"Be sad to see you go Mister Graham," Zachariah Moore wheezed out as he adjusted his bulk on the sleeping-sack he rested upon, a neat field-dressing standing out against his skin as he and others bid their farewells to the Courier and his group.
"And you Zachariah, may the Lord be with you in these troubled times. Once my business with the Courier is concluded, rest assured that I will return to assist in the war effort against what remains of the Legion."
Zachariah darted a glance between the Courier, the Lone Wanderer and Lantaya with cautious eyes. The Revelators had already seen fit to inform him of the likely source of the unearthly green glow that had enveloped the hospital, and he had seen the powers of Lantaya with his own eyes during the assault on the breach. Beside this, he knew and was informed by others of the Courier's macabre reputation and proclivities. He worried for Graham but kept his own council. Joshua Graham could take care of himself. Instead, he just offered his hand to Graham's with a steady and firm grasp. "And also with you, Joshua. Remember, if you or your folk wish a place to lay your heads then Saint Michael's Church in Lubbock is always open to you. And also to you Courier. Against my better judgement."
The last was uttered in a lower voice, probably only intended for Joshua and his attendants, but the Courier grinned obligingly and proffered his own hand to shake, which was gracefully accepted. "Yer a hard man Zachariah and a good one besides. I doubt ye'd want to visit Vegas, but if ye ever need some Legion heads crackin' together or a hand with any other nasty surprises that the wasteland has in store, just let us know."
The Courier and his group, now expanded by one stood around the central tent of the Revelators, which served as the impromptu HQ building of Fort Defiance while what was left of the work was in the process of being tidied away. Teams of men had worked in shifts throughout the day to clean away bodies and strip anything useful from the dead. The tribals had been adamant that they should immediately send a runner back to Zion to report the victory and send for support to carry the plunder back to the safety of their own lands.
A force could be dispatched from Zion and be there within days, they said. Zachariah had been conscious at that point after a touchy medical intervention that for a moment teetered on the brink of sending him plummeting down into death's sweet embrace. The Wanderer had performed the surgery however, and now the man was lucid and well on the road to recovery from the gunshot. He'd agreed, furthermore wishing to send a second runner in the opposite direction to inform his own people. Knowing the distances involved, the Courier told them not to bother. He would send a transmission back to the Big Empty and have the Brains ask Veronica to send an Eyebot.
A roundabout way of sending a message, to be certain. But no-one wanted the Brains to be the ones to compose the message, nor choose the message delivery system. For all he knew they might strap it to the back of a Lobotomite and launch it via particle cannon, and he didn't want to have to explain to a Church of angry parishioners why their steeple had a corpse sticking out of it. This he had done that morning. Sending the message, that was, not making explanations for corpses. It wouldn't take a long for the Eyebot to reach Zion, travelling through the night as tirelessly as all robots were. As for Lubbock, they happened to have a functioning HAM radio receiver. He'd bounce the signal off one of the RobCo satellites and the settlement furthest away on their list would actually receive news of the Massacre at Fort Defiance more quickly than anyone else.
The rest of his merry band waited patiently as the Courier and the Burned Man made the necessary observances and goodbyes to their temporary companions, shaking hands and clapping shoulders hard enough to bruise, then turned away to begin walking away to a safe distance to teleport. Before they could make it very far however, they were cut off from their path by one of the Twisted Hairs. His face was grim, framed by his intricate braids that settled on either cheek like curtains. Joshua stepped forward and clasped hands with the taller tribal, "Benedict, my friend. We were about to make our leave from this place. It is good to have an opportunity to see you before our departure."
"Saddens me also to part ways on the tail of such a victory. But I see that your road leads you elsewhere. See," he reached into his hair and separated a particular braid, upon which was borne a fresh series of knots and designs, "Made the record last night, sitting with Brown Thomas. Our deeds are not to be forgotten. We will die with them borne on our brow."
They looked at the braid, none of them able to read what was recorded there, but most were touched by the gesture. Lantaya examined the braid curiously. "Fascinating. A system of recorded events based entirely around braids and knots. I have never seen such a system in person before. If you wouldn't mind, would you be so kind as to translate what the braid records?"
Benedict smiled and nodded, "In early seasons, on dark night at a place named Defiance, thirty battled four-hundred and triumphed. Was present, alongside Brown Thomas my brother, the Burned Man, Courier Six, Metal Wanderer, Blue-Skin Witch, Dead Horses, Hangdogs, Kaibabs, White Bird, Follower of Chalk, Men of Cross, many others."
Lantaya paused in the grips of her curiosity, realising that she was now a piece of history to these people. Significant enough to record, a participant in a great victory that would echo through time, carried forward by this man and his people. Tied into their very hair for all to see, even if only a few understood. It was a humbling thought. She had read many accounts of the history of her own people, recounted from the databanks of computers and datapads. All cold, impersonal methods of recording history. They could not compare to the quiet dignity of this tribals dust-infused dreadlocks, slightly greasy and as-yet uncleaned in the chaotic events of the last few days. And she never would have thought that her own name would be so enshrined.
He looked up from the braid in his hands, and the joy in his face crumpled to dust as the grim expression returned. "Brown Thomas is coughing much. His skin is hot to the touch. He will not last. He asks me to let you know he will die with this night tied into his braids. Asks you to remember him, Burned Man, not for how he served the Legion, but for how he fought them. Men of the Cross are giving him medicine to kill what grows in his lungs. They will not tell me whether he lives or dies."
The Twisted Hair shook his head and looked Graham in the eyes, unwavering. "Have seen this before. Have heard this cough, wet and racking. Not often that men survive such a cough."
"Sounds like pneumonia," Raul commenting the obvious, running his gloved hands over the polished handles of the Ruger Super Blackhawks holstered on his belt. He wanted to offer reassurance, but he knew from cruel experience that on some occasions the people you cared for died, and nothing could be done for them save the burial.
