Chapter 21 Ad Victoriam

For the first time today John sat alone, quiet, in a small room underground. He knew he didn’t have to stay there. He could go outside, he could walk the halls. Somehow just leaving the door open felt like enough, for now.

Sara returned, trepidation and grief on her face. John got up to greet her at the door, sparing her what little grief he could.

Her blonde hair looked washed, tied back tight. She'd dressed in something not too different from a vault-suit. Form fitting, black and grey panels, attached gloves. A series of metal connecting ports spaced out along each limb and across the torso. She fussed at his clothing, pulling, tightening, checking, correcting.

“Alright, tonight it’s Paladin Maxwell, and yes sirs all round.”

“Yes Paladin Maxwell.”

“No one is going to pay you much mind. Anyone asks you’re from Shadowtown.”

The paladin led him to hangar on the west side, hundreds of people filtering towards it. Save for the few that still walked the walls to keep watch. John felt eased by the anonymity, no one gave him a second glance, until they almost reached the door.

A wiry man in black clothes, that smelt like he hadn’t showered in a month, stuck out his arm to stop John walking. Waiting deliberately long enough to make more contact than necessary.

“Knights only, top floor rook.” The only smell stronger than his odour was the booze on his breath.

“He’s with me Tick.” The paladin gave an order in her tone, not her words, and the wiry man stepped aside. “Recon.” Sara whispered, her façade dropping for just a moment, “Don’t fuck with Recon.”

John thought the Brotherhood of Steel already lived up to its name, but the inside of the hangar confirmed it. Retrofitted into a steelworks. Gantries three levels high. Conveyor belts, massive machinery powered down in a hushed reverence. All except a vat of luminous orange, bubbling, molten steel, kept scorching hot by the furnace it sat on.

As the crowd organised into neat lines, John found himself next to Sara, right at the front. Before him, flanked by a pair of power armoured knights, laid atop a dark metal base. He could see the body of the pinned man. Wrapped in black cloth, secured with polished chains. At the wrapped body’s feet sat a finely crafted, shining steel cube, writing and a symbol carved on it.

As he looked around at the neat rows of people someone shouted something and the whole room stood to attention in almost complete unison.

John saw Elder Maxwell striding along the first level gantry, stopping just above and in front the vat of molten steel. He wore the same black suit as Sara, as most around John did. A large calibre revolver on one hip and a long, board, shining sword on the other. The hilt fashioned to mirror the winged sword and cog symbol carved on the cube.

"Stand easy.” The hundreds in the cavernous hangar relaxed, if only slightly.

“We gather here this night as we have gathered too many times before, to give thanks to those who gave all for victory. Three dearest Brothers lost, yet returned to us. And the Abomination responsible purged from this world.” John felt like the elder was looking right at him. He found the gravel voiced man intimidating already. Seeing him here, hundreds hanging on his words, gave him a chill. Even standing ten feet from a vat of molten steel.

The elder hung something small on a chain from his hands, too small to see were it not for the tiny blue light on it. He spoke loud enough to be heard without shouting.

“Field Scribe Chester Marham found the Brotherhood here. He never saw the west. Never saw our true strength. Yet he gave noble service, in gratitude for freedom from a life of cruel servitude. Like so many of us, he found here the only family he ever knew. This is where he will be remembered, this is where he will be missed. Like so many of us. He was…lost to the Abomination, and cremated in the field, as is our way. Ad Victoriam.” In one unified voice of defiant grief, the hundreds under his command repeated his words.

“AD VICTORIAM.”

The elder hung out a different blue light, speaking again to the hundreds, for the hundreds. Connecting them to him and each other, sharing the pain among many to ease their entire burden. John could see him sweating as he paced back forth. The shining blade glinting, reflecting the intense orange glow of molten steel.

