lmk what you think, happy to take feedback on writing style, lore details, etc
this first bit takes place in the Boneyard, 2246 and then the end of this chapter flashes forward to 2248
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The Boneyard is no longer quiet. When growing up there were often times at night when the city would stop for a while and the only sound would be the monotonous humming from the Fortress which would eventually blend into the ambiance. It was times like these when I would sit up and look out at the skeletons of the Old World City. They used to call it the City of Angels, and it seems they built the place accordingly: as if trying to reach the Heavens, but the Heavens came down on them instead. Carcasses are what they are; steel bones surround the decaying meat of brick and concrete. Just as any carcass, the Old World attracts scavengers. But when NCR came in they did more than scavenge.
We may have been members of NCR since the days of Aradesh, long before my time, but it wasn’t till after Navarro that the ideologues and the nation-builders in Shady Sands truly descended on the place. They had dealt with the holdouts to the north: Reno, Vault City, Redding, all were brought under the Bear. We were going to unify, they said. We would be a true Republic, not just a federation of old settlements. They were going to rebuild the Old World City and the Boneyard would become the economic heart of the nation.
It started with the Rangers; they go in first to pacify an area, get rid of all of the raiders and various pests. Then they bring in prisoners on work release to start clearing out debris and making the roads navigable. Eventually they get around to bringing in engineers and construction crews to rebuild and renovate. Piece by piece the Old World was being reclaimed.
Even the Followers were buying into it all. The leadership was always going on about expansion into the newly settled areas and further development of our facilities here in New Adytum. They started work on a Medical University, and were even able to lobby the council for a grant. Our existing services were constantly stretched too thin, underfunded and undersupplied, and yet those at the top were preoccupied with spreading out and spending vital time and resources on research projects that served little use.
It was during this time that I had completed my studies with the Followers and due to my performance was given a position in the branch of the organization that dealt with our extensive research. It was a position I would have come into with great excitement if not for the fact that I had been placed in charge of the management of various expeditions that I felt had very little use to our overall mission, especially with the precarious position we had led ourselves to.
So while my peers were spending their time legitimately improving the quality of our lives, I found myself behind a desk looking through proposals and deciding which ones to cut funding from and which ones to get rid of all together. One day I was working as always when a man came to see me. His long hair was clumsily held back by a bandana, and he wore a scruffy but short beard. I would not have thought he was a Follower of the Apocalypse if not for our emblem on the patch he wore on his heavy vest, which looked like it was meant for a caravan trader. “Dr. Hildern, yes?” he asked.
“Yes.” I responded, “what can I do for you?”
“My name is Calhoun, Bill Calhoun.” He paused, as if he expected me to recognize the name. When it was clear I did not, he continued. “I sent in a proposal, it should have reached this office.” He paused again.
“I received hundreds of proposals,” I said. “I manage a large number of the expeditions that come out of the southern districts. If you could elaborate on what...”
“Right, of course.” He interrupted. “Well, I wrote concerning an expedition to study the languages of the tribes of the Grand Canyon.”
“I see.” I was beginning to resent Calhoun’s enduring presence in my office. The Grand Canyon was at the edge of the re-civilized world. NCR has barely pressed into the Mojave, let alone go further into Arizona. All that is out there are tribals fighting the wars of yesterday over and over again, nothing that I saw useful to our efforts here. Here there were people that needed our help and attention yet every day my desk was filled with plans by young intrepid explorers to venture out into the wildest places of the wastes. They were childish adventurers and nothing more. Calhoun might have worn a beard and a few more years than most of them, but he was the same. The Followers were in no position to fund these passion projects.
“I sent it from the field,” Calhoun offered an explanation, “perhaps the courier never made it.”
“Yes, perhaps.” I responded, relieved that I had seemingly been spared from having to outright reject his proposal. “Where were you in the field?”
“The Utah. Went up two months ago on the Little Loop and then across the 80 into New Canaanite territory. Spent quite a while with them, they’ve got quite a large operation set up there. Trading, but they also send out missionaries.” The Utah was more civilized than the Grand Canyon, I’ll give him that. A relationship and trade with New Canaan could certainly be seen as an admirable goal, but as Calhoun continued he seemed almost solely concerned with New Canaan’s missionary work. “Here.” Calhoun reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a document, “I have a copy of my proposal, everything is outlined.” I begrudgingly took the document and read it over. “From what I’ve been able to figure out there are numerous tribes inhabiting the Grand Canyon area, and the New Canaanites have been sending missionaries for some years now. While I cannot attest to the success of their proselytizing, many of them have been able to learn the language.”
“Listen, Bill.” I said calmly, I had learned in my few months in the position more than anything else how to effectively turn people down. “I’m sure you’re aware of the limited nature of our funding at the moment. This really doesn’t fall very high on our priorities.”
“Read my report, please. As it says, the New Canaanites will be able to act as adequate translators, and I have already arranged for the planned expedition to arrive near the Canyon at the same time as New Canaan’s next mission. I would need very little support from you.”