"By God's grace he will be spared," Joshua soothed the tribal, "But if he should perish, tell him I will not forget this night. Nor should he concern himself overmuch with self-condemnation. It is for God to judge the man who has already set himself upon the path. Brown Thomas made his choice clear to any man when he joined our cause, and his worth is without question."
Benedict breathed in and out deeply, mastering the emotions that Joshua's words brought forth, then he nodded thankfully. Before leaving however, he turned to the Courier and regarded him with soulful eyes. The Courier returned his gaze as his hands flew back and forth across his combat webbing, performing last-minute gear checks on the many assorted stimpacks and utility items, loaded magazine pouches and grenade-holders. "We'll be leavin' soon, lad," the Courier reminded the Twisted Hair in business-like tones, "If ye have a piece ye'd like to make known, say it now. Last chance ye might have for a long while."
"Among the corpses, after you pulled us from the piles. Said you knew one of our tribe, who thought he was the last of our kin. Brown Thomas heard you speak of a Frumentarius who refused to forsake his oaths to the Legion. Yet one who dared to speak of Histories return, of the rebirth of the tribes of Arizona from the Legion's ashes."
The Courier nodded slowly; the gear-check punctuated by nods just as solemn as his interlocutor's eyes. He grinned suddenly, his eyes filled with cunning and mirth, "Question in there somewhere?"
"Does the one who named himself Ulysses still yet walk?"
The Courier considered this for a moment, making a non-committal gesture with his hand.
"Sure, can't tell ye yet. Might be runnin' at the moment. I'll remember to check when I see him."
The Twisted Hair blinked, then recognising the ill-timed attempt at humour shook his head irritably and stepped forward to place his hand on the Courier's shoulder. "You collect great warriors beside you. Twisted Hairs birthed none greater than Ulysses. You speak in jest, yet I know you go now to see him, wherever he walks. Tell him of us. Tell him we have remembered our History. Not even Caesar could take it from us. The Ways of the Twisted Hair has survived. You understand?"
His hand tightened with cataleptic strength, as the bottomless brown eyes met impenetrable steel grey in an exchange that seemed to convey meaning lost on the rest. "Aye," the Courier agreed, separating his own hand from his combat-webbing, and placing it on Benedict's other shoulder, "Glad to hear it. He's been wanderin' all over the Mojave like a lost Bighorner, chidin' folks, who never could have known better for not knowin' their History. Maybe this will finally be getting' the bastard to shut up."
The words were harsh, but they were accompanied by a secret grin that Benedict read down to its last nuance of meaning. He smiled and nodded gratefully, chuckling as he removed his hand. "Know your meaning. Sounds like he. Had many ideas, even when we were children. Could never stop from sharing them with anyone who would listen. We are not many now, but we have women and children. We will rebuild our people in Zion."
Benedict turned his gaze to Joshua Graham, who looked thoughtful even under his thick bandaging. "Know these braids hold evil memories for you and your kind, Burned Man. Know Ulysses' part in this. Could be no-one other than he. No-one else had the courage to wear the braids in the face of Caesar. Not after the crucifixions. No-one else could have been the one to teach the White Legs to breach the walls of New Canaan. But he is one of us. Found his courage long before you found your fire. That at least, deserves respect."
The tribal nodded, as if to cement his point in place so that none might lift it from its rightful place. Joshua Graham nodded back ruefully. "I will bear your words in mind, Benedict. Rest assured, should he wish reconciliation then I will not play the hypocrite and turn him aside."
"He is stubborn," Benedict replied, but seemed to accept the fact that nothing in life was certain. He respected Joshua greatly, and so too did Ulysses in his own way. And the Courier had his own ways and means. If anyone could convince Ulysses to return to the fold, it would be these two. "Enough has been said."
The Twisted Hair stepped aside with the air of a gatekeeper opening the way through to a place that lay far beyond, a potent of things to come, adding gravitas to the last leg of their Mojave journey. This particular road would end in the same place another had ended, so long ago. The Courier kept his hand in place, squeezed the shoulder it lay upon once more as a gesture of respect from one warrior to another then stepped past the guard to great what awaited them. The others followed.
Once they were well away from the camp, Joshua spoke up in a considering tone.
"We go to Ulysses then?"
"Sure as sure is sure," the Courier returned, his long Anti-Material Rifle slung across his broad back and the Survivalists Rifle held at rest, diagonally across his chest. His helmet was off once more with the bandana tied around his skull to keep the long grey hair occupied. Those who stood alongside him watched the exchange.
"There was a time," Joshua continued, "When I supposed his path and mine had diverged. He was the only one amidst the ranks of the Frumentarii, save for Vulpes Inculta, who could have both tracked and engaged me in combat, and survived to tell the tale. If I ever happened to lay eyes upon him again it would have been at the point of his golden spear, his symbol of Old Glory. It may indeed have proven a match for the Light I carry."
His bandaged hand with his broken little finger splinted and set in place despite the use of Stimpacks, brushed across his holster, within which his carefully maintained M1911 took it's rest, it's snakeskin grip the most visible part.
"Lot o' spirits attached to those two weapons," the Courier commented as his long legs ate up the distance ahead, "Includin' yers an' his, Joshua. Ye know he offered me Old Glory? Same as when ye offered me the Light Shining in the Darkness after the battle for Zion."
"And what was your reply?"
The Courier laughed shortly, a swift exhalation of mirth that broke the air like a gunshot.
"Same reply as I gave ye, Joshua."
"'It is the man who makes the weapon, not the other way around,'" Joshua quoted from memory.
"Tis the man who makes the weapon," the Courier agreed.
"Yet, you carry Randall's weapon," Joshua pointed out the discrepancy, mildly.
"Nay," the Courier replied with another chuckle, "I carry Randall. Same as Uly carries America on his back. For a time, Randell's spirit rests itself with me."
