Chapter 26 "Never given or taken lightly."
John hoped his first day as an aspirant had drawn to end. Sara talked him through the basic maintenance required to keep the armour moving. Nothing complicated, mostly just cleaning joints, checking the seals to keep the rads out, topping up oil and coolant. Then came the field manual, the heavy tome dropped on his bench loudly to keep him focused.
Valkyrie returned, bringing a sheath for his combat knife that clipped to his boot. With a holster that used the black fastening material to grip to the under armour he still wore. John smiled when he noticed the black pipboy screen almost blended in the new suit, no one else around even gave it a second glance. As long as it stayed off.
Sara fitted his rose carved pistol in the new holster, high on his chest assuring him, again, he’d get used to it. John knew he'd have to. With the suppressor and an extra mag there really wasn’t space anywhere else that didn’t block at least one connecting port. John tried drawing a few times, it felt off. Then again if he had to draw it while wearing the under armour, he’d likely have more pressing concerns.
“Paladin Maxwell, has the aspirant earned some chow?” Elder Maxwell carried trays of covered food, three of them stacked up. John stood to attention, as did Val, while Sara just smiled at her father,
“Well he didn’t throw up in the suit so I suppose he has.”
“Wouldn’t have been the first.” The father and daughter shared a private joke as they each took a tray and sat on the comfy seating near the wooden bar.
John began to see why the commander would carry out seemingly menial tasks like bringing food. It put people at ease. It allowed him to get the required information from them without formality. And share a meal with his daughter.
“So John, how many times did you fall over?” The elder asked.
“Twice sir.”
“Only twice, off to a good start.” The elder sounded genuinely pleased.
“He did pretty well, covered the basics. The real fun starts in the morning.” Sara gave John a knowing look as she casually made her report, between mouthfuls of hot chilli.
“I’m looking forward to it.” John felt tired from a long night and longer day but moving such weight at speed had an intoxicating allure.
“Good, plenty to do out there, but enough of that, eat, you’re going to need your strength. And I believe there was mention of not too bad whiskey.” The elder smiled, letting them all eat. Getting information about the salvage operation at the missile silo from Val. She’d already made three rounds trips hauling back whatever Scribe Gates found noteworthy, which John guessed meant a lot.
They finished their hot chilli. John cleared the bowls, rinsing them in a sink behind the bar then stacking them. Still not quite used to the process.
He grabbed the half full bottle of whiskey from his work bench. Enjoying the privacy to laugh at the red stencilled ‘R’ on the bottle while wondering what his friend Robco would make of the last day and a half. Still trying not to think about the coded warning he’d received.
“Aspirant, present your sidearm and rifle.” Sara shouted her faux order. He took his rose carved pistol and assault rifle, checked they were clear, and went back to the table.
He handed the bottle to the elder who poured a stiff drink into three of the fine cut glasses. And to John’s relief, an easily replaced mug for him. He waited for John to sit, then pulled something from his top pocket. Standing each one of the seven silver tipped bullets on end, slowly, respectfully.
“You know what these are?” John nodded, forty five calibre pistol rounds. The bullets themselves made from the steel that remembered the dead sentinel. The man he tried to help, the man that brought him here.
“High grain, jacketed hollow point, expands on impact, for something that deserves to die. Keep them with you John, keep them ready.” The elder’s eyes didn’t shift from the silver, hollow, sharp edged bullets. John saw grief in the heavy eyes, grief for the loss they represented. Tempered with the thought of the sentinel providing one last service to a Brother.
He passed out the whiskey, no one drank until they toasted, quietly, as one. “Ad Victoriam.”
The mood lifted after John loaded the silver tipped bullets into a new mag and slid them into the holster on his chest, close at hand. Ready for someone, or more likely something, that deserved them.
The elder shared a story about his first day in power armour. Sara’s hidden laughs before the funny parts told him it was true. “Took me a week to pound the dents out and about twice as long for the smell to fade.” The elder savoured the whiskey, he liked it, Sara and Val less so. Opting for vodka, which only meant more for the two of them.
The elder striped the assault rifle, talking John through it. Even though the unearned knowledge already told him everything the night before. “Of course as first days go, it could've been worse, isn’t that right Valkyrie.”
