After Head Paladin Blair gave his speech, lavishing the guests of honor with more praise, plus something about conquering Seattle by the year’s end, Michael left the pavilion early with his tray of food. On which was a juicy rack of ribs from some mutant animal, most likely a radstag, and a serving of chopped vegetables sauteed in butter. It was the same for the other guests of honor, but the rest of the camp was served with similar dishes. If a bit smaller in portioning.
Acquiring the ingredients and preparing the feast must have required tremendous effort in the short time they had, but the cooks did an excellent job and Michael intended to savor every bite of his food in the private comfort of his room. All eyes were on him as he left, but he had Blair’s permission to eat in his quarters. It had been a long day of fighting and dusk was falling upon the camp, surely nobody would blame him for spending some time alone.
The festivities faded into echoes as Michael entered one of the old office buildings repurposed to house the paladins. The building was entirely silent, except for the sound of his own footsteps, leaving him nothing but his thoughts until he reached his room. There, he locked his door behind him, set his tray of food onto his desk, and switched on the radio he had brought with him from Portland. It was tuned to the improvised broadcasting station at the old raceway, which he had helped reclaim in the early days of Portland’s conquest, and he was just in time to hear a new song begin to play.
My feet are aching
And your back is pretty tired
And we’ve drunk a couple bottles, babe
And set our grief aside
Michael sat himself down and drank from the bottle of wine he’d been keeping for a special occasion. “Cheers to that,” he said and drank some more. He pulled at the rack of ribs on his tray and watched the meat fall off the bones, cooked in its own rendered fat. Hundreds of lives were spent earning him the meal and it didn’t diminish the taste in the slightest. He tore into the flesh with his teeth, savored it hungrily after he had to skip breakfast and fight through lunch.
Memories of carnage flashed through his mind, but he drank more wine and choked it down. There were hundreds of raiders fleeing across the McSorely Creek, but it wasn’t the full extent of the raider forces. They outnumbered the Brotherhood’s forces in Seattle by a large margin. There was going to be a lot more killing before they could take the city, but however many massacres it took, it would be done.
Blood was the price of victory in the chaotic wasteland, where might was the highest authority. It was the natural order obeyed by all and the Brotherhood of Steel was its most devout enforcer. In that regard, Michael considered himself lucky to have been born into the Brotherhood, instead of the innumerable packs of savages strewn across the wasteland. Where he’d be forced to prove himself simply to enter the Brotherhood’s ranks.
Things could’ve been so much worse, but things had been better. Memories of a quiet home returned to him, the way it did every so often, filled with the ghosts of a loving family whose faces he could no longer remember. The four walls of his room closed in around him, his prison when it should have been his safe haven.
He had tasted true freedom once, almost burdened by how much of it there was, and he would never know that freedom again. Despair creeped into his chest, spreading its tendrils outward. Michael continued drinking his wine, but after a few short sips, it was already half empty. He swished the wine around in its bottle, it was the last bottle he had in camp, and a knocking sounded on his door.
A woman’s voice called out, “Hello? Paladin Michael? I have a special delivery.”
Michael sighed as he wiped his hands on a cloth, grabbed his laser rifle, and opened his door just enough to peek through, carefully pointing his rifle forward from behind the door. “Who is it?” In the hallway, he saw a young woman with a plate of a slice of cake in her hand. A knight’s shield was sewn onto her shoulder sleeve, with two inverted chevrons denoting her seniority.
She smiled at him and said, “May I come in?”
“No.”
The woman’s smile twitched, but she remained smiling. Why was she smiling so broadly? It was then he noticed her nervous breathing, the strain of the smile on her jaw. Michael’s finger edged closer to his rifle’s trigger.
“I wanted to bring you this cake. The others in the pavilion already got theirs. It was a bit of a rush job, but Quartermaster Boston made sure I had all the ingredients I needed.”
“You made this?” Michael said and opened his door a bit wider as the woman handed him the plate of cake. He accepted it with one hand, keeping his other hand on his rifle.
“I used to be a baker in the Couve, y’know. My name’s Valery, I work in the mess hall.”
“Nice to meet you, Valery, I’m-”
“Paladin Michael, I know. The celebration is in your honor. Well, partly. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the cake.”
Michael wasn’t going to introduce himself, but he ignored the interruption and smiled back at Valery. “I’m sure the cake will be delicious.”
“If you don’t mind, maybe I could join you?” Valery stepped towards Michael, placing a foot in the doorway. Michael still had a hand on his rifle, which remained pointing into the door. At Valery, who stood on the other side.
“Why would I want that?”
“Tonight is supposed to be a celebration. I could give you some company.” Valery’s eyes broke contact with Michael’s for a brief moment, darting off to the side. He wondered if someone was waiting silently in the hallway.
