an almost unsettling degree. They were put to work sorting the gear stripped from the bodies, carrying bodies if their own were up to the task, or simply tending to the wounded.
The Courier could tell from the faint scents upon the wind, that despite the harsh penalties Joshua and the more vocal Revelators threatened against those that might take advantage, somewhere upwind a number of the most submissive and least vocal slaves were being taken through their paces. He puffed on his rollup as the datura smoke curled up through the locks of his hair. Warriors would be warriors, and he thought that Joshua and the Revelators were wrong to staunch the flow. You had to ensure that they got something tangible from their fighting. The rewards of violence made up most of what men like him fought for, and if denied then they would either stop fighting altogether, or more likely, fight for the side that allowed them to slake the thirsts. He marvelled at the fact that people still wondered why the best fighters in Arizona were Legionaries. The best fighters went where there were the best rewards.
"It does not seem advisable to me, to belittle and demean those that conform to our wishes," the Wanderer broke the silence between the three men, his clinical voice directed towards the Courier. "I would have supposed that any of those willing to shirk Legion rule, be it for the sake of fear or animosity should be equal in our eyes as steps towards the same ultimate goal."
"I would agree. It is true that a man should be willing to die for what he believes in," Joshua replied, looking pointedly at the body the Courier bore across his broad shoulders, knowing full-well the proclivities of his strangest of friends. "But while all men are created in the same image, what is contained within their hearts will not always be the same. But all are viewed as equal under the eyes of the Lord. Many of those you condemn for cowardice were also conscripted. Most Legionaries were. I fail to see how you define this line you draw between the two. If they take the first step off the path of the Legion they take one step closer to the Light. It is progress."
"If men like ye had yer way, the world would turn to a place where the brave an' loyal die for their cause an' the cowards survive. Once this war with the Legion is done, I don't want to rule over a Nation o' all the cowards that survived while the good men died. Only way not to is to suffer not the cowards to live," the Courier re-joined with a distinct lack of his usual joviality.
"Good men can be made, if they just learn to bend their demons in service to the Lord. Goodness can be taught," Joshua countered.
"Aye," the Courier stated with finality, "An' no matter how much ye teach them from this day forward, they'll always remember this day. When the brave men died, while they were allowed to survive by bein' fuckin' cowards. That is the lesson we've taught today."
"What would your solution be then?" The Lone Wanderer queried, "Kill them all, no matter how many survive? We cannot be present for the end of every battle, and our abilities as they pertain towards the detention of deception are rare, and not absolute in their efficacy. How many people would you condemn to kill one of these cowards, as you call them? Humanity does not have the numbers to sustain such methods."
"And what would you teach them instead, Courier? The overwhelming moral weight of violence and destruction? I have seen where that path leads, to my detriment," the Burned Man said, looking at his freshly applied bandages, "And though I may fail in my pursuit of the Lord daily, that way is no longer mine. And it was never the way of our Lord."
The Courier mulled this over in his mind, turning it over and over to consider it from every angle. The answer he was receiving did not satisfy, and both those present with him could tell as much from the faint sneer that curled his lip beneath his salt and pepper facial beard. Finally, he spoke.
"I have respect for yer God, Joshua. Any God that can command the Spirits o' a man like ye deserves acknowledgement. But no matter how much yer God is due my respect, at times such as this 'tis not within me to agree. An' no, I wouldn't kill all o' them. As much as I'd want to," he added togue-in-cheek. "I'd do exactly what I've done. Tell the useless feckers to stay off the battlefield an' out from under the heels o' the better men than them."
Adjusting the body with a shrug of his shoulder, his path diverged from the others down another path between tents. Joshua stared after him, not bothering to ask where the large man was going, for he knew perfectly well. That way would lead him away from the bulk of prying eyes, where he could safely dismember and butcher the Frumentarius. He grimaced and glanced at the Wanderer to voice his opinion on the matter, "As much as the Courier has helped and assisted the deserving since he and I made each-others acquaintance, I still disapprove of his practise of cannibalism. I know exactly where he is going with that body."
"A small price to pay or his other redeeming qualities," the Lone Wanderer opined, his thoughts on the matter boiling down to a long string of statistics and data.
"He is reasonable, pragmatic for the most part, and after Robert House he was the most stabilising element that could have gained control over the Mojave. And during the course of our partnership at least, he has only ever eaten those who he would have killed regardless."
"And where did your partnership begin?" Joshua probed, "While he was with us in Zion, I never heard him mention you. Nor did I hear word of you in the many tales that spread after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam."