Holding out the ancient weapon and separating the sling from his body, he rested it against his shoulder with his finger laid carefully across the trigger guard. The dull metal and old, yet hard wooden stock and barrel-guard seemed to fit somehow with his own, oaken exterior. Both hardened by age, even though they had no right to be, and both bearing a Legend as their own. The Sorrows regarded Randall Clark as their own form of deity, the Father in the Cave, and his rifle was the symbol of his wrath. Something only the Courier, as the agent of his return in the defence of Zion had the right to carry.
Through the story of Randall Dean Clark the Sorrows had received their final lesson from beyond the grave. How innocence could be sacrificed in the name of another. The difference between the children that they had been when Randall had cared for them from the shadows, and the adults they had eventually become, was their ability to pay forwards the kindness Randall showed their people. The willingness to defend Zion and it's ever-growing amalgam of tribes. Righteous violence was not a right, it was a duty.
"Sure though," the Courier conceded, "Probably shouldn't have been me that took it at the end of the day. Randall an' I disagree on a number o' different issues. Damn rifle tends to be jammin' and givin' me grief when I don't point it at the right folks."
Lantaya blinked at the comment. Surprised and exasperated by the content of the Courier's remark, she inserted herself into the conversation to challenge it. "Are you trying to say that your rifle is sentient?"
"Aye, it has a spirit in it. Same as the rod that Uly carries, same as the Light Joshua has over there in his holster."
The Matriarch scoffed, her hand moving upwards to scratch her nose. The Courier had twigged some time ago that this was her quite obvious tell that she was attempting to conceal strong emotions from the prying eyes of others. He shrugged the rifle of his shoulder and proffered it to her, the sub-calibre carbine seeming very small in his already giant paw of a hand. She met his eyes, that seemed to glinted with that indefinable light that she had seen in the eyes of humans when they were displaying an awareness of matters she never seemed to be able to understand. He had been the first. Then she had seen it in the eyes of his father in the visions she had been experiencing. Then in Joshua Graham's eyes during their conversation around the fire only that morning. It unsettled her. It made her feel like a Maidan once more, in the presence of a Matriarch whose experience of the world dwarfed hers by a considerable margin.
She shook herself internally and reached out and took the rifle. The wood felt both smooth and rough at the same moment, cared for by the hands of a man who knew his business backwards and forwards. It was a startling contrast in relative feel from her own assault carbine. This weapon was built from wood and high-grade gunmetal, both to withstand the titanic forces generated by the 12.7mm pistol rounds, and to have enough heavy material in its construction to mitigate recoil. Curious, she hit the magazine release and inexpertly checked the chamber of the weapon in the interests of safety, keeping the weapon pointed skywards. Then she looked inside the magazine.
The only difference she seemed to notice was the metallic insert that was fitted into specially formed grooves in the magazine, to alter the more standard 5.56mm magazine to the required size to accept the shorter 12.7mm pistol rounds. She checked the magazine-well and saw that while the it was long and wide enough to accept the larger magazine, the actual intake port that the rounds fed upwards into was of a size to match the length of the altered magazine.
"I am not greatly familiar with weaponry such as this, but I would theorise that the rifle has a tendency to jam because the magazine springs were not designed to accommodate this insert that is used to adapt the magazine to accept these particular projectiles," she uttered in a clipped voice, somewhat peeved at how the gazes around her were making her feel. "It is just a normal rifle."
She returned the weapon to the state it had been in when it was first handed to her and gave it back. When she did so, the Courier's steel grey eyes met her own, and behind him a gust of wind kicked up a shower of sand that swirled and carried across her field of vision. The wind, somewhere close, probably through the gaps in a piece of gear strapped to one of their many rucksacks, produced a startlingly piercing whistle.
Just for a moment, before the Courier's hand took back the rifle, she thought she felt an old, gnarled hand on her own, the barest suggestion of a voice whispering, "It wasn't choice. I chose to die again and again. Just never did. Body had its own drive."
She flinched despite herself, almost stumbling over her own feet. She shot a look behind her, only to see Boone with his rifle at the ready, gazing out into the malpais with a searching expression. Raul with his Paciencia leaned up against his shoulder in the manner Mojave wastelanders seemed fond to replicate. The two cyberdogs trotting along happily whilst Follows-Chalk brought up the rear with the Lone Wanderer beside him. ED-E drifted overhead, a silent metal guardian.
Taking a deep breath, she turned her head to face forwards and didn't give the Courier the satisfaction of seeing his spiritualist hoodoo getting to her. "It's just a rifle," she repeated, staring him in the eyes. He grinned and winked at her. "Ohh, was almost forgettin'. Can I have my whittlin' back, Lani? Gave it ye 'fore I went off to speak with Graham. I'll be wantin' that back now."
Grateful for something to return some measure of normality to the seemingly burgeoning insanity of the situation, she reached into the inside pockets stitched into the flak vest underneath her combat armour and plucked out the little figure that the Courier had been carving what seemed like so long ago. She tossed it underhand, and he snatched it out of the air with a lightning-fast twitch of his gigantic arm. He tucked it within one of his own many pockets that graced the inside of his duster.
She had to admit, the human inclination to add pockets, pouches and carrying vests to their attire at almost every conceivable opportunity was both convenient and surprisingly fashionable. The only drawback was remembering which pocket housed which object. After sorting through spare ammunition, stimpacks, ration packs, emergency flares, smoke grenades and the like, it had taken her five minutes during the night just to find the small cleaning kit for her carbine.
"Presumably," Raul stated from somewhere behind them, "This güey is the wandering type, Boss? I hope we're not just gonna wander out into the wastelands and hope we run over him. Not that I'm complaining. Just be nice to know where we're going."
"Know exactly where he is, Raul, don't ye worry none. He'll be loafin' 'round in the Divide like he usually is."
Raul ground to a halt, blinked, smoothed his moustache nervously with on hand and chuckled aloud, "That's my ears for you, Boss. They get worse every day. Could have sworn you just said we're going to the Divide."
