Dusk approached, bringing yet more snow to Seattle. To the South, raiders were digging what Michael realized were meant to be trenches, a pointless exercise in the face of Brotherhood paladins clad in power armor. Gravy Squad poured out of the house and sprayed them with laser fire as they approached, punching through the raider lines turning their trenches into shallow graves.
To the East, another group of PA raiders were approaching. They were slow moving like the others on the highway, which Michael suspected was due to their inferior servo-motors. Or lack thereof. Unlike the Brotherhood, these raiders didn’t know how to repair the finer aspects of the power armor they scavenged.
Gravy Squad’s downed paladins had been stuffed into their power armor and carried on the backs of two others. One might’ve been dead, but they needed to bring his power armor back home so another paladin might take his place. With that in mind, they might as well bring the man himself.
But while the armor could be recovered, it also meant the squad was effectively down two more paladins. It’s why Michael led Gravy Squad straight onto the highway, before continuing south. No bounding overwatch the way knights might be forced to do, Michael’s paladins were in full retreat and he wanted to avoid as much fighting as possible.
With Michael’s armor in the lead of their diamond formation, distracting the raiders ahead and taking most of the hits. The paladins carrying their dead and wounded were protected in the rear, while other paladins provided supporting fire from the wings. And because the PA raiders were unable to match their speed, they could be avoided entirely.
The same was true for the buildings flanking the highway. If there were raiders hiding inside, they would take time to clear out. Time for more raiders to encircle their position a second time, more if the raiders had explosives they could use against them. They had already lost one paladin, there was no need to risk more for positions they would abandon.
“Paladin Michael, sir.” Oliver said, referring to Michael by his title as he was the acting commanding officer of the squad.
“What is it?” Michael asked and brought the squad to a stop.
Oliver pointed back to the church. “We could reconnect with the rest of the platoon.” He said. “Continue West, then help the others break away from the raiders.”
“No.” Michael said clearly and definitively for the squad to hear, before Oliver could say anything that might change his mind. “Sentinel Abel has the rest of the platoon at his disposal. We should consider ourselves lucky that we’ve only lost one of our paladins. If we don’t get back to White Sprawls, we might also lose Andrews. We are withdrawing. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” Oliver’s voice was cut with frustration, but he was obedient in the end. Which was all that mattered.
Michael had followed Andrews into danger, now it was Oliver’s turn to follow Michael to safety. Abel would have to handle his own retreat. As far as Michael was concerned, the mission was over and somebody needed to inform HQ of the raider army marching south.
As Gravy Squad continued down the highway, more raiders stepped onto the road ahead. Michael fired his rifle at them, hitting some, and laser fire from Gravy Squad behind him cleared away the rest. Flanking along the highway, more raiders fired their weapons in Gravy Squad’s direction, mainly at Michael. Their bullets glanced harmlessly off their armor as they ran past, firing the odd shot at whatever unlucky raider caught their attention.
The snowstorm fell heavier and anyone out of power armor would have a rough time navigating, let alone fighting. When fewer raiders appeared down the highway, Michael knew the worst of the fighting was over for his squad. This left a lack of visibility as Gravy Squad’s last true obstacle in their retreat, but they only needed to follow the highway. Which was visible from the cars along its length.
The snowy winds battered Michael’s visor and forced him to use the spotlight on his helmet, which he ordered the rest of the squad to do as well. So they could track each other's movement, to avoid getting lost in the snow. After several long hours of marching, they passed by a column of APC’s that the Brotherhood had stripped for parts a few months back.
The skies darkened and dusk was upon them, but the hollowed wrecks served as a milestone for the scouting parties who ventured north of their camp. Other vehicles were left on the road for the same reason. Michael passed an ice cream truck and called out through the wind, “We’re almost there!”