“That it could sir.” Val smiled and then poured another drink, staying quiet.
“Come on Val, it’s a good story.” Sara tried to push her friend.
“Fine, but only because John hasn’t heard it before.” She looked at him, trying not to look sympathetic. “You know what a barbershop is right? People come in, all day every day, to get their hair cut. My dad ran one, I grew up there, cutting hair all day, every day. While watching the Vertibirds fly over from the local airbase.” John didn’t really understand, he cut his own hair like most did on level six. Cropped short with the same old clippers he used to shave every other day.
“So I turn eighteen, I clear basic, pass a year of flight training and put in for the airbase near home. My first day I get brought the commander’s office, Paladin—“
“A paladin who shall remain nameless sergeant.” The elder interrupted her. The man’s name didn’t matter, and he was still to be respected.
“So this guy's got beautiful hair, washed, styled, perfect blonde. Longer than regulation, but this was his command, and he loved his hair. He tells me that I’m going to be his ‘personal barber’ or I’m not going to fly.” John saw the look of contempt on the elder’s face as he showed him how to tie the rifle mags in a secure, alternating pattern.
“I agree, and right there he wants a haircut. So we go into his private bathroom and I start washing his hair, like I’ve done thousands of times before. And I see a bottle of hair dye.” Sara burst out laughing, unable to keep from hiding the amusing part. “I ask if he has any shampoo, which of course he does. Only I use the dye, leaving it in way too long, turning his hair bright green.” The elder laughed, John did too, although he’d seen people with brightly coloured hair around. Val however, looked angry.
“Fucker had me charged with ‘assaulting a superior officer’ and I end up in a bullet factory with not a bird in sight.”
“Which is where I found you.” The elder raised his glass to Valkyrie, she did the same. “Do you remember what I told you?”
“Yes sir. You told me that insubordination was unacceptable, but not nearly as bad as wasting Brotherhood resources. If I joined your chapter I’d get to fly all day, every day, and never have to cut hair again. Thank you sir.”
“No, thank you sergeant.” Val loved to fly, and she was damn good at it, even John saw that.
“Although, I think our friend here could do with a proper shave.” Val looked at John as he rubbed his patchy beard.
“I don’t have clippers, if I can borrow some.” John trailed off as her saw Val fail to hide a look of pity. From a pouch on her wrist she slid out a round metal bar. Hinging out a rectangular blade that looked like it could cut far more than hair.
“Have you seen one of these before, it’s a razor.” John shook his head, Val smiled.
“You know I think John should see Val’s skills in action first elder, just so he understands what to do.” Sara had a half playful tone as she spoke to her father. She gestured to his much more impressive beard. “Please Dad, it makes you look old.” John never heard Sara call the elder Dad before.
John savoured his third whiskey, the smoky taste evoking memories of his once and future home. He watched as Valkyrie returned with bowls, towels, and a jug of steaming water.
She soaked one of the towels, then wrapped the elder’s face. She mixed lathered soap in a cup with powder from a small jar into thick foam. Gently applying a good amount to the greying, black beard. With trained, well-practised strokes, she slid the straight razor up the elder’s throat and face. Washing away the hair and foam after every stroke.
In no time at all the beard had gone, leaving the elder looking years younger. Sara took a green, ornate, glass bottle from Val’s supplies. She shook a few drops into her hands then wiped her father’s face, laughing as he winced. John could smell the aroma, sharp, clean, unfamiliar. Val used another damp towel on the clean shaven skin, then it was his turn.
“If you get cut it’s on the house.” Val sounded like she’d said that a thousand times before, mixed with a hint of nostalgia John hadn’t seen from her. “And it’ll also be your fault, just relax and don’t move.” He did as he was told. Trying to relax as the sharpest thing he’d ever seen ran smoothly up his throat, slicing away his patchy beard.
He found it actually felt good. A huge improvement to the biting, nasty, old clippers he’d used all his life. Of course there’s no way they would be allowed anything even half as lethal in the Vault.
“All right, looking good.” Val splashed his face with the clean smelling liquid. He saw why the elder winced. Yet the pain passed with the compress of a towel and his face felt smoother than ever before.
