Chapter 21 Ad Victoriam

“Keep up Initiate Blake.” Paladin Maxwell showed little patience for the dawdling John. Distracted by mechanised, armoured suits of steel. Staring with disbelieving eyes as metal machines whirred their twin engines and took flight. Leaving the concrete ground behind.

John followed the paladin down the central area of the outpost, buildings on either side. The central area the domain of the flying machines and the people that kept them that way. There looked to be eight different pads. Half occupied by the pre-war Vertibirds, being worked on by crews of men and women, all dressed pretty much the same.

John thought of how impressive he found Robco’s truck. Which still impressed him, but these flying machines were something else entirely. Powerful enough to move the steel armoured knights. Armed with what the unearned knowledge told him were twin thirty calibre machine guns, and door mounted miniguns. He wanted to ride in one, then realised he already had.

“On either side of the Bird’s Nest, you will see our hangars. East one through six. West one through six.” John tried to listen to the paladin, knowing he’d have to navigate without a map screen to keep his word to the elder. “You are not cleared for those buildings, do not go in them. You are cleared for the yard and sub level two, understood?”

“Yes Paladin Maxwell.” Sara turned and winked at him, then carried on the quick tour. John thought about the last tour he took, a whiskey soaked wander round Robco’s Rest, this was not that.

They cleared the hangars and reached the exercise area. People lifting weights, playing sport, groups running beside the wall. All in the same direction, all dressed the same, the same as him, or near enough it made no difference. He blended right in. He felt oddly calm. Not missing the nerves of a family dinner table. Not feeling sensory overload of Shadowtown. He still didn’t trust them, although he began to understand why they were so protective of this location and the incredible pre-war tech it held.

“Sentinel Grimm.” Sara led him to an older, shorter, man. Same dark pants teamed with a white vest that showed his lean, toned, scarred arms.

“Paladin Maxwell. What can I do for you this fine morning?” The man seemed pleased to see her, and she him.

“I have an initiate who needs to break in some new boots.” She gestured to John, the man didn’t even look at him. It felt like he didn’t need to, as if his quick sideways glance told him all he needed.

“Paladin Maxwell, is this initiate a little slow, touched in the head perhaps?”

“No Sentinel Grimm, I do not believe he is.”

“Are his legs broke?”

“No Sentinel Grimm, I do not believe they are.”

The sentinel now turned his full attention to John. Getting uncomfortably close to his face in a way that people rarely did to a six foot plus, muscular man.

“THEN WHY IN THE HELL IS HE STANDING THERE INSTEAD OF RUNNING MY COURSE!” The sheer volume of the yelling, mixed with the shock, put John into a mild panic. He looked to Sara, she winked, telling him that this was a part of the training. Then she started yelling too.

“YOU GOT GREASE IN YOUR EARS! YOU HEARD THE MAN, ROUND THE COURSE! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” Sara smiled, playfully, while Paladin Maxwell shouted. She generously pointed out the start of the course, weaving round obstacles, and empty apart from John. He picked up a good pace, if only to get away from Sentinel Grimm’s breath.

John spent most of the day running Grimm’s course, unable, frankly unwilling, to hide how much he enjoyed it. Despite being yelled at and being called all manner of names at a high volume.

The course was designed to work every muscle. Rows of black, rubber circles that forced him to lift his knees to run through them. Netting suspended just a foot above the ground that forced him to crawl on his belly. Like the ‘pasty-mole-rat-son-of-a-bitch’ he apparently was. Alternating high then low beams. The only trace of wood in sight, and probably John’s favourite. He pulled himself over one, jumping down to roll under the next.

Every few laps his instructor would hand him a bottle of water. The first time he did John stopped to drink it. Before he even opened the plastic screw cap, Grimm bellowed. Asking him who the hell told him to stop and who gave him permission to hydrate. He didn’t make that mistake again, instead carrying the bottle awkwardly, being sent back to get it if he dropped it.