They continued walking towards the tent laid aside for the Courier's companions, who being a very insulated and close-knit group, tended to remain together and away from the rest. Follows-Chalk was the only exception, as at that moment he was assisting his Dead Horse brethren with the dead, catching up with those of the tribals he knew from his former life as a junior scout. "Our association came later," the Wanderer clarified, "The details of which involve an extremely sensitive matter that I would be hesitant to divulge without the Courier's permission."
Joshua, mindful of his lack of familiarity with the cybernetic stranger chose not to pry any further, and the two remained silent for the rest of their trip to the Courier's tent. Sitting next to the fire they found Lantaya T'Rali hunched over and staring into the depths of the flames. She looked sombre and withdrawn, obviously not well with her own thoughts in the wake of the night's frantic activities. Raul and Boone were clearly fast asleep, taking the time to rest now that their work was done and being conscientiously laid to rest by the others. After this, they would be off once more on their eclectic road trip, to pick up the last man on their list, and the two men were taking this scant opportunity to get as much shuteye as could reasonably be obtained. There was no telling how long it might be before they would get another chance to do so in relative safety. Lantaya was not entirely sure who this last man was, but the Courier had been adamant that his involvement was as vital to him as Joshua Graham's or Chris Haversam's.
She watched the Lone Wanderer as he sat down and began disassembling his Perforator on a large blanket, laying out the individual parts in neat rows, separated into categories for where the part originated, the order it would need to be reassembled in, and the state of each part. Lantaya allowed herself to be lost in her observances, grappling with all that had been kicked up by the massacre she had just been a willing participant in. Joshua noticed her inner turmoil as only a man who himself grappled with the worst of himself could, and while he too disassembled his Light Shining in the Darkness with the care of long experience, he began to speak.
"I am no confessor, nor a priest. But my ears are as good as any if you wish to unburden yourself of any wayward thoughts or sentiments. In the absence of a Bishop, many see fit to bring their woes to me, and I would not disrespect their trust by making light of that decision."
Lantaya remained silent for the longest moment, long enough that Joshua wondered if the blue-skinned mutant had even heard his offer, or if silence itself was her answer. But he too remained silent save for the faint scraping of the cleaning tools he used to maintain his pistol, letting the offer lie for what it was worth. Finally, she spoke, hand hiding her expression by cupping her chin.
"I feel as if the world is running away from me," she whispered softly, staring at the flickering tongues of flames that spat glowing embers into the air to slowly fade from sight. "It feels as if everything has moved so quickly since they found me on the Zeta. One moment ago I feel as if I was still aboard my own ship, drifting through the galaxy on a noble mission of exploration amidst the stars. Living out the last years of my life in pursuit of knowledge. Then I wake up on a foreign spaceship in orbit around a planet I have never seen, crewed by strange, warlike beings that tell me their race almost destroyed itself in the distant past. I am told that I have been trapped in cryostasis for three-thousand years, almost three-times my own lifetime, and everyone and everything I have ever known is most likely dead or…. simply gone, lost to time's passage."
Joshua Graham, suddenly feeling very inadequate and lacking in the required context to grapple with this particular issue, restrained himself out of ingrained respect for the practise of confession from bombarding her with questions. He simply nodded gravely, wondering if there was a way to extricate himself from this profound mistake. He wished Daniel was here.
"Then I am pioneering a joint effort to uplift an entire species into inter-system galactic travel so I can make my way home, even though I doubt there is anything left for me to go home to. I have explained and elucidated upon concepts and ideas that took my people lifetimes to dissect, all in the course of a single month. Then I am on the surface of a foreign world, killing aliens I barely know or understand for reasons I don't believe I even realize. In ways that surely would have been reviled by my people."
The fire sputtered, spitting a shower of sparks to drift lazily down onto the mixture of embers and ashes in the small, stone-lined firepit. Raul and Boone sighed softly in their sleep, and the Wanderer listened with half an ear to the outpouring of all her pent-up emotion. The processing capacity that was not currently occupied with the meticulous cleaning and assembly of his weapon ran the numbers on how long Lantaya would last before she cracked under the pressure. The numbers were satisfactory. She could sustain considerable emotional trauma before it would begin to affect her operational effectiveness. With this conclusion drawn, his processors dropped the issue and went back to focusing on his work, the subject of her mental state being assigned to low priority memory blocks further back in his positronic brain.
"The world is moving too quickly," Lantaya stated, "This has been far too much to deal with all at once. My people have an expression for this, especially among the Huntresses: The Fugue of Action. So much is happening, and so quickly, that I don't have time to deliberate or process what I've already seen or done. Because of this, I feel as though what I am doing in the present is… unknown, disjointed. I cannot adequately explain it."