The city of Seattle came a long way from the past two hundred years, from people eating ice for leisure to freezing to death in it. The silhouettes of broken buildings appeared through the snow, flanking the road. Winter had yet to arrive in force, but the Brotherhood’s corner of Seattle’s Metropolitan Area was already covered in snow. There wasn’t an inch of clear ground to be seen in White Sprawls.
The faint glow of searchlights pierced through dark skies and Michael knew they had arrived at their destination. The Washington Brotherhood’s flag billowed in the wind, its black iconography contrasting on a blue background. It featured the same gears and wings of other Brotherhood chapters, but had a lance in place of a sword. A special distinction from their deployment to the Pacific Northwest as Lance Squadron.
Gravy Squad approached the gates of the Brotherhood’s fortified camp at White Sprawls and Michael looked up at the sentries stationed atop earthen walls, which were packed behind a layer of metal. Many were initiates, but a few were young knights who had yet to qualify for one of the more technical roles in their Brotherhood. Fewer of these were older veterans, who found a preference for their duties in the Brotherhood’s infantry forces for one reason or another.
“Password?” A sentry asked and aimed his laser rifle at Michael.
The sentry was a young man in his early twenties, one of the initiates brought over from Portland denoted by the insignia stitched onto the left shoulder of his overcoat. An initiate’s shield. A hollow five-pointed shield, flat on top and pointed at the bottom. His helmet and the hood underneath were as unblemished as his overcoat. There was a non-standard scarf wrapped around his neck and stuffed into his overcoat, but no sign of a breastplate.
“Open the gates! I have a man down!” Michael yelled and an older man took to the walls to examine Gravy Squad, outfitted in the armor he acquired over his years of service.
He was a knight sergeant, denoted by the insignia painted on his left pauldron. A solid shield, the base insignia of all official members of the Brotherhood, with a sergeant's three inverted chevrons. There was a hollow, upturned sword in the shield’s center which denoted the Brotherhood’s Order of Knights.
The knight sergeant led the initiate away from the wall and they argued behind the gates for a few long minutes, before the gates opened. “Welcome home, paladins.” The knight sergeant said and Gravy Squad entered the camp, home at last.
Michael ordered the paladins who carried their downed comrades, living and dead, to the hospital. They had carried them this far, they could carry them a little further. One other paladin had the task of taking Michael’s newly acquired machine gun to the workshops, but the rest were free to crawl out of their power armor for a hot shower and warm food. As for Michael, he had the unenviable task of reporting to Head Paladin Blair. A scribe informed him that Blair was waiting in the camp HQ, so Michael could explain why Gravy Squad fled back to camp.
Knights leaned on the railings of the walls surrounding White Sprawls, staring down at Gravy Squad’s paladins and talking amongst themselves. Other knights walked around camp with business of their own, but couldn’t resist staring at the recently returned paladins. After all, Gravy Squad had lost one of their number, two if Andrews didn't survive his injuries, and the other squads were undoubtedly suffering casualties of their own.
Which of these knights were the most eager to take their place? To take up the responsibilities of a paladin, as well as its privileges. Perhaps they’d find another vacancy, if Blair found Michael’s excuses lacking.
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In the White Sprawls headquarters, a pre-war outbuilding built for the nearby high school, Michael found Head Paladin Blair leaning against the long, rectangular table that the Brotherhood’s High Command used to discuss their schemes and stratagems. Blair checked behind Michael as he entered and gave his armor a quick inspection. A paladin in power armor walked in from a side room. In his personal suit of ATA distinct for its metallic blue coating, which had been with him since his days in the Midwest, Michael realized Elder Constantine had chosen to attend the meeting.
Blair was among the highest ranking members of the Brotherhood in Washington, the head of the Order of Paladins, but Constantine was their sole elder. Unlike other chapters of the Brotherhood in the Midwest, there was no Council of Elders in Washington who discussed decisions. In that regard, Constantine had the final say in all matters. Michael saluted the men, his right fist over his heart, which had begun racing faster than when he had fought the raiders in the North.
“Hail. Paladin Michael, reporting in.” Michael said.
