Sylvia stood silent in the ruins of a cafe, arms crossed behind her back and her service rifle slung over her shoulder. Boxes of ammunition and other supplies were stacked on a counter and several tables. Whatever style the cafe once had was worn away and now served as a supply depot for the Wardens. Runners retrieved packfuls of supplies to distribute to their squads and reported to the quartermaster what they were taking. They were preparing for their fight against the Brotherhood, who were pinned down to the south.
A number of PA soldiers had escaped Julius’ trap down the Pacific Highway, with a lumbering metal monster if the reports are to be believed. The Wardens had pursued the rest of the Brotherhood’s forces however. Wrecks of power armor lined the roads from their position on the highway to the cul-de-sac they now found themselves.
Maintaining a single unit of power armor was an expensive investment in the wasteland. If the Wardens could destroy the Brotherhood forces they’ve trapped, the loss of their PA units would surely slow the Brotherhood’s advance into Seattle.
Wardens continued skirmishing throughout the night, keeping the Brotherhood pinned down with the threat of explosives. Though, they lacked the numbers for another full assault on the enemy. They needed to wait for their allies to regroup and reinforce their lines, but many of them had been scattered during the previous night’s snowstorm and there was no telling how many would return. In time or at all.
Relying on their allies, a loose collection of wasteland collectives and raider gangs, made Sylvia nervous. They were unreliable at their best, which is how the Wardens managed to take control over Seattle, but under these circumstances? Placed under pressure and forced to waste their lives in suicidal assaults? The cracks in the coalition were deepening. The Wardens needed a victory soon, to patch over the coalition’s problems on the surface before there could be a chance to mend its foundation.
Julius strolled into the cafe with a smile tugging at the cracked lips on his gnarled face, despite their recent setbacks. Following close behind were Captains Kenneth and Elliott, but only Elliott was as cheery as Julius was. Sylvia saluted the Warden General with a hand against her forehead. “Good morning, sir.” She said and Julius waved a dismissive hand.
“Captain Sylvia, you’re up early.” Julius asked.
“Yes, sir. I took the liberty of visiting our frontline units, before our next attack. The Brotherhood is still encircled and they’ve made no moves to break out.”
“We’ve got them right where we want them. Captain Kenneth and I have been discussing a new plan of attack with the coalition leaders over breakfast. Captain Elliott was lucky enough to join us at the right time, but Captain Sylvia, you two will return to your companies and wait to be relieved by our allies. From there, you will group up with Captain William. Once everyone is in place, we will begin our assault.”
Once again, Sylvia had been left out of Julius’ plans. Despite being one of his hand-picked captains. It no longer surprised her, but a lack of surprise did little to soothe her frustration. Kenneth she could understand, he had been with Julius since the bombs fell over two centuries ago. It was only natural that the two ghouls would keep each other in confidence, but Elliott? Were long nights and bottles of whiskey over a game of caravan all it took to ingratiate him to the old ghouls.
“What should I be expecting?” Sylvia asked.
“Our allies have been assigned their own portions of the encirclement. Skulltakers, Mariners, and Mercers will take up positions along the Northwest to Southwest. The Castellans will take up the East, while the Hounds take the Southeast. This leaves the North to us. Your lieutenant should have the finer details ready for you.”
“The Castellans can hold their ground, but will the raiders be up for the task? They suffered heavy losses yesterday alone. I don’t think they can last much longer.”
Elliott spoke up. “The Skulltakers and the Mercers have taken casualties, certainly, but they still have more than enough bodies to fill the line. But Landon’s Hounds will have the most burdensome task of holding the South, the likeliest direction of a Brotherhood counterattack. They are comparatively fresh and their main task is to absorb any enemy assaults while the Wardens engage in the real fighting in the North.”
“I’m more concerned with their willingness to fight. They’re the only ones standing between the Brotherhood soldiers we’ve trapped and any that might try to relieve them. If they run before we can strike a decisive blow…” Sylvia trailed off. While the Hounds were willing to cooperate with the Wardens, the Mercers and Skulltakers had to be forced into service with threats of violence. If they were forced to fight the Brotherhood again, the raiders might learn to fear them more than they feared the Wardens. Then Julius would have nothing to control them with.
“We’ll make sure they don’t run.” Julius said. ”Kenneth, dispatch a few of your men to watch over the coalition leaders in case they need babysitters to discipline them. Executions are permitted at their discretion.”
“Even the Mariners and Castellans?” Sylvia asked, surprised at the brazen suggestion.
“Of course, even them.” Julius replied, as if abusing their allies was the most natural choice for them to make.