"He did," Boone confirmed without a backwards glance.
Follows-Chalk sidled around Raul's immobile frame and clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder and commenting in his curiously dignified and smooth voice, "We tread many dangerous paths, Mr. Tejada. But we travel in the company of many formidable men. If we remain strong, there is no spirit or ghost we need fear."
The Mexican gunslinger peered at the tribal explorer through his milky eyes in the manner of men who wanted to put a bullet in someone but couldn't quite justify it. You couldn't shoot every lunatic you ran across in the wastelands. You'd run out of bullets long before you made a dent in the overall population. "This is a great plan Boss, one of the best. Sure, I've always wanted to have the skin peeled from my body by gale-force winds and get irradiated the rest of the way to being feral. My idea of a vacation, Boss. You know what though, I think I left my hooker on the stove back at the Wrangler!"
He yelled the last at the Courier's retreating back, as Follows-Chalk passed him by with a concerned glance. "Por favor, might just pop back there and make sure she's okay?"
The Courier waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. Raul plucked his hat off his head and rubbed his bald and burnt scalp with one leather-encased hand, tucking the hat under his arm that held Paciencia. "I'm getting too old for this shit. Puta madre!"
He slapped the wide-brimmed Vaquero hat back atop his skull and hurried after his companions as his rucksack and Medicine Stick slapped the back of his leather jacket and chaps. He caught up, huffing, and puffing with his free hand holding his hat onto his head as it flapped in the wind of his swift passage, just in time to hear Lani voice the question, "What is the Divide?"
"Radiation hotzone along route 127, between NCR territory and the Mojave," Boone answered with cold deliberation underneath his NCR beret and aviators. He fingered the picatinny railing on the All-American as he walked, something that Lantaya noticed he had a habit of doing whenever he was deep in thought or considering his next words. "Not the kind of place you go without an army at your back. Not sure it would make much difference, either. Weird things keep coming out of there. From underground."
ED-E warbled a faintly forbidding tone above them, slipping down through the air to bob alongside the Courier's shoulder, who reached out and brushed a companionable hand over the robot's metal exterior. "I'll be tryin' to teleport us in as close as I can make it to Uly's Temple at the centre o' the Divide, but it'll still be a hard passage, lads. Most o' what lurks in the sand there will let me pass, but I never went there alongside others. Whatever fear they have in their hearts for myself an' my spirits, they might not be as keen to spare those that travel at my side. That means weapons at the ready."
"What manner of threats await us there?" Joshua asked, gravely checking the workings of his Storm Drum as the others did the same with their own assorted weaponry. "The Divide was after my time with the Legion had already come to it's abrupt end. And aside from stories that circulate through word of mouth, which are seldom reliable, I have heard nothing of the Divide from this far East."
"Deathclaws, Tunnellers, Marked Men," the Courier rattled off with barely a pause in his stride, "Gale force winds that strip the flesh from yer bones. Spirits trapped in the stone an' the earth, gibberin' an' cryin' to the broken skies. Giants o' the Old World entombed underground, ready to slip their leash. Unexploded ordinance at every turn."
The Courier slung Randell's rifle on his shoulder and adjusted his bandana to better cover his hair, fiddled with his helmet for a moment, then reached backwards to check the side pocket of his leather and canvas rucksack while it was still on his back. He extracted a strange brown headscarf decorated with curiously foreign designs and symbols. He then proceeded to tie it over his bandana in the style of a Keffiyeh, with the long stretch of leftover fabric ready to be pulled over his mouth.
"Most o' ye already know how to kill Deathclaws an' how they fight. Explosives or high-calibre bullets to the legs if they see ye first. Bullets to the head if ye see them first. Tough hide, long claws, run like the wind, but they only attack in one direction. Dangerous, but simple to deal with," he clarified their strengths and weaknesses for Lantaya's benefit, "If ye can slow them down for us with yer fancy glowing magics, then that'll be best. Not many o' the buggers left in the Divide nowadays. Used to go there on me off-days an' go huntin' for them with Uly."
Lani nodded in confirmation of his advice, utterly oblivious to the ludicrous nature of his last comment, as Follows-Chalk and Raul both gave the Courier a sidelong look of disturbed fascination.
"Next are the Tunnellers. Some have venom in their bites. Stronger than ye might be thinkin' from their size. They tunnel under the earth an' slink out o' dark spaces where ye least expect them. Only conciliation is the feckers glow in the bloody dark. They move in swarms, strength in numbers. Explosives and heavy bullets when ye can finally draw a bead on them. They live underground so bright light an' loud noise are the best counter when they swarm together."
He turned his head fully and waggled a warning digit under Lantaya's nose, "Whatever ye do, do not get separated from the rest o' us when we're fightin' Tunnellers. They'll swarm ye the second they see a strangler, pull ye down like hounds and rip ya to shreds. I've seen 'em take down Deathclaws in large enough groups. Uly has seen the same. Stay close an' stay together."
"My operational effectiveness would be severely decreased by resorting to standard small-unit tactics," the Omega made his first comment from the back of the formation, Perforator cradled in his metallic arms, his faded and patched Tunnel Snakes jacket open to display his armoured chest, stretching down the tightly interlocked plates of the Dragoon Stealth Suit. He had the metal visor of the helmet lowered and if she had not known what lay within, Lani would have taken him for an advanced form of robot, rather than a cyborg.
"I will manoeuvre separately in concealment from the rest of the group," the cyborg stated in clipped tones, communicating the essentials but leaving no room for argument.
"If ye want to risk it, Wanderer," the Courier gave him license with a sigh, "On yer own head be it. After what ye did to those Legion in the Hospital, I'll give ye all the space in the world. But whatever radiation weapon ye have, don't bloody use it on nothin' in the Divide. The Marked Men, the Tunnellers, an' even the Deathclaws there may be cursed by the spirits that dwell under those skies, but they benefit from the sufferin'. Radiation heals them somethin' fierce. The background radiation makes them stronger. Keeps them alive even though they shouldn't be. The Nightmare is seepin' out into the Wakin' World in that place."