The men returned his salute and Blair spoke. “Paladin Michael, where is Paladin Sergeant Andrews? Why have you returned so soon? The airport hasn’t been taken already, has it?”
Michael’s voice was steady as he spoke, despite the nervous beating in his chest. “Paladin Sergeant Andrews was knocked unconscious by grenade rifle fire and I took command. Once Gravy Squad returned to camp, I had him brought to the field hospital.” There was another paladin who was lost in the same attack that brought down Andrews, but Michael couldn’t recall his name.
“A shame.” Constantine said, his voice deep and scratchy under his helmet. “The loss of even a single paladin will be hard to replace. Will Paladin Andrews survive?”
“A paladin reported to me that there were no obvious injuries, only that Andrews was unconscious. The scribes will have to make their own assessment for anything definitive.”
“What of the mission?” Blair asked and Michael reported his account of the fighting.
There were hundreds of raiders armed with the weapons of a pre-war military, including power armor and explosives. They intercepted the platoon as it advanced up the Pacific Highway and took massive casualties in a frontal assault, but it served as a distraction for other raiders to encircle the platoon. If Blair had any thoughts about this information, he didn’t let them show on his face. Constantine’s was similarly hidden underneath his helmet.
“Where is Sentinel Abel and his sergeants?” Constantine asked.
“Sentinel Abel sent a signal for a retreat, but Gravy Squad was separated from the rest of the platoon. We had to make our own way back to camp, to get aid for Paladin Sergeant Andrews.”
“What was the signal?” Blair asked.
“A flare, sir. Our radios couldn’t connect, but I used a distress pulser.”
“Is that so?” Blair turned and frowned at the map spread on a board behind him, outlining Abel’s proposed advance on the airport. “And if Abel had intended to wait for your squad to rejoin his platoon? To shelter in place. Are you absolutely certain he intended for you to retreat?”
“No, sir.” Michael said and a chill ran down his spine.
“So why did you flee? For Andrews’ sake?”
“Yes, sir. I made a judgment call. I do not believe that Abel intended anything other than a full withdrawal under those circumstances.”
“If Abel had ordered a retreat, he has yet to arrive. Maybe he’s still there, waiting for your squad.”
Silence fell between them and Michael stood awkwardly, with no question to answer. Just a simple statement. As well as the insinuation that Michael abandoned Abel and the rest of his platoon, as well as their mission. It was a crime that would get him shot, but that depended on Blair’s verdict. The head paladin scratched at the stubble on his chin, around the scar that ran across his face, and placed a hand on the .44 revolver holstered on his waist.
Michael considered how he might escape White Sprawls, if he had to. Constantine was the greater threat in his power armor, but could be dispatched in a sudden attack. The extra weight of Michael’s own armor could have enough blunt force to break through Constantine’s helmet. Though, Blair might take his chance to escape and alert the rest of the camp. Maybe a quick swipe, as he rushed Constantine, would be enough to take off Blair’s head. But Michael would still have to escape the camp.
Constantine sighed. “We shall have to see how the situation develops. Anything else to report, Paladin?”
“No, sir.” Michael caught sight of Blair patting his revolver, still deep in thought.
“Then you are dismissed.” Relief washed over Michael because the Elder, at least, was feeling generous with his mercy.
After an exchange of salutes, Michael quickly made his way to the engineering bay. There was no use testing the limits of Constantine’s mercy by loitering in his HQ. Michael entered the high school that the Brotherhood repurposed for their knights, passing several classrooms that housed their workshops.
Knights stood on either side of the hallways he walked down, making way for his power armor. “Hail,” they would say and Michael responded in kind. Past the double doors of the old shop class, a spacious room filled with machinery for working metal, knights were cleaning the pieces of a gatling laser they had taken apart. They were being thorough and Michael suspected they were going to work throughout the night, perhaps in shifts.