Sylvia had spent years trying to improve the Warden’s relations with their neighbors, but Julius could never rise above his sadistic preferences. It created problems that went unnoticed until it was too late, especially in regard to the Warden’s more civilized neighbors, like the Mariners and Castellans. With whom, the Wardens had spent decades in cooperation. Because of Julius, to be fair, but also despite him.
Kenneth and Elliott left to rejoin their companies, but Sylvia remained. Julius put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply. “What is it this time, captain?”
“If we disperse the Wardens, they can ensure the encirclement remains closed. Their presence will provide the added benefit of keeping our allies loyal. Sending wardens to personally threaten the coalition leaders might alienate them further than we already have.”
“Let’s suppose the Brotherhood tries to break out, maybe our lines are attacked from the South as Brotherhood reinforcements try to save their trapped friends. Our allies don’t fight as well as us, but their lives are cheaper. Which is what makes them truly valuable. And as long as they bear most of the casualties, they won’t have the strength to defy the Wardens.”
“We can’t just sacrifice them. Every abuse we place on their shoulders will be one more excuse for them to betray us. It’ll be another uprising all over again.”
Julius scoffed, face twisting into mockery as if the very idea was a joke. An ugly sight on the old ghoul. He turned hard, beady eyes on Sylvia, inspecting her from head to toe with clear contempt. “You have become increasingly insubordinate with every passing year. And for what? Because the Wardens are a little mean? Compared to the raiders, we’re saints.”
“Not all of our allies are raiders-” Sylvia began to protest, before Julius cut her off.
“Like it or not, this violence is what it took for the Wardens to seize power in Seattle. And if our supposed allies have to spill their own blood to help us keep it, then that’s how it’s going to be.”
For the first time, Sylvia could see Julius as he was. Not the bitter tyrant who clung to power the way a child might cling to his mother, but an old ghoul who survived two centuries of fighting. If Sylvia thought she couldn’t be more disappointed in the man, he had proved her wrong.
If the Wardens were ever rid of the Brotherhood, then their allies would be the next threat to manage, despite any goodwill that could be gained by treating their allies as anything more than fodder. Julius was too stubborn to change, confusing his lesser impulses for wisdom.
Sylvia departed the cafe, crossing the street to reach the ruined suburbs on the other side. There were hundreds of homes if not thousands built in the same style across Seattle alone. Julius claimed that there were millions more across what had been known as America.
While Seattle was far from reliving its glory days, most of the old wastelanders throughout the city agreed that the Wardens had done much to pacify the wasteland. A younger, more idealistic version of Sylvia would have yearned for something better. Now, she realized that only a Warden defeat could change the status-quo in Seattle.
As much as Sylvia desired change, decline was far worse for Seattle than stagnation. In that sense, Julius was right. Seattle was better off with his Wardens than anyone else, even if the coalition had to be sacrificed.
—
Abel rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the fog of exhaustion in his mind. He had spent hours fighting through the night and he knew if he wasn’t so tired, he’d be starving. His platoon had taken up positions in two adjacent houses in an old suburban area, around a cul-de-sac. Abel’s Curly Squad in one house, Dan’s Seltzer Squad and Cormac’s Windy Squad in the other.
They barricaded entrances, knocked out windows, and Armored paladins with laser rifles guarded every opening. Ever vigilant. Despite this, the raiders committed themselves to periodic assaults, sending waves of flesh against the Brotherhood’s defensive positions. Undeterred by the snowstorm above them, fueled by chems.
The raiders with grenade rifles were prioritized over all others, but the near-constant fighting had taken its toll on Abel’s paladins. A few of whom lay dead and were piled unceremoniously in their armor where they couldn’t get in anybody’s way. Abel mourned for each loss, because they were his brothers and sisters in spirit, not just fellow soldiers of the Brotherhood.
Not all of their casualties had died in combat, however. Too many paladins had succumbed to their wounds or from the cold, frozen in the night. Inglorious ends for those who deserved better. Abel took off his helmet and his breath fogged in the air. He bent his head in every direction, stretching his neck, and returned his helmet to its place on his head. The weight of its steel assured him.
Caleb, his second in command, returned after visiting Dan and Cormac in the other house, checking the state of their paladins. Their radios had suffered a malfunction and Abel was forced to rely on runners to maintain contact with his platoon.
“You need some sleep.” Caleb said. “It’s been quiet for a while now.”
“I want to, but something in me is keeping me up.” Abel said. “How are the paladins?”
“Windy is catching some sleep. Seltzer just woke up, so they’re fresh and ready. As ready as they can be.”