“Well I’m not sure we can provide any.” In fact I knew we could provide almost none.
“Even just one other man to aid me would be sufficient. Please, Doctor, we know so little about the Grand Canyon area. We need to make our presence known and learn all we can about the tribes there, and we shouldn’t wait for the New Canaanites to convert them all before we do so.”
“I thought you were relying on the support of these missionaries.”
“They’ve been able to make inroads where we’ve refused to. As of right now their help is all I can get.” Calhoun then looked up, as if he had discovered something. “But you can change that. Yes. I just need some basic support and we can establish connections with these tribes before the religious folk get too far. And once the Grand Canyon has been studied we can use it as a foothold for the rest of Arizona and New Mexico.” Calhoun was talking faster now with more energy in his voice, he had the sense that this would be the way to convince me.
“When did you plan to leave?” I asked.
“Around three weeks from now. Does this mean you’ll help?”
“I’ll look into it, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Look into it. Please, this is vital, I promise.” I nodded my head, sporting a half-genuine smile. After a moment, Calhoun left promptly. I can’t honestly tell you that I did my best to find something to aid this expedition. Two weeks after our first meeting I had exhausted most options and was ready to tell the man that nothing could be done. It was around this time that I received another visit to my office, although a very different one.
It was near the end of the day, the majority of which had been spent in the same manner as all the others: sifting through paperwork and trying to keep cool under the hot New Californian sun. There was a sudden knock on my door.
“Yes, come in,” I shouted. The door opened and I was surprised to see an old acquaintance on the other side.
“Thomas! You’re really moving up aren’t you?” The man was Edward Sallow, we had known each other during our studies. He was my age and we were both young men, but he had a certain juvenal look to him that I did not. He always kept himself clean shaven and his hair cut short and neat, something that was not easy to do in the wasteland.
“Edward? It’s been a while.” I couldn’t remember exactly the last time we had seen each other, but it must have been when we were still students. While we were somewhat close we had wildly different interests during our studies. I focused on medical and scientific work, for it was the reason I joined the Followers in the first place. I wanted to acquire skills that would be most sought after in this world, and medicine seems to be at the top of that list. Sallow did not seem to enjoy being with the Followers at all, which always confused me. He was not a bad student, but he only truly applied himself in a given subject if it interested him. He had become quite intrigued by Old World history, even going so far to take courses in Latin. Here was a language that died of its own accord some sixteen-hundred years before the rest of the Old World did, yet Sallow along with a surprisingly large cohort of my peers devoted immense time to learning and studying it. Sallow went further to specialize in linguistics and anthropology, although I always got the sense that he was not as naive as some of the others in his field concerning the usefulness of such a discipline in the wasteland. In the times before the War people could go off and study whatever they wanted to, but with the apocalypse came a kind of simplification. Science, medicine, engineering, these things were necessary, but more abstract and fruitless studies would have to wait. Too many of my colleagues were too far from understanding this. Sallow understood it though, and perhaps that made his devotion to his field less due to naivete and more to indifference.
“It’s good to see you.” We shook hands.
“Well, is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.
“Yes.” Sallow's expression grew withdrawn. “Well,” he said, “there’s no easy way to put this.”
“What is it?”
“I need your help Thomas.”
“Mine?” I asked.
“Yes.” Sallow looked around the room, then he sat down. “To be perfectly honest you’re the last person of any consequence that I know well enough to talk to about this.”
“Please, explain.” I was quite surprised. This was not a man who was quick to expose much about himself. This may have been the first time I had seen him visibly nervous. Usually Edward Sallow put on a face. He would stare at you coldly and you could only guess at what he was thinking. He must have been desperate for aid, to come to me like this.
“I’ve gotten in a bit of trouble. The leadership, they want to get rid of me.” He let out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head. “They say I antagonize others and I’m not ‘properly devoted’ to the Followers’ mission. They just think they can push me around because my…” His voice trailed off, he looked down. His face had reverted to its familiar lack of emotion.
“Yes?” I prodded. “They think they can push you around because?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then he opened them and sighed.
“My mother.” He said it swiftly, as if to get the admission out of the way. I leaned forward. “After raiders killed my father she brought us here, to the Followers. She worked in the library, cooking and cleaning. The Followers wouldn’t have let me in if not for her, I wasn’t able to get in on my own. But she died last year, and that’s when it started.”
“When what started?” I wasn’t exactly surprised that Sallow had not been driven to the Followers due to passion. At the same time, however, I did not feel that Sallow had taken his place among us unearned.
“They just keep making excuses. They look down on me now, or I guess they always did, and now I have no excuse for being here.” I nodded. “You have to help me,” he pleaded. “They’re going to kick me out.” I thought for a while. Eventually, my conversation with Calhoun came to mind.
“Well I might have something, and it would work.”
“Good,” he said.
“But,” I cautioned, “it is a bit rough.”
“What do you mean?”
“A man came to me, maybe you know him. His name was Bill Calhoun.” I could see from Sallows' expression that he was aware of Calhoun.