"Acknowledged. How tough is Tunneller hide? Rated for light-armour piercing or above?"
"Won't stop a bullet," the Courier explained, "Tough skulls though, headshots don't do much more than a body shot. Load for high capacity. Putting quick follow up shots in the air'll be more important than the size o' the round."
"Best to work out squad-level tactics now," Boone voiced his opinion as he absorbed the observation regarding the thickness of Tunneller skulls. For a man of his talents, this information was especially useful. "Even if the Tunnellers attack and we need to consolidate, we need to work out partners and plans of engagement for fire and manoeuvre now."
"Fair 'nough," the Courier accepted this without complaint, eying up those present with a considering expression upon his leathery face. He scratched his scalp through the bandana, then gestured towards Boone. "Craig, ye'll need a spotter. ED-E goes with ye. He can watch yer back if ye need to displace an' set up overwatch away from the rest. If they start swarmin' then consolidate the second ye see a flare. They'll tear ye to shreds if yer standing on solid ground. Best place for a snipers nest is up high, off the ground where they can't be tunnellin' upwards."
ED-E warbled his ascent to the idea without a moments hesitation. He and Boone had worked together quite comfortably for many years now, Boone's skill with a rifle and ED-E's advanced scanners being an ideal match. The only one present who'd be a better spotter than ED-E was the Lone Wanderer, but unfortunately the prefix of his title was rather more appropriate than could be wished.
"Joshua, ye an' Raul stay together with Rex and Roxie. Ye'll be our base o' fire if we need to consolidate for a Tunneller swarm. Here," the Courier extricated a flare gun from the inside of his voluminous duster and handed it to Joshua, "Ye already have one Light Shining in the Darkness on yer belt. Pop that in yer pocket an' keep it close. If we need ye to signal yer location then that'll be our marker."
Joshua accepted the implement with a nod, along with a small shell-holder that contained a number of replacement flare shells. He checked the chamber, felt the action of the break-action flare gun to gauge its responsiveness and finally tucked the implements into the pouches at the front of his SLCPD Stab Vest. "How will I know when to fire it?"
"If ye see the Tunnellers start swarmin' then send one up. If I start seein' them do the same I'll get back to ye as soon as I can. Chalk, ye an' Lani did well together last night. Stick close to each other an' manoeuvre separate to Joshua an' Raul. They'll act as base o' fire an' ye can flank an' push. Understand?"
The Courier patted the large, paving slab sized shrapnel bomb he had constructed at the Lucky 38, that he had refused to use during their assault on Fort Defiance. "Worst comes to worst an' we disturb a nest o' Tunnellers while were there lookin' for Uly, consolidate on Joshua's flare an' keep yer head to the ground. I'll toss this Lil' baby at 'em. Should put the spirit o' fear in them. Maybe even drive them off so we can get up high an' bunker down 'til the little feckers get bored. Wanderer an' I will scout ahead from the main group."
"And these… Marked Men?" Lantaya asked, wondering where humans acquired their proclivity for producing outwardly simple but ominous-sounding names for everything they came into contact with. "What are they?"
"They're what ye might have become if I hadn't dragged ya from the Dream back on the Zeta," the Courier declared. "The spirits o' the men they used to be eaten from the inside out while the winds o' the Divide have stripped their skin from their flesh. They're Marked Men now. Used to be Legion, NCR, locals from Hopeville an' Ashton. Now, they're husks hollowed out an' moved by spirits not their own."
The Courier loaded his .45 pistol with a freshly filled magazine and slotted it back into his holster at the small of his back, brushing his fingers over the hardwood club he had received in Zion, and the hilt of his machete gladius. They had not received an offering of blood during the events of the night before, but he suspected that they would receive more than enough today to assuage them. These also had spirits growing within them, and blood was the water that would let them develop and flourish.
He continued the threat assessment as he finished the last of his gear checks. "Their flesh still fights as they did in life. In small groups like packs o' dogs, they fire an' move, make use of the terrain an' whatever they can find as weapons or armour. Some dress in Legion armour, some in NCR combat gear, some in both. There's much to find in the ruins o' the Divide an' none o' them care much anymore which symbols they wear. Their skin is what sets them apart now. All Marked Men, all no longer human."
"No infighting?" Boone asked for clarification in his methodical voice, noticing that the Courier was beginning to ramble somewhat, and more interested in the details he had not yet heard. "If they were NCR troopers and Legion before, then why aren't they fighting now? And how did they get there in the first place? That's the other side of the Mojave from Arizona. Almost into NCR territory."
"Caesar sent his Frumentarii there after the fall o' New Canaan. The Divide used to be the second major trade route 'tween NCR an' the Mojave. 'Twas what made it worth more than the storm cut patch o' worthless dirt that it actually was. If the NCR needed to supply troops in the Mojave with weapons, gears, replacement personnel or the like, they had a choice between marchin' their bloody feet up the length o' Long 15 or passin' through the Storms o' the Divide. Ones a journey an' a half, the others just a journey through hell, but faster if ye know the ways. Caesar wanted to cut off the Divide, cut off NCR from the Mojave so they could launch their campaign upon Vegas an' Hoover Dam uncontested."
Craig Boone's lip curled upwards as he too concluded checking his gear. He had shrugged on a long-sleeved jacket this morning underneath his NCR Survivalist Armour, and he needed to readjust practically every strap on his gear to accommodate the thicker underlayer. The Courier had told him to dress for a sandstorm. That meant no exposed skin, goggles to protect his eyes, and scope covers to protect the expensive optics mounted atop his two rifles. "Legion couldn't have done what happened at the Divide. They march with war drums and spears, not tech. I've seen the edge of the Divide."
"So have I," Follows-Chalk entered into the conversation, nodding his agreement to Boone's statement. "Could go no further than the very edge, close enough to see from the top of a hill. Storms and radiation forced me back."