“Any sign of Gravy?” Abel asked and Caleb shook his head.
“Maybe they retreated all the way back to White Sprawls?” Caleb said.
“Andrews isn’t the type to run.”
It was troubling news. Andrews should have rejoined the squad hours prior, but his absence meant his squad was dead or forced to retreat. Perhaps they had been encircled, like the platoon had been. One of Cormac’s paladins had left his armor to climb onto the roof, surveying the area with binoculars once the weather had cleared. If Gravy Squad had been surrounded, there was no sign of it nearby.
“Not even with all these raiders running around?” Caleb asked and Abel laughed at the idea.
“He would relish the fight. Charge in, guns blazing.”
“I’m sure Oliver would love that. Just saturate an area with automatic laser fire.”
“It’s ironic, but Andrews has a scope on his rifle. Purely semi-automatic.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Is that so?”
“He’s had it since way back when, in Chicago. I figured he’d get one of those automatic rifles, more useful for combat in close quarters. He likes to run at the enemy, but he also likes to take his time to aim. The automatic rifles kick more in full-auto.”
“They don’t feel like they kick more, not in single-shot at least.”
“It’s not always reliable. When you tap the trigger, try to squeeze out one shot at a time, it fires two or three instead. That’s why Andrews limits himself to a base model laser rifle. Said something about how every shot feels. Forces you to aim. One shot for one target, then you move on.”
“Who do you reckon is the better marksman? Me or him?” Caleb asked, patting his laser rifle. It was modified to deliver a single, potent shot in exchange for a slower rate of fire. Several tally marks were etched into the stock, one for every clean headshot Caleb had scored with it.
“You two can have a little test and find out, once we’re out of this mess.” Abel peered out of a window facing north and a bullet glanced against his helmet. Caleb walked to his side, all casual, and aimed his rifle into the distance. He fired one shot out the window.
“Did you get him?” Abel asked.
“Nailed him. That’s one more tally for the scoreboard.”
“They’re tenacious, aren’t they? To have lasted this long against us, it’s almost like Portland all over again.”
“Suicidal more like, they-” Caleb went silent and leaned closer to the window. Abel did the same, but Caleb had better perception.
“What do you see?” Abel asked.
“The wardens are moving. Raiders are taking their place. Do you think I scared them away?” As soon as the words left Caleb’s mouth, Abel could see the raiders in question advancing on the platoon’s position from the Northwest. Close enough that Abel could see what differentiated these raiders from the wardens.
Hanging from one raider’s neck was a chain decorated with human skulls. He waved his machete in their direction with one hand and beckoned his raiders forward with the revolver in his other hand. Neither would do much against power armor, nor the weapons carried by his raiders, but their relentless assaults managed to bring down at least one paladin. And their advance was only the beginning.
A paladin on the other side of the house called out. “Raiders approaching from the South!”
“Raiders to the West!” Another paladin called out.
Shouting resounded from the neighboring house, where Windy and Seltzer Squads were sheltering. More raiders advanced from the East as Wardens approached from the North. The Wardens advanced slower than the other raiders, but were more organized and likely supported by grenade rifles. Paladins fired their laser rifles in all directions as their enemies sent a wave of flesh to attack their positions, with no sight of power armor among them.
“Anyone see power armor?” Abel called out.
“No PA on this side.” A paladin called back, followed by the rest. Each guarded their own section of the house. If there weren’t PA units attacking one house, they must’ve been attacking the other. Concentrated in a way that obscured their advance. Abel dispatched a runner to make sure. The runner ran out the door and bullets glanced off his armor as he ran to the neighboring house.
Dan and Cormac’s squads had taken the bulk of the casualties in the initial engagement and resulting flight from the church. Positioned together in the same house, they approached Curly Squad’s fighting strength, but they were still the weaker half of the platoon. And while the enemy had taken heavier losses to their PA units in the fighting, they might have reserves.
Abel was confident that his paladins could bleed the enemy dry, even now, but the platoon itself would suffer terribly in doing so. Especially if the enemy combined the strength of their PA units with their grenade rifles. Abel hoped Gravy Squad made it safely to White Sprawls, because the rest of the platoon was stuck in defensive positions that were too strong to abandon. Compared to retreating under fire from a determined enemy, there were no other choices but to stand and fight.
—
Michael awoke in his bed and stretched his limbs underneath warm blankets. He turned off the portable radiator in his room and unfurled the shingles on his window. The morning sun shone through, peeking over a clear horizon, and the laser rifle that sat on his table gleamed. The snowstorm had passed and he wondered if the rest of the platoon had arrived back at camp.