“Thank you, that feels great.”
“That’ll be ten caps.” Val cleaned her razor, folded the lethal looking blade back into the handle. Gave it a small kiss and slid it back into the hidden compartment on her wrist. She got up to clear away the bowls but John stopped her. He did it gladly, in lieu of the ten caps.
When John returned he found Val lost in memory. Sara and the elder were talking to Proctor Reed by his now well stocked workbench. The unearned knowledge told him what the proctor brought him.
A five five six assault carbine, black polymer, short barrelled, collapsing stock. Precise old world craftsmanship, not new but never used. Beside that a ten millimetre submachine gun. Dull steel, curved magazine. Integrally suppressed with an angular barrel housing that doubled as a grip. The unearned knowledge whispered a number followed by decibels that he didn’t think sounded right.
“These are the emergency weapons for your armour. If you have to ditch it you’ll need to be very loud, or very quiet. We’ll break them down and stow them after you put a few hundred rounds through them first thing.” Sara must have seen how tired he felt.
“Ammo will be waiting.” Reed checked his clipboard as he spoke, “There’s no call sign, I’ll list it under Tempest.” John tried not to notice the look of glee on Sara’s face at the mention of his as yet undecided call sign.
“Very good, thank you proctor.” The elder signed the clipboard and handed it back.
“Her ladyship says she’ll be ready in an hour. She’s got to create the right ambience, whatever the hell that means.” Reed’s complaint about his own wife made John smile. The proctor had an expediency to him that contradicted the creative nature of the esoteric Lady Avalon and her music filled, softly lit room. He wondered if that brought them together in the same way he loved Rosie’s intellect, even when it frightened him.
“So soon?” The elder sounded surprised and impressed in equal measure. Reed leant in, whispering.
“Yes sir. She told me about the kid sir, you know where he’s from, the details I mean, and she, we, really wanted to help.” John saw the look of pity masked behind a look of hope as Reed glanced at him just enough to nod. Not wanting to divert his attention from the commander.
“You’re a good man Jeff, couldn’t run this place without you. But next time the lady goes home you take a few days and go with her, give the neighbours a break at least.” The elder smiled and shook the proctor’s hand.
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“Don’t have to ask me twice, thank you sir, we’ll see you in an hour.”
John kept quiet as they sat back round the table to finish the remains of Robco’s whiskey, he still had to hide a smile.
“Elder Maxwell, I believe my aspirant still needs a call sign.” Sara couldn’t take it anymore. Her teasing and gentle ribbing amused her too much. Knowing how much he didn’t like the piercingly accurate insult Grimm came up with seconds after meeting him.
“Yes he does.” The elder looked him in the eye, his face unreadable as ever. “What was it you like?”
“Mole Rat.” She tried to keep a straight face, John tried to keep quiet. The only thing he knew about whatever one of those creatures were was that they had pale skin. Which he didn’t have anymore, not where anyone could see.
“Yes, has a ring to it...although it’s no good, has to be a single word, and as his commander I get to pick it.” The elder smiled as Sara laughed, hard.
“Oh yeah, that must have slipped my mind.” Things didn’t slip her mind, John knew that.
“You’ve been messing with me all this time?! And you still haven’t told me what a mole rat is!” John felt relieved. Never the best at being the butt of a joke but Sara had played it perfectly. Mentioning it just enough to make him think she’d been serious.
The elder waited till the laughter dropped, his own slightly hidden. He topped off his own drink, leaving the rest for John.
“A name is a powerful thing, carries weight, meaning. Do you know the meaning of mine?” The elder asked.
“No sir. I know Tempest means storm. I know Valkyrie is a woman that drops from the sky to save warriors, and they’re not real. At least according to the dictionary.” John raised his cup to Val, finding the others followed his gesture of respect towards the, very real, Valkyrie at their table.
“Excalibur was the sword of an orphan boy who became king, a myth, not real. Legend told of an old sword, stuck in solid stone that only the true king could pull free. Many tried before, great warriors, wise men, none succeeded. Until the orphan boy freed the old blade. Fate. Do you know what fate is John?” He had a vague notion, more of a definition than a grasp of the concept.