She hung her head, burying it in her knees that were drawn up to her chin like a protective barrier. "I am expressing myself poorly. I apologise."
Joshua rallied magnificently with the strength of character and personality he had in abundance, knowing that now she had divulged this much to him he was obligated to assist. All you could do in the face of uncertainty was your best. He could do his best. He could always do his best. "There is no apology necessary. Is it clarity you seek? I am afraid that I too have difficulty making sense of this world we live in, it's frequent petty cruelties and tragedy. As a religious man," he declared in a soft, conversational tone, "I have the comfort of my beliefs. And it is a great comfort to know that even in a world filled with misery and uncertainty, in the end, there is a light shining brightly in the darkness. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
"And what comfort is there for me?" Lantaya enquired, the pointed anger of someone who regarded spiritualism and religion as quaint curiosities seeping into her tone. She could stomach the Courier's ramblings. His was the belief of ignorance and tribal superstition, easily forgiven, especially by someone who had shared his mind and had felt some of what he felt regarding his beliefs. She did not like it when people brought religion to the forefront of a discussion on how to deal with a complex problem. It was to her the mark of someone who was not intelligent enough or concerned enough to bring forward something more credible. She found it doubly insulting, now that it was her problem that needed solving and this human did not seem to be taking it seriously. "I am a scientist. With all due respect to your beliefs, I am not accustomed to applying what is essentially a formalised form of existential panic regarding the inevitability of death and ignorance over the structure of reality, to my own tangible problems."
She immediately regretted her scathing rebuke, remembering the Courier's declaration that if Joshua Graham began to talk of his God, she should listen and nod politely. His reputation, the story of his origins and former deeds suddenly came to the forefront of her mind in a wave of anxiety, along with the sight of him striding through the battlefield in the face of massed infantry, utterly unafraid of violence and death in any form it may take.
Joshua's eyes only narrowed in response to her statement however, and his response was calm and measured.
"I have said before, and I will reiterate for your benefit: There is much to be sceptical of in this world, so it no longer surprises me to learn how many people don't really believe in anything. Though I will ask, because I have heard this criticism of faith in the past. If my faith was simply a matter of fear over my inevitable demise, would I be willing to march through that breach, in the face of those that lay within and fight a force that numbered three-times my own? In the name of a God whose scriptures dictate that through my own actions I am condemned to eternal torment. When judgement day finally comes, I doubt I will be one of the few accepted into Paradise to stand at our Lord's side. I am a sinner, through and through. No amount of water, sanctified and holy, could ever wash the blood from my hands for it not to be visible to the eyes of an angel. No amount of bandages can conceal the guilt."
"Then why," she demanded, "Why would you worship such a God if you yourself have proven incapable of following his dictates? Some might argue that your actions prove your own falsity. That you yourself do not believe, for surely if you believed then you would follow your Lord's rules without reservation or complaint. The Courier said that your God commanded his followers to turn the other cheek in response to adversity. How does this," she gestured towards the walls of Fort Defiance with a vehemence that surprised even herself, "Constitute turning the other cheek?"
"There is a time for mercy, and there is a time for wrath. Many of my most disgraceful falls from the sight of God have been as a result of my failure to distinguish between the two. Many of my brethren," the Burned Man elucidated as he began reassembling his firearm with swift fingers, "Know just as well as I that the line between the wrath of the Lord, and that of our own selfish judgements is as thin as the edge of a knife. Some refuse to approach that line, choosing to remain well away for fear of toppling out into the darkness beyond. But when the enemy is at the gates, you would be negligent indeed to ignore them, putting your people, your children and elderly in danger for the sake of preserving your own immortal soul. And we are also cautioned against the perils of selfishness. We learned that lesson well at New Canaan."
Joshua looked upwards at the sky, which now shone a vibrant blue with rays of the suns new dawn. "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. Remember, O Lord, The Children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem who said, "Raze it, raze it, even to the foundation." O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed. How happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."
He met her eyes with his own, as hard, and as unrelenting as stone, daring her to challenge the harsh words that he quoted from his scriptures. Words that to his mind proved that what he did was not for his own sake, in contradiction to the words of his God. They blazed with the same fire that she sometimes saw in the Courier's eyes. A man with a message to carry, tempered and refined through the fire that had turned his skin to melted wax, able and willing to both fight and die for what he believed, spreading his truth far and wide. The Courier was correct. The title of Prophet suited this man.