His room was small, but insulated, located in one of three office buildings that had been rebuilt and repurposed to house the Brotherhood's paladins, just south of the high school. While not nearly equal to the room he had in Portland, it was his own private quarters in White Sprawls. Which was better than camping in some ruined building with a gaping hole in the side, like when he first arrived in Seattle.
It had been chilly in Seattle then, but Michael arrived during the summer. How much worse was the city during a snowstorm in the fall? Or in the winter that approached? Michael slung his rifle laser over his shoulder and left his room, walking from the office wing of the building towards the reception area. Along the hallway, doors remained closed, but faint mutters or moaning echoed from a few of them.
In the reception area, paladins lounged on reclaimed sofas around a circular table as they ate breakfast and chatted amongst themselves. They must have left their rifles in their rooms, because there weren’t any in sight other than Michaels own. One group of paladins were bragging about all the raiders they killed in the recent fighting, to the awe of their onlookers. Oliver was among them, sitting off to the side more somber than the others. He was the first to see Michael when he approached.
“Did the platoon make it back last night?” Michael asked and Oliver shook his head. Paladins gave Michael a few glances and nods, which Michael responded to with a simple smile, before they returned their attention to their conversation.
“Head Paladin Blair sent a recon team north and they said the platoon’s been surrounded. There was some light skirmishing, but the raiders could attack in force at any moment. We’re all just waiting for orders.”
“And Andrews?”
“He woke up an hour or two ago, but he’s sleeping off some pain meds. No concussion, but a piece of shrapnel got into his armor. Nicked an arm, but that’s the worst of it. He’ll be alright.”
“That’s good.” Michael nodded and thanked Oliver, before leaving the paladins to their conversation.
Before Michael could grab breakfast from the mess hall, he needed to give his armor a quick inspection. Something he did every morning, a part of his morning ritual. There, he found Dominic sitting at a table beside his armor, writing something down. Dominic raised his face to Michael and revealed the dark bags under his eyes.
“Have you been here all night?” Michael asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. There were a few spots we missed. Not important, but I figured I’d take the chance to fix it up. Filled in what I could, so on and so forth. I’m finishing up some paperwork now.”
“You didn’t have to stay up all night if it wasn’t important. Just get someone else to do it.”
Dominic slapped the leg of Michael’s power armor. With all of the damage it had suffered fixed and painted over, It was in true battle-ready condition. “Nobody else knows this suit like you and me. Besides, one of the knights heard a rumor from his sister in the HQ section. Says that the Head Paladin and Head Knight were meeting with the Elder. They’re putting together a task force and I figured you might be interested.” Dominic waved to Michael’s rifle, slung on his shoulder and cleaned the night before. “See, you’re already good to go.”
A fully maintained weapon was important for all Brotherhood soldiers to have at all times, not just the paladins, but Michael was definitely interested. It was a chance to redeem himself, for his retreat from the enemy. “Tell me more about this task force.”
“They’re going to break the encirclement around Sentinel Abel and his platoon. It’s a simple rescue mission, but apparently the Head Paladin wants them to reinforce the northern advance.”
“Is the Elder in favor or against the proposal?”
“I don’t know anything else. You’ll have to wait for them to announce their decision like the rest of us.” Dominic shrugged. “Or ask them yourself.”
If Blair could get his way and the task force went north with Abel, then Michael wanted to be a part of it. Taking the Seattle-Tacoma Airport was important for the Brotherhood, enough that there was glory enough to be shared among the paladins who were present in its conquest. The reason Michael volunteered for Abel’s mission in the first place.
Michael thanked Dominic for his tireless efforts with a written note entitling him to Michael’s share of breakfast rations and left for the HQ. He could expect to be offered a spot on the task force if he waited, because of his seniority and recent return, but Michael didn’t become a paladin by waiting.
A few knights of the HQ section ran back and forth a side entrance with their clipboards, departing towards varying corners of the camp. In the main room, huddled around the table, Michael found the Elder and the Heads of all three orders in the Brotherhood. If Dominic had known, he would’ve told Michael that Head Scribe Torland would be present for the meeting. Whatever business a scribe had in planning for the upcoming operation was beyond him, but it’s not like Michael could question his presence. There were three others in the room, two knights and a scribe judging by their uniforms and markings. They all turned to face Michael as he saluted them.
“Good morning, do you have business with us?” Blair said.
“I heard a new task force was being put together. I wanted to volunteer myself.” Michael said and Blair’s eyes went wide for a moment.