“Things are planned out, like stuff is predetermined right?”
“Do you believe in fate John, do you think we all have our paths to walk?” The elder didn’t sound like he was testing John, he gave the impression there didn’t have to be a right or wrong answer,
“I’ve learned more in the past month than I have in years.” John tried to keep the anger at bay, but the tiredness mixed with whiskey, had worn him down. “If fate is real then I should be underground right now. Working in the cold, hungry, alone while surrounded by people. All breaking their backs for a lie.” He thought of Rosie, knowing at this very moment she’d just be getting off an extended shift in organic recyc. He nearly shattered the cup with his grip.
To John the closest thing to someone responsible for her present fate had to be the Vault Overseer. He'd always pictured an old man. Revealed to him now not as the wise saviour and the loving father to them all, but as a slave master. Whose cruelty would match up to those of his kind banished to the history books. Not in the physical cruelty, in the physiological indoctrination. The false nobility of the sick lie, reinforced hour after hour, day after day, year after year.
“That was my fate, so if it’s real, if something decided to put me there, I’d like to put my armour on and go have a little chat.” John imagined cracking the Overseer’s skull with the mechanised hands of the power armour.
“I’ll drink to that, fuck fate.” Sara threw back her drink, getting him to do the same. She always tried to keep his mind from the past, keep him in the here and now. He welcomed it, needed it.
“The orphan boy sir, how did he become a king?” John wanted to change the subject, and the elder liked to talk of myth and legend.
“With the aid of the bravest, most noble knights in all the lands. Bringing them together to fight tyranny and injustice. Living by a code of honour, service, a duty to a higher ideal. That the world can always be better and that those with power must defend those without.” The elder’s gravel tone underlined his convictions. The ancient ideals they all fought for today. In a world in desperate need of them.
“To aid the would be king, a mysterious lady on the isle of Avalon crafted him a sword of unrivalled power. Entrusted to him alone to lead his knights against the darkness.” John smiled at the warm look on the freshly shaved, younger looking face. His love of the mythic tale, mixed with the elements he’d recreated in his own kingdom, gave it meaning beyond a story in a book.
“The orphan boy became king. Sitting not on a throne above his knights, instead crafting a great round table, where all sat equal to their brothers. Each opinion treated with the same respect.” The elder finished his drink, along with the well told tale, getting back to his point. “So you see John, that a knight with a name taken from that story, all those years ago, would find an orphan boy. Of sorts, capable of pulling great power from solid stone. Unlike the great warriors and wise men who tried before, almost makes me think fate might be unfolding before us.” John couldn’t deny the elder had a point.
He alone could open the Vault they’d been searching for. Granting great power to someone who, for all intents and purposes, had his own kingdom. Yet as he drank the last of Robco’s whiskey, he couldn’t shake the coded warning from the older, wiser man. The only man he trusted completely.
“Was he a good king?” John read of callous rulers who cared little for their people, of course the story of the orphan boy wasn’t real.
“He ruled justly, saw the people fed, protected, kept them safe against those who would visit harm upon them.” John wanted to believe the elder would continue to embody the ideals he lived by. Hoping that unlike the story, or the lying stories he’d been force-fed for years, it could be made real.
“He still needs a call sign.” Sara seemed to enjoy the tale, or rather enjoyed seeing her father tell it. Yet her practical nature rarely stayed quiet for long.
“A name must never be taken or given lightly.” The elder looked at John, weighing him up as he’d done before. Like the morning after the torture when they officially met and struck their agreement.
John saw an idea spark behind the heavy, tired eyes. “You lived as one man, until you sacrificed who you once were in the service of others. Prepared to do what is necessary, knowing the cost, ready to bring honour to yourself. Here you sit, a man bound not by walls, but by your word, given freely. A man without a master.” John remembered sharing his favourite story. Guessing people like Styx and Anubis had likely done the same.
Elder Maxwell of the Brotherhood of Steel gave him a new name. A new identity, a new purpose, by speaking a single word. “Ronin.”
“Ronin.” John said his new name aloud to make it real.