By the time Grimm ordered him to stop he felt exhausted. His tiredness only matched by his exercised induced high. He lay flat on the concrete, staring into the endless blue, breathing heavily. His body tired, his mind clear. “Sentinel Grimm, has the initiate earned some chow?”

“Paladin Maxwell.” Without turning to John, still lying on the ground, panting, Grimm barked an order. “On your feet Mole Rat.” John remembered what Sara told him and got to his feet, standing straight, or as straight as he could. “I suppose you better feed him, maybe then he might clock a respectable time round my course.”

Sara handed the sentinel one of the three brown pouches she’d brought. The two communicated something without speaking, and Grimm dismissed him.

“He likes you.” Sara said as they sat on metal furniture, behind a curved hangar. East one, by John’s reckoning.

“Who?” John assumed she didn’t mean the man who’d been shouting at him for hours.

“Sentinel Grimm, who else. If he didn’t you wouldn’t be eating right now.” The brown pouches were pre-war, self-heating, meals. Sara showed him how to use them. Crack something along the bottom of the pouch, then wait, shaking occasionally.

“What is it?” The dark writing on the brown, foil lined, pouches had faded too much to read. Sara shook each one in turn,

“That’s definitely mac and cheese, this one is either chilli or bolognaise.” John realised those words meant nothing to him, so did Sara, just not right away, “Which do you...we’ll share.”

John tore open the first pouch to be greeted with surprisingly hot, cream coloured sauce. Mixed with soft, curved tubes. He fished out the familiar spork and shovelled half of it down before Sara told him what it was. “That’s mac and cheese, not bad right?” It tasted better than that to John. It didn’t compare to the robot hand fed, lovingly prepared, food of Robco’s Rest. The home he’d spent only a single night at. Yet the simple flavour, mixed with the rich, gooey, cheese, allowed him to eat it quickly, too quickly.

“Listen, it’s the service tonight, the funeral for…you know what a funeral is right? When people have died and you gather to say goodbye.” He didn’t tell her what counted as a funeral in the Vault. The cold, unfeeling, vmail from the Office of the Overseer that informed of him of his father’s death. She obviously loved her father, dearly, and she was already grieving. “You’re expected to be there, but I’m not going to order you, not after you saw…”

“No, I want to be there.” John didn’t really understand what it would entail, yet he thought she wanted him there, despite her words. “Thank you, for saving me.” John meant to thank her earlier, he hoped doing it now would lift her mood, it did.

“Well I can’t take all the credit, you can thank Valkyrie later.”

“Valkyrie?”

“Yeah, or just Val. It’s her call sign, not her name.” She realised how she was talking to. “Like a nickname, hardly the most original, but she likes it. Who knows, stick around and you might get one. Mole Rat.” John didn’t know what a mole rat was, he just knew he didn’t want that nickname to stick.

“What’s yours?”

“Tempest. It means storm.” She slid her half eaten pouch over to him, “Finish that chilli, and we’ll go do something fun.” John shovelled the dark brown matter into his mouth. Realising four sporkfuls in it tasted hot, too hot. Much to Sara’s amusement, which made the uncomfortable sensation worth it.

John stood at a rifle range, jutting in from the outer wall. Made of the same wire mesh, rubble filled, five foot square blocks, stacked double with one extra on the inside. Very simple, very effective, easily repeatable. Providing not only a wall, but a walkway all round to shoot from, patrolled by guards with the same rifle Paladin Maxwell handed him.

John couldn’t tell if it was pre-war or not. Grey, pressed metal, dark wood grip with matching stock. Carved with number one nine one. Just like the tools in the Vault, standard issue, not owned, not personalised. Not like his rose carved pistol.

“You shoot a combat rifle before?” John shook his head, the unearned knowledge told him things. Forty five calibre, selective fire, twenty round box magazine. He waited patiently as the paladin talked him through things already he knew. Then followed her instructions as he hit the paper targets down range.

By the time he fired off the second mag he could land shots accurately on the far target. It felt strangely similar to a rivet gun, brace for the kick, pull the trigger, repeat. He struggled with the fully automatic fire, but still managed to score hits. And keep the rifle pointed down range.