“Paladin Michael? Out of your armor, eh? I almost confused you for one of the younger knights.” Blair said and sent a quick grin to Constantine, whose expression remained obscured under his helmet. “So you want to volunteer for the task force? Very proactive. We could use more paladins of your kind. If we did, we'd take Seattle by Winter’s end.”
“Paladin Michael?” Mortis asked Blair and directed his attention to Michael. “I heard you were young, but you’re much younger than I expected. How old are you, boy?”
The question made Michael bristle. It had been a while since he had been referred to as a boy. “I’m nearly 18, sir.” He said, careful to hide his displeasure. “But I assure you, I am fully capable of doing what the Brotherhood requires of me.”
“Ah, nobody is doubting your competence.” Mortis said with a wry smile, raising his hands in surrender. “So young, so young. You are the one who led Gravy Squad’s retreat? I hear there were a great many savages.”
“There must’ve been hundreds of raiders.”
“Hundreds.” Mortis whistled. “That must’ve been frightening. Choosing to flee in the face of an enemy is a difficult decision, but you saved who you could. Don’t be disheartened. Now all that’s left is Abel and the rest of his platoon.”
Michael felt as though he was being mocked, but he endured it. He was a paladin with a proven record, not a green initiate. Compared to being shot at, with or without power armor, verbal sleights meant nothing. Besides, everything Mortis said was true. Michael was guilty for all of it.
“With that being said, we were in need of a paladin. Young Michael came at just the right time.” Torland said and the withered scribe inspected Michael like a piece of tech that could be put to use. “Perhaps he should join us?”
Mortis was taken aback by the suggestion. “Perhaps not.” He said, looking around the room. Gauging reactions. “I already have a paladin in mind for the task force. Paladin Jetson has the experience. He can bring our paladins back home.”
“This is a simple rescue mission, supported by our knights.” Torland asked and a sneaking suspicion entered Michael’s thoughts. “And how can our youth gain experience if they are not allowed to seize it when they are so eager?”
“Seattle has yet to be taken.” Mortis interjected. “There will be many opportunities for glory, I’m sure, but my concern is for the paladins in the North. An entire platoon, dozens of paladins. A simple rescue mission this may be, but it’s better left to one of the sergeants.”
A shiver ran down Michael’s back, the hairs on his scalp standing on end. He suspected what was being discussed, but didn’t dare to hope. It was too soon, surely.
Mortis looked to Constantine for support, but the Elder didn’t give it. “Paladin Michael has experience leading his own teams and brought Gravy Squad home when he was forced to take command. This would be a good opportunity for him to prove himself.”
“It’s because of his age that he should be allowed to learn from his betters. He can continue leading teams, but there is much the paladin sergeants can teach him.” Mortis rested a hand on the plate covering his right thigh, the leg that had become permanently crippled in his duties as a paladin, and leaned his weight onto good leg.
“Paladin Michael has volunteered for many dangerous missions. That’s why he’s a paladin when others his age are still knights, if not initiates. So we should give him the respect owed to any other paladin.” Blair said and looked to Michael for an answer. “How about it, Paladin Michael, would you like to lead the task force?”
Mortis looked around the room, waiting for anyone to speak up, as did Michael. It was clear that neither of them could believe what was happening. Mortis set his sights on Michael and limped towards the young paladin to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to refuse, nobody here will judge you. Trust in Jetson to take the lead. As his second, you can learn a lot from him.”
Despite the tone of Mortis’ voice and his words, there was no friendliness in the Head Knight. The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes and they remained hard and mean for reasons Michael couldn’t understand. Though, Mortis’ apprehension was clear enough. Physically, Michael was 17 years old. And he had just been offered command over a full task force.
To everyone standing in the HQ, Michael was a young paladin about to take up a responsibility that others his age could not be trusted to handle. What nobody could understand, however, was that his soul was far older. Michael had lived and died in a world that resembled pre-war America, before he was reborn into an unfamiliar wasteland, into the Brotherhood, with memories of that previous life intact.
He had nothing to explain himself. He was either an aberration because his memories were true or because they were false. And though much of these memories faded away in the near two decades he spent clawing his way to the position of paladin, an effort that made him one of the youngest paladins in the Brotherhood, he could never forget the sheer decadence of the old world compared to the new. Thrust into a world where surviving sometimes meant fighting in the most literal sense, it haunted him.
“It would be my honor to lead the task force.” Michael said to Blair, ignoring Mortis’ growing frown.
There was security to be had as a paladin, the most privileged order within the Brotherhood, and Michael would do whatever the Brotherhood required to keep his place. But this new mission, at the head of an entire task force, promised more than simple security. A position of leadership within the Brotherhood promised him power. Michael needed only to reach out and take it.