“Perfect as always sir.” Sara had slipped over to the nearby bar and brought back a bottle of the good vodka, taken from the freezer, poured into four shot glasses.
“To Ronin, may you live without masters for the rest of your days, and find the strength to help others do the same.” John wanted to trust the elder’s fine words.
He doubted he could simply leave, not least of all because he’d given his word. Why should he expect others to keep theirs if he wouldn’t keep his own. But when the time came, two months from now, would the elder live up to the code of honour he so clearly held in high regard. John decided to trust that he would, knowing he didn’t really have a choice.
Plus the idea that they would arm him, train him, just to try and take his cooperation by force didn’t make sense. They all raised their drinks and toasted with ice cold vodka to the shout of John’s new name. “Ronin.”
The four of them drank a few more shots. Sara trying to instruct her aspirant in the dangers of mixing drinks. Making jokes about ritual suicide that actually got laughs. The elder complemented Val on her skills that stayed as sharp as her hidden razor. No one noticed the young looking scribe till he struck a lump of metal hanging from string in his hand. It sent out a pleasing note, echoing into the hangar above.
“Forgive me elder, the lady requests your presence, and she told me to sound the chime.” The young scribe looked awkward, knowing the proper method would be to stand to attention and wait to be called on by his commander.
“Quite alright Jenkins, we must allow the lady her ways. She tells me you’re coming along well, says you have a keen eye and a sharp mind.” The elder put the scribe at ease with a hand gesture and his words.
“Thank you sir, I like the work, it helps me think. If you’d like to follow me, in your own time of course.” The elder stood, so they all did, following the scribe to the steelworks. The cold night air brought a slight sobering effect as John realised just how much he’d drank. “Tell me Jenkins, how is her latest creation?”
“In a word sir, brutal.”
John followed the elder into the steelworks, Sara and Val keeping a short distance back. Inside, the retrofitted machinery lay dormant. In front of the tall melting vat, where he’d first seen the remains of the fallen knights he tried to help, Lady Avalon stood behind a table. Lit only by oil burning braziers. The ambience she sought to invoke masterfully achieved.
She wore the elaborately embroidered, full length, deep blue, hooded robes. Her face obscured in shadow. The young scribe struck the metal again, sending out another pitch perfect note, somehow different from the first.
“Aspirant John Blake, step forward.” John did, leaving the others, including the exacerbated, muttering, proctor. He stood over the table, draped in white cloth to counter the dark colours of the object that only existed on a paper hours earlier.
A hammer. Although to call this a hammer would be to call power armour clothes. The same basic idea, yet amplified, weaponised into something deadly.
The hammerhead itself looked to be nearly double the size of the sledgehammers he’d used for all those years. Made from a cut length of girder, packed with heavy, cast steel alloy on either side. The front flat, save for a harshly angled, diamond shaped section. Protruding mere inches from the exact centre. The rear left the steel girder exposed. Its flat shape cut into a pointed cross, ground to a sharp spike. Crowned with a low barb made in a similar way.
The handle looked longer than a standard tool, crafted from dark black material. Not metal, synthetic, reflecting the flickering flames in its almost woven texture. A pair of secure straps, with the same strange texture, wrapping the hammerhead. Merging back into the handle at the top, then tapering down to a rubberised grip in the middle. The bottom balanced with a perfect steel orb of the same cast alloy, fitted with a single spike on each side.
John reached out his hand to take the weapon, but stopped himself. “May I?” The lady didn’t speak. She made a sweeping motion with her highly skilled hand and stepped back further into the dancing shadows.
John must have swung a hundred hammers, a hundred thousand times, in his years enslaved. Both body and mind trapped deep below the surface of the earth, living under the lie. He’d never felt anything like this.
The synthetic handle didn’t feel cold, unlike the steel at either end. He lifted it from the table, finding it heavy, yet far lighter than he expected. Mixed with a bizarre sensation that the weight within the weapon shifted as he turned it upright.
“The head and pommel is cast steel alloy, strong, durable.” The lady’s voice came from the shadows as John took a few slow swings. “The handle, aluminium amalgam, wrapped in carbon fibre. Light, with just a hint of flex. The whole structure is filled with sealed mercury reservoirs. Keeps the weapon steady when slung, makes it hit harder when swung. The spikes around the pommel are threaded, interchangeable. You may add or reduce weight to find equilibrium.”