“I went to my room to eat alone and listen to music. What makes you think I want company?” Valery’s smile fell then. Her mouth opened, but Michael spoke as she grasped at words. “Have a good night, Knight Valery. Thank you for the cake.”
He closed the door, set down the plate of cake on his desk, and waited for the sound of Valery’s footsteps to disappear. He seated himself at his desk and set down his rifle beside him to lean against the leg of his desk, close at hand in case he needed it again. He picked up his slice of cake with his hand and bit into it, realizing that the frosting was blue because it was naturally dyed by blueberries.
Michael was never fond of fruits in his pastries, even in the wasteland, but whatever Valery did to make the cake, she did it well. He realized then that he might’ve been a little rude in his dismissal of her. He’d have to apologize when he had the chance, in case she ever had another chance to make more cake. Maybe she’d make more for him if he bribed her with gifts.
—
Abel paced back and forth as he waited for Constantine in the camp HQ. He’d been waiting nearly half an hour and suspected it was the elder’s way of snubbing him. The recording device in the pouch on his bandolier weighed heavy against his chest, for a thing so small. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. The silence before the storm was always the worst.
A knight had told him of Constantine’s meeting with Torland, in the Head Scribe’s private office in the old library, but he was assured that the meeting was going to end quickly. Constantine’s own word, straight to the knight. Abel considered interrupting the meeting, but it was a breach in protocol and there was no sense giving Constantine any excuses to punish him.
Abel was already stuck with the unpleasant monotony of garrison duty. His march on the airport was meant to end that, by hastening the subjugation of Seattle. Seize the airport and secure the hangars. From there, reinforcements could flood in from Portland and eliminate local resistance with superior firepower. With the Brotherhood’s vertibirds stored in the hangars after each delivery, they could be refueled and maintained without fear of harassment.
Naturally, it meant more vertibirds in the air fleet could be deployed between Portland and Seattle. Raiders they may be, but the ghouls among the Wardens were skilled in skirmishing with the Brotherhood’s patrols. It’s what limited vertibird landing zones strictly to the muster field in camp. The smell of roasted meats and other delicacies wafted into the HQ and Abel’s stomach grumbled for food.
He was nearing the end of his patience when the sound of power armor boots approached, an ATA from the sound, and Constantine walked into the HQ building. Always clad in his armor, the Elder was a menacing presence. Mortis was a lapdog, as was Torland, but it was a wonder how Blair felt safe around him without power armor of his own.
Abel felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, but Constantine wouldn’t just kill him outright. He was a sentinel of the Brotherhood and Inquisitor Flores would never allow a murder to go unanswered. They weren’t savages, the Codex governed all, no matter how Constantine might chafe within its constraints.
“Elder Constantine.” Abel said and saluted, but Constantine did not return the gesture. Instead, he walked around Abel and filed through a box of folders. Despite the thickness of his power armor gauntlets, he plucked a single folder from the box with the finesse of decades of familiarity and filed through the papers within.
“Sentinel Abel. How may I help you?” Constantine said without sending a single glance his way.
“I came to ask about Jackson’s intel. There was an entire army of raiders sent against us, hundreds of them. I find it hard to believe that she could have missed them marching south.”
“I have reprimanded Paladin Jackson for her mistake. She has been punished accordingly.”
“Two dozen paladins are dead. A mistake like that should be a hanging offense.”
Constantine looked up from his papers. His face was hidden beneath his helmet, but Abel knew he’d be loathed to relinquish one of his most loyal enforcers. And while Jackson was a competent paladin, she strayed too frequently from the Codex. Her sacrifice would be necessary if the Brotherhood’s Glorious Purpose was to be preserved.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“We’ve already lost so many of our number, do you truly believe we should be hanging more of our paladins? After all, was it not you who led them to their deaths?”
“Then let’s have a trial, for me and for Jackson both. We can have a full tribunal.”
“With Inquisitor Flores presiding over the trials? I think not. Your friendship with her makes her judgment questionable.”
“Then what of Paladin Michael? He ordered a retreat without my permission, effectively deserting the field. He should be placed under trial as well.”
“The squad he led to safety is the one that suffered the fewest casualties. Perhaps you should be thanking him.”
“Would you be so eager to defend him if it were anyone else? Michael Constantine. He’s your great-grandson, isn’t he? Or was it ‘great-great-grandson’? I don’t remember how exactly you’re related to him.” Constantine remained silent and Abel gazed into the dark lenses of his visor. There was no going back, the accusation was made.
“Go on, what do you really want to say?”
“He’s quite young. It’s very impressive that he’s been elevated to the rank of paladin sergeant so quickly. If I recall correctly, you were the one who sponsored his elevation to paladin status back in Chicago. I heard you pulled a lot of strings to force it through.”