“Proctor Alice Ratton made the long journey east with us. Her unrivalled knowledge of pre-war engineering helped make Excalibur Outpost the bastion against the darkness it is today. Her dogged tenacity near enough rebuilt our water system, allowing us access to the necessity of clean water. And the luxury of a hot shower. A small comfort in a world with so little of it.” The elder stopped, caught in a welcome memory that brought warmth to his voice. “And I can tell you from personal experience, she mixed a mean Atom Bomb. Another small comfort in an unforgiving world.”

A ripple of subdued, pressure relieving, not quite laughter emanated from the hundreds. “Her ashes will begin their long journey west to her people this very night. As was her wish. Ad Victoriam.” In one unified voice of defiant grief, the hundreds under his command repeated his words.

“AD VICTORIAM.”

The elder didn’t hang a glowing blue light this time, but spoke with the same compassion and respect.

“Recon Scout Gregory Michaels wore the armour of a knight for twenty years. Ten of which under my personal command as a captain. In that time he helped the Brotherhood overcome insurmountable odds and monstrous horror. Time and time again. His actions saved the lives of countless Brothers. Who in turn saved countless more. His bravery, incredible. His legacy, immeasurable. His loss, incalculable."

"Greg joined the elite ranks of Recon shortly after our long journey east. A noble calling for which few are suited. Though the nature of their sacrifice goes unknown to most, I give you my word as your elder, on my oath and honour, that he gave his life for victory.” The elder stepped back a moment, his head hung low. Trying to bring down the zeal in his voice. Keeping his anger, his grief, held back so that the hundreds around them could release theirs.

“Under my authority as elder of this chapter, I hereby posthumously grant Recon Scout Gregory Michaels the hallowed rank of sentinel. Sentinel Michaels will be Remembered in Steel, so that his spirit and strength will never be far from a Brother in need. As was his wish, as is our great honour.”

A woman in elaborately embroidered, deep blue, full length hooded robes stepped from the silent ranks. The elder himself wound a crank handle with one determined arm. The clacking echoing through the hangar.

A single hooked chain of dark steel lowered from above and the hooded woman attached it to the black cloth and chain wrapped body. The elder wound the crank in the opposite direction, refusing to let the heat or the obvious strain show.

He, and he alone, lifted the body above the vat of bubbling, bright orange, searing hot molten steel. “Ad Victoriam.” In one unified voice of defiant grief, the hundreds under his command repeated his words. Words John didn’t know. Words he wanted to know the meaning of, to understand. Words he chanted all the same. Again and again in unison, as Sentinel Michaels became slowly engulfed in the molten steel, to be remembered forevermore.

“AD VICTORIAM. AD VICTORIAM. AD VICTORIAM.”

The defiant chanting petered out, yet no one moved. Save for the hooded woman. She took the finely crafted, shiny, engraved cube and handed it to someone who John felt certain was not Brotherhood.

Wearing a round helmet with a metal mask. A long leather coat with thick armour plate on the shoulders. It reminded him of the one he’d worn. A twelve gauge, pump action shotgun slung across the back. The person in the leather coat took the cube, with indifference at best, stowed it in a pack and left.

The power armoured knights stepped back from the dark steel base. The elder turned a valve built into the gantry and molten steel poured forth. Flowing down into the dark steel base and vanishing from sight. The woman in the hooded blue robes raised her arm and the elder stopped the flow of molten steel, mixed with the honoured dead. As if she were in command here and not him.

No one moved for a long moment. Then the knights stepped back to the dark steel base, lifting the top half of the seemingly solid base away. Revealing glowing, solidifying shapes.

Long sections for swords. Arm and leg plates for armour. Repeated patterns of pointed shapes for bullets. Other more intricate, smaller, curved objects. All connected, all forged together from steel mixed with flesh and bone.

The hooded woman walked smoothly around the mould, held open by the unflinching knights, pouring thick oil onto the cast steel. It caught light on immediate contact with the hot metal. Before long coating the entire surface in bright burning flame.