John could already tell he wouldn’t have to change a thing. All the measurements, the poking, the prodding, the probing, seemingly irrelevant questions paid off. Every bit of data used to create the near impossibly refined version of a most simple tool.
“Grasp firmly with both hands in the middle, twist counter clockwise, and pull.” It took him a moment to think which way that was, then he did as instructed. Separating the seemingly solid handle with a crisp, spring loaded click. Pulling each half apart revealed the hidden length of chain within. Joined in the centre with an ingeniously simple, quick release catch. The clever design allowing him to swing the top half while holding the bottom. The increasing weight countered by the spiked pommel orb.
John didn’t dare swing the shifting lump of mass too hard. Yet he knew inside the power armour this would feel no heavier than his multi-tool.
“These are the very chains you struck from those imprisoned not one day passed. You have the winged goddess to thank for their swift arrival.” Valkyrie undercut the tone by throwing John a wink, joining Sara, who looked confident, assured. Maybe even a little envious.
The elder whispered quietly between the scribe and the proctor. More concerned with the design process than the presentation. Which John had to admit created a powerful resonance, impressing upon him the importance of the drawing made real in his hands.
“Touch the pommel to the ground to retract.” John did as the shadowed lady said, half kneeling. Another simple mechanism created just enough tension to draw the chain in neatly. Allowing him to reconnect each half quickly, securely, ready to be swung two handed again.
“Grasp firmly with both hands in the middle, twist clockwise, and pull.” John followed the revised instructions as before.
The clockwise motion detached each half completely. Allowing him to wield the spiked orb and hammer independently. The ingenious locking mechanism proved all the more so as it reversed, the clasps performing an equal and opposite task.
“The warhammer may be used as mace and maul.” John hadn’t heard the word maul since the children’s stories in the Vault. The lazy men or greedy children were always getting mauled by wolves because they didn’t trust in the Overseer.
He swung each arm one at a time, the hammerhead the lady referred to as a maul felt almost too heavy. That however, would only be an issue outside of his power armour. Propelled by the pre-war pistons in the mechanised arms of a T-60, John would be doing the mauling.
The spiked orb mace in his other hand felt altogether different. Short enough to hang from a belt, light enough to swing for hours. “Squeeze tight with your palms.” John tightened his hands around the rubberised grips, feeling a stiff oval shape in the synthetic material beneath shift. It flicked a pin free, releasing the maul and mace heads, allowing them to swing on the now extended chains.
It took real effort not to drop the heavy maul, as the sound of chain clanking taught echoed out into the hangar above, like the lady’s words. “Lay them down and kneel to retract, then rejoin.” His arm still straining, John followed the last instruction. Taking a knee to effortlessly retract the swinging weapons. Snapping them back into the original two handed form he had the misfortune to be so intimately acquainted with.
He stood with the warhammer held across his body, as he’d been taught to hold his rifle. John felt like he held the deadlier weapon now, standing in awe of the hooded genius emerging from the shadows.
“Lady Avalon, th—” John stopped as the lady raised her hand, her face still bathed in shadow.
“Do not thank me Aspirant John Blake, this is no gift.” She stepped forward just enough that John could look her in the eye. “My favour is never granted to anyone but sworn knights. I have made an exception for you because you walk a dangerous path, already laden with a duty that weighs heavy."
She inched forward so John could see her smile. "Yet you do not walk alone, the winged goddess and the raging wind are at your side. Both stood ready to aid you in a quest that has fallen to you alone. May you have the strength to use the burden I grant you, and wisdom to know when not to.” Lady Avalon motioned to the young scribe, prompting him to strike a note to bring the powerful theatrics to an end.
“My Lady, If I may ask,” John didn’t know if he’d get a chance to see her again, at least not like this. “Does it have a name?”
“It does, yet you may pick your own if you wish.” John remembered the writing on the now seemingly simple drawing from a few hours ago. The words that defined his life, an insult, words he would reclaim to remind himself how far he'd come. He said it aloud to make it real.
“Rock Breaker.”