The paladin gave no indication as to how good or bad he may be doing. He cleared the chamber and laid the crude combat rifle down, stepping back as he’d been taught. Paladin Maxwell, her face dour, picked up the empty rifle and turned to John. “Your sidearm initiate, now.” Unsure, he drew the empty rose carved pistol and the paladin all but snatched it from him. Tugging at the still attached lanyard till she removed it and walked away.

Panic built John, had he given something away. Did his seemingly routine performance tell her something that revealed the secrets the jet black pipboy gave him, forced on him. He crept to the edge of the entrance to the range. Looking to see if power armoured knights were about to strap him to a chair and start questioning him again, or worse.

He watched as Paladin Maxwell turned in his pistol and the rifle to someone leaning out of the smaller doors. Built into the tall, folding metal door the size of a wall in the nearest stout, curved, hangar. She just stood there, she didn’t move, he didn’t move. Until he saw the blonde woman get the guns back, and more besides, then start heading back to him, almost giddy. “That wasn’t funny.” John never did like wind ups.

“Sure it was, here.” She gave him back his rose carved pistol first. “We’ve your ballistics on file, means we can match up bullets from your guns, so if you shoot anyone get your bullets back.” John didn’t think that was funny either. “It’s a neat piece, compensator’s a nice touch. What’s the flower for?”

“You’d have to ask the man I took it from.” John tried to sound tough, and he didn’t lie, but he failed all the same. At least Sara’s amusement kept her from asking about Rosie. The Brotherhood had taken enough of an interest in one jet black pipboy, they didn’t need to know about another.

“Initiate Blake.” Sara adopted an impression of the elder. More respectful than ribbing, yet amusing in its accuracy. “Do you hereby and henceforth accept the duty of carrying this piece of shit, ugly, old ass, combat rifle around till it hurts your back?”

“Agreed.”

“You still need to learn to reload faster than a feral ghoul, but you just passed basic marksmanship. Enjoy the extra weight.” Sara gave him the rifle, extra ammo and magazines, they were heavy. “He likes you too.”

“Who?” John asked.

“The elder, we don’t make deals with just anyone.”

With forty five calibre ammo seemingly bountiful, John fired off all the bullets Sara brought. The paladin taught him to shoot two pistol shots at a time. Double tapping the pinging metal targets that fell back if he did it just right. Then she led him to his quarters, using one of entrances nearby.

Sara left him at his door to get more chow, and he all but ran to the private washroom to take a long, cooling, shower. As he dried, feeling refreshed despite the coarse towel, he found a real mirror. He wiped the condensation from it, and saw to his mild shock he had two black eyes. Deep purple bruises, merging across his nose. It didn’t hurt, it hadn’t hurt since last night. A small price to pay he thought.

He emerged from the washroom to find his door wide open, a tray of food placed on the ground outside, he knew why. He didn’t go in his father’s room ever again, of course that was mostly due to being sent to level six a month later. He sat at the desk and ate, warm, flat white circles that tasted like bread. Some ground meat with a hot flavour, countered by the sweet little mixed green and red orbs. He couldn’t find a spork so he just used his clean hands, making a mess, until he realised what the white circles were for.

He dressed, then set about cleaning his gear, starting with the holsters. They’d been scuffed, banged, dragged through the dirt, but never, not once, had anything fallen free. Even during the handful of spills he took. He separated everything, wiped it down, put it back on. He slung the rifle and pocketed the extra mags. He didn’t think the ammo would add too much weight, but the rifle was going to be a problem.

It felt too long, even for him, and the sling didn’t pull taught enough. The people he’d seen carrying them, and more, didn’t seem bothered by it so he trusted that he would adapt, he’d have to.

The way Sentinel Grimm shouted made John think he usually had to deal with more people. Not used to a single target for his high volume, high frequency, barely understandable insults. Unable, or more likely unwilling to tone it down.

Sara too, he grasped enough about rank to know paladins likely had more important things to do then bring initiates food and watch them shoot. It made him uneasy.