"And yet there is always the possibility that you are simply using scripture to justify your own whims, knowing full well that what you do is wrong," Lantaya declared, her posture and bearing every inch that of the Matriarch possessed of the wisdom and experience to contend with such weighty issues. She pulled no punches with her questioning. The pursuit of truth would always be worth confrontation.
"And there will always be the possibility that you are using the scriptures to justify your own whims, knowing full well that what you refuse to do would be right," the Burned Man retorted, "And furthermore, there exists the possibility that you are not simply asking these questions for the benefit of myself, nor even for the benefit of those I might see fit to render judgement upon in the future."
The Burned Man pinned her to the ground with his gaze, staring at her across the merrily sparking firepit as he put the finishing touches on his weapon, the well-cleaned metal gleaming in the firelight. "Though I do thank you for your concern if any of this was intended to set me upon a better path, and I certainly acknowledge your resolve for challenging me, if it were for the sake of the innocents whose bodies I might mistakenly return to the ashes from whence they came. But I believe you ask for another reason, as well."
Lantaya once more remained silent in the face of his scrutiny. She was not so blind to herself that she could not comprehend what he was driving at. There was indeed another reason, and she could not and would not interrupt him while the possibility existed that he might share the answer.
"You have had much to ponder over the last few days, much to occupy your mind. You have been dragged forward by a sequence of events that placed you into circumstances you were not ready for and were hence called upon to do things you yourself had not resolved to do. You are confused, angry. And now you seek to blame others for instigating the events you were involved in against your will. Hush now," he held up a hand to silence her as she sought to both deny that this was about blame and contend that he would indeed be considered one of the prime instigators in the same breath.
"I understand. I too struggled within myself to achieve some measure of peace with my actions in the past and the present. Sometimes, it is harder to reconcile with oneself, than it is to reconcile with family or God. The pain of self-reproach can consume your every waking moment, lead you down the darkest of paths. We are all tainted by an original sin. We cannot separate that part of ourselves. The battle within is not a fight that can be won easily, or without pain. My final battle was fought with the White Legs, and it was the Courier who taught me the lesson I needed to finally triumph."
"The Courier?" Lantaya enquired. She was not certain how any of the many assorted and gruesome lessons the Courier espoused could be a gateway to higher understanding and truth.
"He is a surprising astute man, beneath all the blood and death he inflicts," Joshua confirmed. "The White Legs were a tribe from the Great Salt Lakes of Utah, a tribe of scavengers and raiders that prayed upon the weak and the helpless. They had not the strength to pursue larger game and did not possess the skills to provide for themselves without stealing from others. They were a relatively minor threat in my home, until an agent of Caesar approached them and offered to teach them the ways of war."
Joshua Graham started upon his Storm Drum now that the pistol was cleaned and maintained, field-stripping the weapon with all the skill of a user accomplished in its use.
"They grew from strength to strength, emboldened by their newfound might, and struck at the very heart of Utah. At New Canaan, my home. I had already been baptised in fire by Caesar at this point and had been cautioned by my people to ignored the danger in case I should slip back into the darkness that had claimed me during my time with the Legion. But when I saw what they did to New Canaan, to my home, I resolved to fight them using the talents that had gained me renown in the Legion.
To Zion I went, along with some of those that survived the sacking of New Canaan. There we fought the White Legs until the Courier came. There, he joined with us against the White Legs, and with the two of us together our enemies fell, one by one, until we had their leader before us. It was there the Courier showed me the answer I sought. That you seek."
Lantaya followed the speech as if spellbound by the story, as she had been by the Courier's story back at the Lucky 38. Something that had occurred only a short while ago, but still felt as if it was separated from the present by a period of eons.
"I was ready to kill him for what he did. But the Courier was the one to stay my hand. He saw the battle within me. Saw the pain that it caused and cautioned me never to act contrary to the nature of my spirits. He told me that living a lie is as swift and sure a way to kill a man from the inside out as he had ever known. Then he took the life of the White Legs' leader, Salt-Upon-Wounds, in my stead."
She puzzled over this as Joshua continued to clean his weapon, trying to understand the content of the lesson. It did not sound at all like the Courier. It seemed to suggest that by taking the life of this leader, Salt-Upon-Wounds, the Courier had been cautioning Joshua against letting his lust for blood dictate his actions. But this was the polar opposite of the point that Joshua had been doing his best to explain to her during the course of their conversation. "I don't understand," she admitted.
Joshua laughed, his bandaged fingers covered in a thin layer of gun oil and grease.
