Ulysses contacted me as soon as I stepped outside. Spoke through my eyebot friend; he must have some tricked-out base if he has that kind of comm tech. I had ED-E keep a log.
Ulysses: There’s your signal…faint but there, just like NCR — Voice without fire, without strength, sick. Heard tales of you walking the Mojave. Giving the two-headed bear strength. Giving hollow men like Kimball, like Crocker, half the life Hanlon had. Now…let’s test that strength…that…”conviction”…Courier.
Me: What is this place?
Ulysses: The Divide…this place is a slice of it. Old military. Can still smell the pride – and the fear. Hope of the Old World, wrapped in fencing, covered in storm. Got new inhabitants now other than ghosts, more recent…recruits.
Me: Area looks like it was hit with earthquakes…or underground detonations.
Ulysses: America sleeps in the Divide – giants, beneath the earth. You saw one locked in the silo beneath you. There’s more. Only takes a few of them, locked below ground, to tear apart the earth…and cast dust, sand…ash…into the skies above. You’ll see the extent – the miles of it, soon enough. You need to see it…walk it. For now, eyes alert, watch the streets below. There’s still life in the Divide – threats other than the storms and wind…new inhabitants.
Me: Inhabitants? It doesn’t look like anyone’s alive down there.
Ulysses: These new inhabitants…not natives…most of them. Came with duty, purpose…ready to kill each other. The Divide was stronger. Left marks on them, too. Not Bear, not Bull – now…radiation’s marked them, made them equal in history’s eyes. As vicious as the storms are, these shadows of Legion, of NCR – silhouettes of things to come.
Me: Those bodies in the silo were NCR soldiers…some special forces.
Ulysses: Might have been. Once. To the Divide they came…in the Divide, they rest. If you saw corpses, you saw mercy. Got what they deserved, coming to the Divide. The Bear and Bull – NCR, Legion – came in waves. Before. And after. Right into the invisible fires…the wind, ground…collapsing beneath them. Once under different flags, now they are equal in their hatred of the trespassers – you and I.
Me: But…even radiation isn’t enough to cause those wounds.
Ulysses: Even as the fires here burned them from within, the winds of the Divide tore their skin, exposed them…screaming…to the sky. And just as the Divide tears at them, so they tear at each other, for sport – like some tribal scarification. Falling back to their history, maybe. No matter what they suffer, the radiation, force of the Divide, sustains them. Makes them stronger.
Me: If they’ve become ghouls, the radiation would strengthen them. Heal their wounds – not the scars.
Ulysses: There’s truth in your words, in what I’ve seen of their tactics, movements, recovery. Those wounds, they couldn’t live otherwise. The Divide winds have torn the skin from any of them – may be the radiation is the only thing keeping them walking. Make camp near silos…warheads. No way to cleanse the radiation – makes them hard to kill there, have to draw them out.
Me: How are you speaking through ED-E
Ulysses: The robot with you – all of them are machines – radios, old world tech reshaped with new hands. Historians, couriers, carrying messages. Seen them as I’ve walked the Divide, tending other machines. That one – sealed up inside the Hopeville silo. Sign America is waking up. It will follow you, obey you. Carry it until we are face to face, then there’ll be no need for it to carry my words.
Me: Maybe you better tell me who you are, and what you want.
Ulysses: I’m a courier. Courier Six…was Courier Six. Like you, and not like you, in all the ways that matter. Spent too many years looking for you. Now letting you come to me. Thought carrying that Chip would end you. No, you got lives in you, hard to kill. Storms, bullets…sand and wind, yet still you walk. For now.
Me: We’ve never spoken before – I’d remember your voice.
Ulysses: Words aren’t the only way couriers meet – sometimes it’s the paths we walk. But no, we’ve never spoken before now. You may not know my voice, but we’ve walked the same places. The Long 15 to Primm, that wasn’t the only road you ever walked. I’ve been to your home, the place you kept returning to…may not be the place you were born, was the place you gave life to, same thing. People forget couriers can keep communities alive, until the day they’re gone, and their breath catches in their throat.
Me: If you wanted me dead, why did you wait?
Ulysses: Promises to keep. To others. And the Mojave’s dangerous enough – left to the land, the land has its way. If I wanted you dead, we would have met sooner. Not sure that’s the way this ends. Might be that history needs to have its say. If not, then messages will do.
Me: Enough talking. You went to a lot of trouble to lure me here, so let’s get on with this.
Ulysses: America sleeps ahead of you, its nightmares filled with quakes, storms. You’ll need to find your own path. That means waking America’s spears up from their slumber. There’s ways – warheads set off the collapse, warheads could open the gates again. You’re resourceful. That machine, robot with you – can help you find the warheads you need to destroy, and their trigger, the detonator. The way ahead is below. The tools are there. The rest is up to you.
Me: If we share history, then before going forward, I want to know the past.
I found the detonator in Hopeville – ED-D pointed it out, actually. Had to fight some of these half-men, their tribal markings and identities eroded by the wind and sand, marked now only by the desolated of the Divide. There was a locked gate that sectioned off a small alcove between two buildings; looks like Ulysses used it as a camp for a while. Bedroll, campfire, some supplies. And a holotape. Ulysses’ log. Here’s what it said:
Emptiness here, like the sands of the Great Salt Lake, echoed. The beating in the divide sky, like storm drums of the White Legs. Ran with them on the salt beds, at Caesar’s command. Cut the throats of the two-headed bear, cut all communities off. Used storm, sky, disease, fire, starvation, and the violence of the ignorant to ruin all who could, might, stand against him. But the White Legs, they couldn’t live on their own, like most scavengers, so gave them purpose, turned their hunger into a weapon. The wall of New Canaan, too high for Caesar, too proud maybe, or maybe something there from his past that needed killing. Memory of Graham. Helped them dig out Canaan’s supply caches and other secrets the sands hid. Bunkers filled with powered weapons even the Brotherhood might desire. They call these new weapons “storm drums” and the firing of shells taught them the power in the casings, to channel the spirits in their guns. Me, they call me the flag-bearer, glory in my hand, in my staff that still bore the weight of the old world, just as the symbol on my back did. I learned their weapons as a means of respect, and when it came their turn to pay respect to me, history came rushing back. Can’t escape what’s been done. History’s there, no matter how far you walk.
Should have guessed that sonofabitch ran with the Legion for a while. Guess I’d better not mention that I put a bullet between the Caesar’s eyes. No sense making him any angrier – not until I get some answers.
I locked the gate behind me to keep out the terrors of the night, and I slept in Ulysses’ bed, dreamless in the dead darkness.
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