Unfazed by the heat, the hooded woman stepped back, raised her hand again. She waited a moment, then lowered it. Ordering the knights close the mould. Smothering the flaming, cooling steel, darkening the hangar. Bringing the sacred service to an end.

John turned to follow the ebbing crowd of hundreds but Sara stopped him. Pulling him gently by the arm towards the back of the hangar, and up the metal stairs. Out into the night.

The curved roof had a flat top that looked like it retraced almost fully. A square patch of concrete at the rear end housed a small control booth. The rest of the space had comfy looking seating. John imagined it would have been awkward at best to get up here, then realised the high tech Brotherhood could have simply flown them up.

“Sit.” Sara said. John thought that sounded like an order, so he obeyed.

They waited a tense few minutes, until another woman joined them. She stayed by the door, behind John’s back, purposely so.

“Tell me everything that happened last night, and then I promise you don’t have to talk about it again, unless you want to.” John couldn’t tell if Sara was asking or Paladin Maxwell. Either way she saved him, she deserved the truth.

“I got a distress signal, weak, but close by. I saw those things, I hid, I didn’t, I couldn’t move. I saw one kill the woman, and then I heard the man scream.” John tried to stay calm, keep it simple, clear. As honest as he could be without mentioning Billy.

“I got the man his pack and he gave me the beacon. I powered it up and he told me to run. I heard an explosion then two of them chased me.” The fear of the night before filled his voice, he couldn’t stop his leg from shaking.

Sara watched with a stern look, staring at him. Only breaking her gaze to glance at the woman by the door.

“I tried to lose them, I tried to shoot them. I think I hit one with my knife.” John left out the part about the slowed time mixed with the unearned muscle memory that allowed him to blind the monstrous brute. “Then I don’t know what happened.” He wanted to bring up the torture, then he remembered who got him out of there and into a hot shower.

“The woman, Alice, was it…did she suffer?” It seemed hard for her to ask. Harder still for John to remember the sound the woman’s neck made as it broke.

“She didn’t really seem present, it happened fast.” John saw it eased Sara’s mind, however slightly, to know her friend died quickly. The smallest of mercies, he thought.

The woman came from the shadows and sat bedside Sara, a glass bottle in each hand. One clear, one the same red as the delicious fruit he tried that morning. It reminded him of that first night with Robco.

The older, wiser man had poured him a drink first, then questioned him. This felt more like a reward, the woman behind him must have confirmed his story. Or at least to the paladin’s satisfaction.

“Can I ask,” Neither woman stopped him. “The man, why didn’t he…” John couldn’t think of a way to delicately finish that sentence.

“He and Alice were together.” Sara answered him bluntly, cutting him off even though he didn’t have anything else to ask. He was trying not to picture Rosie hanging over that fire. Knowing his reaction would’ve been much the same as the pinned man. Sara handed him a glass and raised hers. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Wait, what does that mean?” John asked. Sara Looked right into his eyes and told him.

“To victory.”

John sat on the fake leather furniture, hidden away on the flat roof of the hangar, drinking vodka. It wasn’t the good stuff old Ed shared with him. Mixed with the deep red juice it tasted tangy, sharp, with a smooth aftertaste.

He tried to understand the meaning of victory. To grasp the meaning in the words the hundreds shouted together to drive the darkness back. He didn’t really understand.

“Enough foreplay, whip it out, I want to see it.” Sara laughed. Her questions answered, her mood lifted by the woman who joined them, the woman with a cheeky grin.

“John, you remember Valkyrie, the woman who can’t hear the inappropriate things she says.”

“Oh I heard it alright, come on show me.” John felt awkward, then Sara tapped her left arm. With relief he took off the thin jacket. Exposing his chest, clad in the tight vault-suit, and unwrapped the bandages covering the jet black pipboy.

Valkyrie, the pilot that saved him clearly knew his secret already. Sara obviously trusted her, and he almost trusted Sara, so that felt like enough.