"Wisdom can be found in the most surprising of places. I appreciated the Courier as a formidable force upon the field of battle, but I had not taken him as a Wiseman until that moment. I understand he once studied under a shaman in a place far across the ocean, a land called Africa by some."
He set aside his weapon to give Lantaya his full attention, hands clasped before him as if deep within prayer.
"There is a story among the New Canaanites, among the Revelators, and among all that follow the teachings of our Lord God. A story of Jesus Christ, our God's one and only son, who sacrificed himself to absolve the sins of all mankind. He was crucified upon a cross, much like the ones the Legion used to crucify those who went against their rule. In fact, the men of Caesar's Legion emulate those original men who crucified Christ upon the cross. I found that darkly appropriate," Joshua commented, his bandaged face shifting under the white folds to denote his smile.
"The Courier arrived at the same place that Christ did, although through different means, the same place that I had. But being unable to understand the lesson contained within, I had failed to understand what he had succeeded in grasping. We are not all the same. We are made in God's image, but what is contained within is not always uniform. And those that have the ability to stand for that which the others cannot have the responsibility to do so for the greater good of our people. He took the sin that needed to be committed upon himself, to show me the nobility in what I did. I was saving my people, not only from the death that awaited them if they refused to fight back, but also from the pain of acting contrary to their nature if they chose to kill those that threatened them."
The Burned Man spread his arms to emphasise his point and Lantaya noted how from this angle it appeared as though his body was being consumed in the flames of the firepit, a willing sacrifice to the fires of hell on the road to freedom. "He showed me the way I could both be who I am, and still love and cherish my God and my people. To reconcile with myself. For this, I will always regard him fondly. Now, even in the midst of war, my soul is at peace."
Lantaya stared at him as he went back to his weapon, tending to it with all the care of a craftsman attending to his tools. It was a profound revelation, what Joshua had discovered. But even so, it did not fit exactly for her. "And what if I am of a different nature?" She asked finally, as Joshua cleaned the blood that had seeped into the submachinegun's workings with a dirty rag, "I have killed before. I did so gladly, when it was in defence of my people, of peace and the pursuit of prosperity. But I cannot stop my mind from replaying that moment when the grenade went off inside the Singularity I made to stem the flow of the Legion during the assault. I cannot stop the faces of those Legionaries from coming to the forefront of my mind. How they fought so valiantly even in the face of overwhelming odds. I don't understand how they could be so brave, yet also be slavers, rapists, murderers, and thugs. Those crimes are motivated by personal gain!"
"Beings," she said, still more comfortable with using the word that reflected the gender-neutral culture she originated in, "Like them have nothing to gain by marching into the grinning face of danger when they might lose their lives and be unable to avail themselves of their ill-gotten gains. It makes no sense."
The Burned Man sighed, realising that here they had reached the limit of even his understanding. Before he could reply, the Courier bustled around the side of a tent and into view, carrying a hefty heap of freshly butchered meat as ED-E bobbed along behind him, and the two cyberdogs pranced merrily at his heels, occasionally jumping up to try and snaffle a mouthful of his burden, much to his irritation.
"Keep yer bloody tongue in yer mouth hound, or I'll wrap it 'round and tie it shut," the Courier admonished hotly, waking both Raul and Boone with the strength of his voice, who looked around blearily in the full light of dawn. "Come on now," the Courier spoke, taking a frying pan out from within the bundle and preparing to lay it out over the fire to make good on his oath to the cyberdogs that had found Joshua midst the carnage. "This meat came off a rare brave man. 'Tis fresh as fresh can be, an' contains all the strength a growin' hound could ever desire. 'Course, only growin' you'll be doing at this point is sideways."
He cackled at his own joke, tossing both dogs morsels to keep them occupied while he began his cooking. And despite the fact that all who looked on knew the provenance of said meat, Lantaya smiled along with them at this ray of joviality in the midst of grim despair. Except Boone. He just grumbled and went back to sleep in his sleeping sack. Joshua caught her eyes and smiled beneath his bandages, inclining his head.
"It may not be as great a comfort to you as it was to me, considering your circumstances, but there will always be this: When the walls come tumbling down, and you lose everything you have; you always have family, and your family always has tribe. We are a group of deeply flawed individuals, but together, you can rest assured that whatever challenges you in your road towards home, one of us will be of the correct nature to confront it in your stead. You have not asked it of me yet," Joshua spoke, including the Courier in this pronouncement, who looked up from his breakfast in confusion, "But I will accompany you on your journey. I can see now all too well what you intend by coming here."
The thoughtful nature of this moment, and the dignified announcement was ruined somewhat by Roxie stealing a steak out from under the Courier's distracted nose.