The intrepid tribal explorer, whose hunger to venture into the darkest corners of the New World and to unearth what remained of the Old, was unrivalled amongst most of his contemporaries shuddered at the memory. "Something evil dwells there. The land is like Joshua sometimes speaks of in the stories of the End Times. Dark. No Hope."
Boone nodded slowly, holding the Couriers gaze with his own. His eyes were unobstructed by his usual aviators, and the biker goggles he intended to use to protect his eyes were pushed up onto his forehead. His next statement contained an unspoken question that all those in the know wanted answered. "Whatever created the Divide was like an earthquake and a storm all rolled into one. The only thing I can think of that does that is Old World tech. Bombs maybe. That's not the work of Legion Frumentarii. You've been to the Divide, Six. Following those Marks that other Courier left for you. Christine told Veronica about them, about him. Veronica told everyone else."
The sniper narrowed his eyes and gave Six a searching look as he finally voiced the question with no equivocation, "Who is this Ulysses? How does he know you? And what happened at the Divide between you and him?"
"Why so curious now Craig? Ye never asked what happened there before. I just came and went from the Divide before the Battle at Hoover, an' all o' ye barely batted an eyelash."
"Well Boss," Raul cut in, milk white eyes drawing lines in the air between Boone and the Courier, "We've known you for a while now. If we thought asking would get us more than a few peculiar riddles and a bunch more questions, we'd ask. But hell Boss, none of us even know your name. No point asking if you're not going to get a straight answer."
"I thought his name was Courier Six?" Lantaya queried, puzzled now at the direction this conversation had taken.
"Tis just a title," the Courier said, grinning his enigmatic expanse of white teeth, completely unapologetic that those who travelled with him seemed to find the distance and obscurity he maintained to be an obstacle. "Travel as far as I have, names cease to mean anythin' to those ye walk with. People an' places come an' go like dust on the wind. Ye pick up new names outta the breeze as ye go. Names that means somethin' to those who gave them to ya. Mojave calls me Courier Six. Legion calls me the Monster of the West. In Asia an' Africa, they call me the Long Walker. Different names everywhere I tread."
"And I call you an asshole," Boone said, rolling his eyes at the self-aggrandising string of descriptors.
"It works, don't it?" The Courier cackled, "When ye don't want people to ask questions, just never give straight answers. I'm a few steps ahead o' all o' ye! Beneath this skull lies a keen an' cunnin' strategic mind."
He tapped his fabric wrapped head with a finger, projecting a knowing wink and a smirk.
"Hey Boss," Raul caught the Courier's attention and nodded towards him with a straight face. "It must have slipped your keen and cunning strategic mind this morning, but you left your fly down."
The Courier glanced down quickly, but his fly was in fact done up. He looked up as the chuckling at the old putdown spread from mouth to mouth among the wastelanders present, while the Asari, lacking cultural context, wondered what was so funny. "Well fuck ye too, Tejada."
He looked around from face to face and shrugged. "Do ye want to know the story 'fore we head in there? I'll tell it simply for the askin'."
"Definitely wouldn't hurt to know the lay of the land," Boone replied in a neutral tone, unblemished by excessive emotion.
There were murmurs of ascent from the rest, which the Courier took as his prompt to continue. He glanced around, taking in their surroundings with a practised eye. They had left Fort Defiance behind and were now far enough away that the Fort was no longer visible past the small bumps and divots in the landscape. He directed them to a small congregation of suitable stones and sat down with a huff of exhaled breath. Everyone crowded around him, and his cyberdogs settled themselves directly at his feet and curled up into balls of fluff and cybernetics, Roxie partially resting upon Rex in the Courier's long shadow. ED-E bobbed gently beside Courier Six, his speakers as silent as the grave.
"Storytime then. Brush off some old memories for ye. Only question bein' where to begin?"
He mused on this question for a moment, as his hands reached for his datura as they always did, rolling another cigarette for his consumption. Lantaya frowned, "Are you certain that you wish to be smoking so much of these substances? You are most likely damaging your lungs with this excessive consumption of recreational drugs."
The Courier waved his hand dismissively, not even dignifying this with a response. The smoke rose from his mouth in a cloud as his lighter flicked closed with a metallic snap. His face was downturned for a long moment, looking at the dogs that curled themselves at his feet, but not seeing them. Datura smoke wafted him back almost fifteen years into the past, give or take a few months and change. Exhaling a long spout of smoke that billowed forth like dragon breath, he began his tale.
"Begins back before NCR an' the Legion ever met, suppose. I was comin' up through the Mojave lookin' for somethin' nobody seemed to be capable of givin' me. Search took me out towards NCR territory a ways. Was lookin' for signs o' a pre-war company called RobCo. Robert House's little empire. These were the days before Vegas had lights; before the Lucky 38 opened itself up an' the Securitrons came pourin' out from the past into the present. Tried to get into the 38 back when Vegas was nothin' but tribals livin' in a ghost city. Nothin' came of it. Decided to head out west. Heard tell of a Nation that had sprung up from the sands. A Nation under the flag of the Two-Headed Bear."
They had all sat in a rough circle on whatever free space was most comfortable. Raul was propped up against a rock, vaquero hat jammed down tight with the drawstring fastened under his chin, and a long poncho over the top of his jacket, with enough loose fabric to wrap around his face. An identical pair of biker goggles to Boone's were also hanging from his neck. He observed and listened calmly, relaxing in his hollow.
"Trod worse places than the Divide was back in those days. Storms there are man-made, tricklin' out the Big Empty like the spirits trickle now into the Divide from the Dream. Fastest way from the Mojave into NCR lands. Walked the paths, used the skills an' tricks I learnt from the Long Walk, when I travelled through Africa to Asia. A route the Old World used to call the Silk Road. To map out the ways ye needed to tread in order to traverse the Divide. Found people there, a ways away from civilisation but still clingin' onto life in the desert. Took work from them to pay my way, odd jobs. Never thought much o' it at the time. Just took work where there was payin' work to be had."