When he arrived in the school’s gymnasium, maintenance crews were busy inspecting Gravy Squad’s PA units. Frames were stripped entirely of armor as knights tinkered with the servo-motors that operated them. The armor pieces that had been removed were separated into two piles. One of which must have been the armor that needed to be replaced entirely, judging by the large chunks missing from a few of them.
Michael brought his armor to his designated station and exited his armor, which flared open in the back. Unlike the standard models, the individual pieces of his armor couldn’t be easily replaced. If they ever became too damaged to protect him, he would have to wait until they were fully repaired or were remade from scratch. It was another tradeoff for his armor, besides hindering his ability to aim.
In an emergency, he could always use the spares the Brotherhood kept in reserve for the knights, but his power armor was his second skin. He couldn’t help but feel naked in anything else. The air prickled his naked face and his blood pressure dropped. For a moment, his ears began ringing, but only for a moment.
“Dominic.” Michael said to an approaching knight.
“Michael.” Dominic said, responding in kind.
Spare T-45 armor pieces were stacked against a box near the PA station. Michael knew that Dominic was fully prepared to strip away the PA frame and replace the armor so Michael could return to the field, if it was necessary. Michael had needed this service only once before, but Dominic insisted on being fully prepared. For all possibilities, at all times. It naturally meant creating more work, but Michael could respect the work ethic. There was nobody else he would trust to do the work. As the knight that regularly attended to Michael’s power armor after each mission, Dominic was the second-most familiar with its peculiarities. The first being Michael himself.
“How was the mission?” Dominic asked as he tinkered with Michael’s armor.
“It wasn’t the success we hoped for.” Michael mirrored Dominic’s actions on the other side of his armor. As a knight on engineering duty, Michael could offload the responsibility of maintenance onto the man, but Dominic already made enough work for himself.
“That bad, huh? Couldn’t help but notice, Gravy’s got two suits of armor missing.”
“They’re probably at the hospital. Andrews was downed, but he might make it. The other guy we brought in is definitely dead.”
“Terrible, did you know him well?”
“Not really.” Michael noted a few superficial chunks missing from his armor around the shoulder, besides the ordinary dents and scratches, but it was largely intact despite the beating it had taken. “This side is good, how about yours?”
“All good over here. This armor’s held up well.”
“It shouldn’t have. The raiders had grenade rifles, a lot of them. Took some direct hits.”
“Shrugging off grenades? That would explain these holes, but I’m impressed it held up as well as it did.”
“I thought they had me for a moment. Anyway, Abel should be returning soon. He’ll probably want to pick up a few of our heavy weapons and go back north, so I’m going to try and get some sleep.”
“Sure thing, I’ll finish up here.” Dominic said as he motioned to a clipboard with a pencil and paper, referring to the reports the knights in the engineering bay had to write up for every suit of power armor that returned from a mission.
Grabbing the spare PA undersuit and bomber jacket that Dominic had prepared, Michael went to the showers in one of the locker rooms attached to the gymnasium. His aching joints popped when he stripped naked and stuffed his clothes into a locker, dirty clothes on the bottom and clean clothes on the shelf near the top. It had been a long day and when Michael felt warm water pour over his head, the chill on his skin melted away. He stood there, under the shower, hands held out against the wall and head hanging low.
Andrews had been wrong, the raiders had blood to spare and the readiness to spill it. Abel and the rest of the platoon should have retreated under those conditions, but there was the possibility he had chosen to stay or was forced to shelter in place. Michael felt guilty for not rejoining them, leaving them to fight in the frigid cold. Would Abel and his platoon still be fighting while Michael took a hot shower? Or while he ate a warm meal in the mess hall, before sleeping in the comfort of his room?
As guilty as Michael felt, it was outweighed by relief. Abel and the rest of the platoon were the ones stuck in the snowstorm, surrounded by raiders, and Michael was not. He had brought Gravy Squad to safety, performing his duty to them and to the Brotherhood, but the rest of the platoon was Abel’s responsibility.