“That is far out!” Valkyrie had an excitement that he’d once shared. He almost wished he could get that back, it had to feel better than mistrust.

He flipped to the schematics, unsure of what else to show the excited woman. Then a perfectly timed notification squeezed his arm twice. “Hey it just moved, you see that Sara.”

“It’s a notification.” John couldn’t make out the screen from this awkward angle. Not with Valkyrie holding his left hand in a way that made him uncomfortable.

She reached out to press the button on the pipboy, but the fast reflexes and faster hands of the paladin stopped her. Grabbing Val’s wrist as she reached towards it. John saw concern in Sara’s eyes, like she thought, or she knew, the pipboy could hurt her friend. John couldn’t say what but Sara knew something he didn’t.

“What does it say John?” Sara tried to cover her overreaction, John tried to let her think she had. Thoughts of mistrust got put on hold as John saw the new message.

*New FM signal detected. Listen y/n?*

The elder made not broadcasting a part of their agreement, he didn’t say anything about receiving. Fearing that he could be ordered not to listen, John gambled that forgiveness would be easier to get than permission. Besides, he had a feeling who’s voice he might hear. He got that wrong, but felt happy to be so. A smooth, lyrical, feminine voice echoed from the device on his arm.

“Good evening children, it’s me, Lady Luck. Live and a-live, coming to you from Shadowtown. Broadcasting all day, all night, from the Tower with even more power!” The FM signal, and the lady’s words were enough for him to know the equipment made it back. And what’s more, it worked. He tried to contain his excitement, he failed. Throwing back his sweet, sharp drink in celebration.

“First of all some urgent news. Stay away from The City children. Lady Luck heard from a very reliable source, there are things out there that all the luck in the world can’t save you from.”

“Yeah, but a bird and a T-60 will.” The women clinked their glasses together and drank. Valkyrie seemed upbeat, Sara less so. Maybe they didn’t know about Billy. Maybe the radio had given them information that proved his lies of omission. Too late now he thought.

“If this is the first time you’re hearing my dulcet tones, then welcome. Lady Luck is with you children, and we have a very special man to thank for that. A mighty, mighty, man who did something mighty foolish, but mighty brave. If you’re listening Mighty Man, know that Lady Luck is with you, always. This one is just for you.” A bittersweet song played over the tinny pipboy radio, perfectly chosen as always, and just for him. A woman singing in a soft melody, singing we’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.

It brought tears to his blackened eyes. Knowing that he had the radio equipment he needed. Knowing that he had a backup plan. Knowing they didn’t think he was dead, or lost to the Abomination.

“I know she’s your friend and all.” Sara subtly told him she’d understood the message. “And when it’s just us it’s fine, but don’t play that here.” John looked confused, he heard snippets of music all day. “Lady Luck has certain points of view that the Brotherhood does not share.”

The three sat on the roof a little longer. Drinking moderately, mixing vodka with juice to soften the harsh taste. John smiled to himself. Robco could rake in the caps with his whiskey here. He’d probably barter his way into leaving with a suit of armour and a Vertibird. He promised himself he’d at least get one bottle to the women who saved him, even if he had to use the strange idea of a courier.

“Valkyrie,” He waited till she made eye contact. “Thank you for saving me.” She smiled and nodded, subtly, restrained, respectful, until she spoke.

“Thank you for wearing that tight blue suit.” She made a noise that made John uncomfortable. Women never flirted with him in the Vault. Not after Rosie punched Janey in the canteen for jumping on his lap uninvited. Louisa flirted with him a little, harmless, playfully. Not the way Valkyrie did.

“You need to stop Val.” Sara sounded like she’d said that before. “Anyway, you’re wasting your energy, this one’s taken.”

“No, I’m not.” John tried to sound like he wasn’t panicked by the accuracy of the woman’s intuition. Sara replied before Val, cutting her off.