Joshua and Follows-Chalk had settled down near one another, the former listening with studied interest, the latter hooked upon every word in his usual obsessive fashion. They too were outfitted for a sandstorm, although in Joshua's case, less work needed to be done to prepare than most.
"Moved on eventually, like I always do. Left the names they gave me behind, carried packages with me to deliver once I reached NCR lands. Keep me in victuals 'til my feet reached civilisation. And sure 'nough, my feet hit NCR soil not long after. Delivered my burdens, told my stories, moved further on. Searched the New California Republics for signs o' RobCo. Up an' down, left or right, could not find a whiff o' them. Carried on walkin' back an' forth 'tween Mojave an' California. Always took the shortest way," the Courier said with a proud grin, "Through the Divide. Didn't have the time nor the patience to travel the Long 15. Carried packages, did jobs, an' in time a Nation grew in that shitty, back-sand little berg. NCR followed after me. Paid me for my maps an' a few round trips to show their Rangers the paths through the storms."
Lantaya listened and noted all that she heard, bundled up in her combat armour and a balaclava to protect her skin against the sand they would meet within the Divide. Her own goggles were strapped to her Combat helmet, which itself had been packed with some extra padding to stop it from impeding her vision quite so much. In her mind, she was replaying his memories of the events he described, the endless toil through the sands of the Divide. The same dusty faces that greeted him, year after year as he carried packages and used the proceeds to fund his search through America for what he sought. The crushing weight of time as it bore in on him, held at bay by the people he killed and ate, and his many mutations. A perpetual motion machine kept moving by the very forces that sought to stop and tear it apart.
"Then, after years searchin', I heard word that the Lucky 38 had finally opened. That bloody tower," he snarled, "like a Vault buried in the sky rather than in the dirt an' stone, that I could not get into with all the explosives I could get my greedy mitts on, had opened up o' its own accord. Vegas was shinin' like a jewel in the sands, an' those tribals I had known so long ago had been tamed by some Old-World Spirit. Picked up sticks an' headed out soon after once I'd tied up my business with the NCR. Actually cut short on a contract with them. They weren't pleased, no sir."
The Courier puffed on the roll-up as he finally looked up from his feet and let his gaze drift over his companions. It was as if his steel grey eyes didn't see them at all. He stared right through them, off into the middle distance, in much the same way that blind men do.
"They told me to carry a package for them. Told me to carry this one package, an' we were quits without me havin' to honour my contract. Said, 'Sure lads, not a bother. Hand the package to me an' I'll see it right to its happy new home. Then my word is still good, even before the spirits.' Just like a thousand other jobs I'd done to pay my way, a thousand other packages my legs had carried from one point to another. This one were different. This one made me pay for carryin' it."
He flicked the spent roll-up away from him with a negligent dismissive air that seemed to bring him some of the way back to reality. He blinked and regarded them with narrowed eyes.
"The package contained one o' the Voices of the Old World, a signal to awaken America's spirit from the ruins, where it had slept for hundreds o' years. I carried it for the NCR through the Divide, dropped it off, moved on. An' I were days away before the Voice spoke. It woke up America's spirit. The spirit of a Nation that last it could recall, was in a war for its very survival. Bloody thing lashed out with all it had to offer at a Nation that were long since dead. The giants o' the Divide tried to launch, but some o' the silos were fastened tight shut. Computer systems degraded with age; the spirit were willin' but the steel weren't. Know that feelin'. Missiles launched an' blew up almost in the same moment. Cracked the earth right down to its foundations. Wiped Hopeville an' Ashton off the map."
ED-E warbled sadly from where he hovered over the Courier's right shoulder.
Lantaya stared at him, surprised at her own lack of response to the horrific tragedy he described. It was if her empathy had been drained out of her by the Massacre at Defiance. She no longer had the emotional strength to muster outrage at this latest testament to humanities own passion for self-destruction. Everything about it was bleak. A fledgling Nation, taking its first shuddering breaths of sand and radiation-laced air, sundered from the face of this planet by the long-drawn-out death-spasms of the Nation that proceeded it. It was almost predictable, or even amusing, in its own pointless malignity.
"And how does this Courier Ulysses fit into the picture?" Raul asked, his own response just as muted as Lani's. What was all this to a man who'd seen the bombs drop in person, she realised. He probably gave less of a damn than her.
"He were one o' the Frumentarii. One o' Caesar's explorers. A Long Walker, like me. He came to the Divide to sow the seeds o' destruction. But he saw Hope in the Ashes. He never liked Caesar, only his Legion. Respected them, sure. Had men he called brother in their ranks, maybe even many men. The Twisted Hair's only joined with Caesar cause they saw the writin' on the wall. Knew their days were numbered if they didn't join with the winnin' team an' not for nothin', the Legion had a better grasp on things in the wastelands than any other out East. Caesar betrayed them regardless. To build a Nation, ye need spirits to give it strength. Took those he could break from the tribes he conquered. Dropped their weapons an' joined up. But Uly was of a different spirit. I have my Spirits, Joshua has his God, and Uly has his History. Makes us the Three Unwise Men."
He chuckled darkly and waved away Joshua's glance in his direction, "Never you mind, Joshua. Just my little joke."
Resting his elbows upon his knees, and his chin upon his cupped hands, he continued towards the end of his story. "Uly liked what he saw in the Divide, at least before the bombs reduced it to rubble. As he tells it, he always had a fixation on flags an' the history o' Nations. Wanted to know the why o' things. What was worth scorchin' the surface o' world in nuclear fire? What did you need to birth a Nation, make it grow, make it flourish?" The Courier paused to rub his chin and scratch the hair of his beard.