“Careful, Abel. You may be a sentinel, but mere status won’t protect you as well as you think it does.”
“The Codex is just a set of guidelines here. It must be fortunate that there’s nobody here that needs to be bribed for nepotism to be overlooked. You can just do it yourself.”
Constantine loped towards Abel and stood over him in his armor, but Abel stood his ground. He raised his chin to the elder, a clear challenge to his attempt at intimidation. He was willing to die to end Constantine’s reign as elder, but he was relieved when Constantine turned and walked away.
Hands on his waist, Constantine bent his neck to face the ceiling. He took in a deep breath and sighed loudly. “Do you remember when I swore my oath to lead Lance Squadron, once I was elevated to the rank of elder? The Brotherhood could have killed me, for being what I am, but they honored my sacrifices with a command of my own. To lead Lance Squadron from Chicago, in the Midwest, and establish a new chapter here, on the West Coast.
“I feel the loss of every casualty we suffer, but you should not misplace your anger. Michael is young, but he has earned his armor with acts of bravery. Jackson is also an accomplished paladin, but there exists a window of time between her surveillance of the highway to the north and the passage of the enemy.
We are not able to keep constant track of all of our enemy’s assets. There are a great many of them and so few of us. Relinquish your anger towards our own Brothers of Steel. Our enemies are without, not within.”
Abel considered pushing Constantine further, to make him implicate himself in any wrongdoing, but thought better of it. Eliciting any rage from him was a difficult task, Constantine had lost his humanity long ago. Abel often wondered if the Elder had any emotions left in that coffin of power armor he was trapped within. His present display of exasperation could be another show, one of many he used to convince his audience of his humanity.
“Very well,” was all that Abel said. He couldn’t push too far, not just yet.
“If that’s all, you should join the feast before it ends. The cooks worked hard to get everything ready.”
“Will you be joining us?”
“No, there are matters I need to attend to.”
Abel saluted and Constantine formally dismissed him to join the feast. Outside, Dan was waiting for him. Abel handed him the recording device in his bandolier and shook his head, he had gotten nothing useful from the conversation. Dan placed the device in his coat, but Abel told him to join the feast with him. It might look suspicious if Dan had the device wiped clean of data in the library immediately after Abel’s meeting with the elder.
“Thank God.” Dan said. “I’m starving.”
In the pavilion tent, Abel and Dan retrieved the meals that were meant for them and sat among a group of paladins they trusted. Paladins whom Abel had sponsored in Portland for the quality of their character, as well as their valor. Some distance away, Torland was red-faced from drinking.
Abel nudged at the elbow of the paladin seated beside him and pointed at the old scribe. “When did Torland arrive to the feast?”
“Head Scribe Torland? He’s been here from the beginning.”
Abel took a bite into a chunk of roasted flesh. The feast began some time before he arrived in the HQ building to wait for Constantine. There couldn’t have been a meeting between the Elder and the Head Scribe. Abel had been left to waiting, but for what? Nothing, for all he knew. If it weren’t for the radstag ribs on his plate, he would’ve been furious. Constantine held too little regard for the protocols of the Codex, its basic courtesies.
The paladin beside Abel looked over his shoulder, at the man who tapped his shoulder and asked him to move. The paladin did as he was asked and moved off to the side so Caleb could seat himself in his place. “Sentinel Abel, it was about time you joined the festivities. Your food was starting to look lonely. I was worried someone was going to nab it.” He said and drank deeply from his cup, before calling over one of the serving staff for a refill. A knight working in the mess hall approached with a pitcher and filled Caleb’s cup with an opaque, purple liquid. He downed it again and asked for more.
“Should you be drinking that much? What is that? Watered down wine?”
“Watered down mutfruit juice.” Caleb looked sadly into his cup. “I should’ve brought over more booze from Portland. Just finished the last of my whiskey.”
“I’d rather have some of what they’re eating.” Dan said, pointing at the table seating the guests of honor, Michael’s platoon, who celebrated their wanton carnage with slices of cake.
“I’d rather have some of what Paladin Michael’s having.” Caleb said, a little drunker than Abel had realized. “One of the cooks left to give him some cake in his room and she still hasn’t returned.”
“Damn, really?” One of the paladins asked, shaking her head. “Free cake, and free cake. I’m almost jealous.”
“I miss Portland.” Another paladin said, shaking his head, a sentiment echoed by the other paladins at the table. “I miss my girl.”
“Don’t worry about her, she’s someone else’s girl while you're away.”
“That’s not funny.”
“She probably has some side-piece lined up.”
“I’m serious. Why don’t you stop when I ask?”
“Maybe you’re the side-piece.”
The paladin had turned red during the exchange. His knuckles went white as he gripped his eating knife tightly. Suddenly the mood at the table was tense, but the other paladin was oblivious. Or she was just ignoring the mood entirely.