“Sure you are. Daisy or Rose or Violet, some kind of flower.” John tried not to react as Sara almost said Rosie’s name. “It’s ok, you’re entitled to your secrets.” John wished he could believe that, but Rosie’s mere existence felt like the least of them.

“Besides, are you really telling me you’re doing all this and it’s not about a girl, please.” Sara, amused in her accuracy threw back her nearly full drink, tilting her head back as she did. Almost choking on the last gulp as something occurred to her.

She gave Val a subtle nudge, set down her glass, and John saw a giddy smile on her face. “Twelve o’clock high Initiate.” John didn’t understand the jokingly phrased order. Till she pointed straight up into the night. A lifetime of oppressively low ceilings meant John rarely looked up. That was about to change.

Above had only previously been a shifting patchwork of grey black shapes. Interrupted by the brief glimpse of the silvery circle he remembered as the Moon. Now it had become filled with more dots of glinting light than he’d ever seen.

He stood, instantly unsteady on his feet. Not from the drink, from the overload of beauty hung in the blackest of nights. A revelation so commonplace for the women with him, they hadn’t thought to mention it till now.

Some were brighter, some were bluer. Some had their own patch of black night, others clustered in thick swathes of pure white light. He tried to form words that would get him an explanation. Wishing the unearned knowledge in his head would tell him about this rather than weapons.

“Stars.” Sara stood next to him, without him even noticing.

“Stars.” John tried to keep his voice from breaking.

“Stick around long enough and you might catch Collins giving an astronomy lecture. He uses a modified laser pistol to point and tell you their names.”

“They have names?” John didn’t think there were that many numbers, never mind words.

“Lesson one, see that one there, the bright one?” John followed Sara's pointing finger up into the star filled night. Seeing a bigger, brighter, star of white. “Polaris, you follow that and you’re heading north.” Maybe not having a map screen wouldn’t be so bad after all.

They stayed on the roof for one more quiet drink. Flirting replaced with hidden pity. Then they made their way back down the metal steps, which seemed a good deal steeper on the way down.

Sara went ahead of him till they reached the ground again, letting him walk a few paces past her. “Initiate Blake, present rifle for inspection.” John stopped dead. He’d put the thin, dull green jacket back on but forgotten the crude combat rifle.

Frustrated with himself, he turned to head all the way back up and all the way back down again. Finding Val holding his rifle, shaking her head in exaggerated disappointment. “Thanks Val.” The pilot that saved him gave him the rifle and left from a different exit.

“Next time I’ll tell Grimm, he’ll make you hold two of them over your head and run the wall till you puke.” Paladin Maxwell wasn’t even half joking.

Whatever release the rooftop drinks granted Sara vanished as she walked through the now practically deserted steelworks. She walked ahead, stopping to speak to the woman in the blue hooded robes. Still stood watching as the steel that remembered the pinned man cooled. They spoke briefly, and showing almost nervousness, Sara beckoned John over.

“I’m told you have been of service.” All John could see was the faint outline of a face beneath the hood.

“Yes sir, I tried to—” The hooded woman cut him off with a sombrely raised hand.

“From the bottom, choose.” She waved an arm at the mould.

Sara ushered him over to the open casting mould. Filled with sharp lines, broad plates, different sized bullets. Along the bottom were smaller blades, linked rings, and shapes he didn’t understand.

Seeing his confusion, Sara reached out and plucked something from the mould. Thick steel plate, mounted to four cast rings sprouting from a round bar. She slid his fingers through the rings and he made a fist, gripping the round bar tight. His knuckles encased in steel.

He wanted to throw a punch, get a feel for the weight, but Sara stopped him. Instead holding his hand out for the hooded woman to inspect. Getting him to open and close his fist, turning his hand over, showing the fit.

“Well chosen. It will be sent to you.” The hooded woman said. Sara took the steel knuckles from him and placed them back in the mould, ushering him out quickly and telling him one thing.

“The Brotherhood provides.”