"That's more powerful than bombs, or bullets, that knowledge. Ye can know it's significant without knowin'. The spirits whisper it to ye. They did with the NCR an' the Legion that came to the Divide, to Ashton and Hopeville. To Ulysses. They began by fightin' a silent, bloody, yet secret war over the Divide, but the whisperin' from spirit to spirit bent them in ways they couldn't fight. NCR an' Legion came to the Divide to fight each other. 'Twas the Divide that won the fight. Some Legion an' NCR started talkin' between themselves, let their spirits reach out an' touch each other. Too far away from the sight o' Kimball or Caesar to reign them in. A silent war turned to silent rebellion. What's the point o' fightin' over the differences o' a Bear an' a Bull, when the Divide proves any scrap of shitty sand can birth a Nation from dust?"
Boone blinked, his eyes opening wider as he took the Courier's meaning. "They stopped fighting?"
Raul, Joshua Graham and Follows-Chalk were all suddenly very interested in what the Courier had to say. Whatever they had expected, this was not it.
"Aye," the Courier confirmed, "They stopped fightin'. Figured that they'd had enough bloodshed over sand an' rock, over Hoover Dam an' the fuckin' lights o' Vegas. Had enough death in the name o' Caesar an' his Bull, or NCR an' their Bear with not 'nough brains to fill one head, let alone two. Decided to settle down in Hopeville an' Ashton, make a go of it. Brave lads, to a man. They were finished followin' others. Decided to take their own path, walk their own Road. Their own little slice of Paradise, far 'nough away from either side to be more trouble than it were worth. Weren't just named the Divide cause it were slap bang in the middle 'tween East an' West. It was named the Divide because it was the hope for two tribes to become one. Ulysses saw this before any o' them. Masterminded the whole show, kept the dissenters' secret from those that still remained loyal, or so he told me after we met each other in the Divide. Then the bombs blew, an' their names are lost to history. Nothin' but the Marked Men now to tell ye they ever were."
The Courier seemed to have been infected by the bleakness of his own story, his eyes having lost the spark they usually contained, "Could have been the spark that birth a spirit o' heroism. Like somethin' outta a story. Candle got snuffed 'fore the world ever got a chance to be seein' a new spirit be born."
Joshua settled his hands upon his knees, kneading his kneecaps with a slow repetitive motion, before voicing his thoughts. "Some days it seems as though no good deed goes without punishment. I knew many brave men who served in the Legion. And despite my conflict with the New California Republic, I am certain many good men resided within their ranks also. It does not surprise me that such men could find it within themselves to reject petty conflict in favour of a better life. I only wish they had been more fairly treated by fate."
He glanced towards Lantaya and gestured in the Courier's direction. "You asked me Miss T'Rali, how such men could find the courage to sacrifice themselves in the name of something that rose above their own lives? In many ways, what separates the men who we venerate for nobility and bravery from those who we condemn for atrocity, is not the content of their soul but the worthiness of their cause. An imperfect measure, to be sure. But only God can measure the worth of a man's soul. We imperfect beings must make do with imperfect answers in this imperfect world we birthed by our own hubris."
"That is not what I remember of my own people. Similar perhaps, but not taken to such extremes. You speak as though a single man could take on the nature of a paragon of virtue and the cruellest of villains from one year to the next. A singular being must have a singular, intrinsic nature. Courier," she turned to the grey-haired tribal for she knew he thought the same, "You have often spoken of the necessity to act according to ones nature. You see what I am trying to convey, do you not?"
The Courier shrugged, still out-of-sorts, before rallying himself with a nod of agreement. "Sure, I take yer meanin'. Perhaps what ye believe to be evil ain't really evil, neither. Legion had its way. Gained its point, almost succeeded in its aims. An' in the end, it weren't beaten by a man who believed in a Way vastly different from their own. It fell to me. Have to admit," he smiled a cheeky smile from within the foliage of his salt and pepper beard, "I ain't much different from Caesar. A lot of what I venerate, he did also. Only difference bein' that I was better at it than he. Uly says I was the one that proved his philosophy to him. Beat him at his own game."
"You have a kindness in you that Edward lost long ago," Joshua disagreed, "I will vouch for that personally."
"Didn't ask for yer vouchin' Joshua; but thankin' ye kindly for the thought regardless."
"Christine told us that Ulysses was searching for you. Looking for you for years, but always one step ahead or behind," Boone proclaimed as he digested this revelation and fitted it into place beside the rest. "What did he want? Revenge for the Divide? A bullet through your head? Seems to me there are easier ways to do it than leaving scribbles on walls from Zion to the Big Empty to the Sierra Madre."
"I'm a hard man to follow," the Courier stated with an iron certainty in his smooth and uniquely accented voice, "Uly is a smart man. Knows how to get his way without forcin' the issue. But no, I don't think even he knew what he wanted from our meetin'. Maybe just to eulogise the death of a child he fooled himself into believin' were his own. Understand his anger though once he finally stopped to explain it to me without the riddles. He understood mine once I returned the favour. Now we're like this," he said, closing his index and middle finger together in a sign of closeness.
"But that was what done it for me. The Divide. Ye all remember me before I went back to the Divide before Hoover. Could never win a hand o' cards, could never hit the sweet-spots on my targets. Could never walk a mile without some shite happenin' to knock me back several steps. Some awful queer bad luck. My payment for what happened at the Divide. 'Till I went back there that is, faced down those spirits, faced down Ulysses. That bastard Benny wouldn't have lasted a second against me if my luck hadn't have been sour. Never would have lost the Chip, never would have been shot in the head. Paid my way, even if I never understood how much it would cost."
They remained silent for the longest moment. Finally, Lantaya drew attention to the question that her keen attention to detail had settled upon as the only question left unanswered. "But why were you searching for RobCo in the first place? Why did you want to get inside the Lucky 38? And what did you do once you did?"
They all looked to the Courier for an explanation, but he just smiled sadly and adjusted his rifle. He stood up and stretched his legs and clicked his cybernetic spine. "Now, now Lani. Lad has to keep some secrets."