“What’s the matter? Gonna cry?” She asked.
Caleb cleared his throat. “Paladin Andrews is awake in the hospital. Want to bring him his food?”
“Certainly.” Abel stood and Dan stood with him. He’d leave the paladins to their banter. It wasn’t something he approved of, but it was important he didn’t butt into their interpersonal dynamics too forcefully. That was up to their sergeants.
With their own plates in hand, Abel, Dan, and Caleb brought Andrews his meal in the White Sprawls field hospital, a repurposed office building built into the side of the library. Within one of the former offices, they found Andrews sitting in a bed. Pillows were stacked behind him as he laid back and used a pencil to mark a sheet of paper on a clipboard. Andrews was drawing something, Abel knew, and found his paper covered in sketches of a bird.
“We’ve brought you your food.” Abel said, placing Andrews’ plate onto the nightstand beside his bed.
“I knew I smelled something good.” Andrews said and set aside his clipboard to eat his food.
“So the scribes got you locked away?”
“Observation. They don’t think I have a concussion, but they want to observe me just in case. I offered to sit with them during the feast, but there are other patients stuck here.”
“Then we’ll keep you some company.” Abel said and pulled up a chair beside Andrews’ bed. Dan sat off to the side in a chair in the corner of the room, focused on his food. Caleb stood as he ate, leaning against the wall.
“I heard we took some losses. How bad was it? The scribes all feign ignorance around here.”
“We lost a lot of good people.”
“All of them were ours too.” Caleb added. “None of them Constantine’s.”
“Careful.” Abel warned, looking to the hallway for any listeners. Caleb was treading towards dangerous words. Words that Abel could get away with, but would see Caleb hanged for.
“He’s right though. We lost too many of our guys.” Dan muttered from the corner.
“Ol’ Gravy got lucky then. We lost Henrik. Apparently, I might’ve joined him if Michael didn’t bring me to camp when he did.” Andrews bit into his portion of brahmin beef and groaned. “This is amazing. Something else I’ll have to thank Michael for I reckon. If I could leave this place, I’d like to join him at the feast.”
Abel scoffed. “He’s not even there, he’s in his room with some girl.”
“Good for him.” Abel declared, wagging a rib through the air.
“He’s missing his own celebration. This was something for the camp, to bind us together in brotherhood, not merely to glorify him.”
“That Michael is a bit of a recluse, always has been, but he does good work. Leave him be.”
“Do you know what they’re calling his victory?” Abel asked. “The Massacre at McSorely Creek.”
“It’s a hell of a name.” Andrews said, taking another bite of his meat.
“Hundreds of people were sacrificed for this feast.”
“That’s just how it goes, isn’t it?”
“Missions are one thing, but massacres? We’ve named it a massacre and chose to celebrate it. The Brotherhood should be better than the savages in the wasteland, not worse.”
“Maybe it’s good that Michael is absent. Could be some sense of shame.” Dan grumbled.
“Better them than us. We’re all still eating this food, aren’t we?” Andrews said, sending a disapproving glare at Dan. “He came to visit me, before he left on his mission to rescue you all. I was still trying to sleep off the med-x the scribes gave me, but I remember. He wished me well and said he was going to bring the rest of our paladins home.”
Abel stared down at his plate. He enjoyed the flavors of the meal far too much for his own liking. To think that something so delicious was bought with so much blood. “He’s too young. Not even 18 and he’s already a sergeant among the paladins? Even you have to see this blatant display of nepotism.”
“We were both born into the Brotherhood, so nobody had to sponsor us like these two.” Andrews said and gestured towards Dan and Caleb, who glanced between Abel and Andrews as they ate. “If you think about it, you and I benefited from nepotism as well.”
“It’s different.” Abel shook his head. “We were denied our heavy weapons right before our big advance. And it just so happened that one of the elder’s lapdogs missed the raider army marching down from their citadel in the north. It’s all too convenient.”
“Sounds to me like that’s between you and the elder, maybe Jackson too. Michael is just caught in the middle because of his family name.”
“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that his squad were all given heavy weapons when they were supposed to be in maintenance? And command over an entire task force. Nearly a full platoon under a child’s command.”
Andrews grimaced and placed a hand over his face. “Abel, please, just let me enjoy my food. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration for that young man’s valor in the field. However young he may be, he’s still one of us.”
But is he? Abel almost said aloud and continued to eat, but his food had grown cold, its taste no longer as savory as it could have been. Lance Squadron was losing its way, forgetting the importance of the Codex and its Glorious Purpose to save the wasteland. Michael may have served Constantine well, but he was just another enforcer of the elder’s corrupt will. Just another symptom of the darkness growing within Constantine’s Brotherhood.