“Yes I know him. He spends months out in the wastes with low-life tribals, basically lives off of our dime in order to study barbarians.”
“He came to me asking for help. He’s trying to put together an expedition, something about the Grand Canyon. Here I have his proposal.” I shuffled through my files and handed Sallow the paper that Calhoun had given me. He studied it. “I said I would try to get him some support. He’s arranged for some missionaries from the Utah to help.”
“New Canaanites. Fascinating people.” Sallow was reading Calhoun’s document very closely. “He says they’ve been able to learn the tribals’ language and he wants them to teach it to him.”
“Right,” I said. “Well he asked for support and I said I would try to get some. I could probably convince the leadership to let you off the hook if you were willing to go on this expedition.”
“That would be months I would be away!” Sallow quickly got up from his chair and walked to the other side of the room. “That sounds like a punishment.”
“Well, that is sort of the point,” I said. Sallow began to pace. “I can probably convince them that some time away will do you good and we can have a sort of fresh start when you get back.”
Sallow ran his head through his hair. “This is the only option?”
“Yes.” In truth it probably wasn’t. I could probably have gotten the leadership to back down without having to send Sallow away, but I promised Calhoun that I would get him his assistance and here was an opening. Besides, Sallow was a linguist and he was supposed to be interested in these kinds of things. Maybe he would come back with a new outlook, and that indifference I spoke of would melt back into simple naivete.
Sallow stood for a while, appearing deep in thought. He sat back down, and we continued in silence. As the day had now ended, I started to get ready to leave. “Edward?” I tried getting his attention but he seemed as if almost in a trance. I tapped his shoulder, and Sallow jolted up.
“All right,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Tell Calhoun he has his support.” He seemed surprisingly resolute for a man who seemed so conflicted just moments before.
“I will.” I smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly, “you’ll be back home sooner than you imagine.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He was cold again, whatever emotions he had let out of him earlier had retreated in the face of danger. He stood up. “Thank you, Thomas.” We shook hands again. “This really means a lot.” With that he left, and I soon followed, to go home for the night.
I saw neither Calhoun nor Sallow again before the expedition took off. I signed the appropriate paperwork, contacted the sufficient higher-ups to get them off of Sallow’s back, and sent the whole thing to some other department to manage. The supposed date of the expedition’s start passed, and I heard not a word of it. If not for a few conversations and one document, I would have never known of its existence.
My life went on, largely behind that desk. Days, and then months, and then years passed. The city went on as well. NCR’s reclamation efforts continued at their usual pace, and every so often the Followers would open a new clinic or other center of some sort in a new area, and there would be a big to-do in the office surrounding it.
A little more than two years after I organized the expedition, President Tandi died. She was 103, how she lived so long when many of the patients in our clinics don’t see 20 I will never know. Cynics chalk it up to elitism, but I doubt someone like Tandi would keep some breakthrough in medical technology that could sustain her life like that from a group like the Followers.
Another point of contention, now that retrospective was permitted, was that Tandi’s presidency lasted 52 years. Many had a hard time seeing this as a true democracy, and there was mounting pressure on the new president to institute term limits. But to most people, this was a time of mourning and little else. The average citizen cared little about whether or not they lived under a democracy. They cared that Tandi united large swaths of the wastes, that she made the roads safe and facilitated trade, that she rebuilt our cities and improved our quality of life. Strong and stable leadership is what they were mourning, more so than Tandi herself, as people could already see the descent into factionalism that was about to occur in Council Hall.
They had been parading her coffin around the Republic, and when it finally reached us they had a memorial downtown, and leadership said we were all expected to attend. They gave us black armbands. People held candles. There were a number of speakers: our mayor, some councilmen, generals, even the leader of the Followers. They had all come to praise Tandi, for none of them had been given the honor of burying her. That would happen when she returned to Shady Sands, in what they said would be a private ceremony.
Walking back from the memorial, I noticed a man in the crowd. He wore no armband. His hair was long and wild, and his clothes worn. Something, though, seemed familiar about him. I had seen that heavy vest before. When he turned, I saw that there had been some kind of patch on his arm that he had ripped out. He noticed me as well, and his eyes grew wide.
“You!” He started towards me, his hand outstretched. “It’s all your fault,” he cried. “You sent him, you’ve done this!” He grabbed on to me and I tried to restrain him.
“Please, who are you?” The question seemed to offend the man.
“You know who I am.” He was right.
“Bill Calhoun?” The man nodded. Now that he was close I could see that there was a deep scar on the left side of his face.
“Can you give me a drink?” he asked. His eyes closed for a moment and he looked as if he was in pain.
“Yes. Come to my office.” I let go of him, and we walked together. We reached my office and I let him in. Instantly he looked around, taking the place in. I went to the cupboard to get him a drink. Calhoun sat down.
“It hasn’t changed much,” he said suddenly. I placed the whiskey on the table, and he picked it up.
“No it hasn’t, and neither has the work,” I admitted, “although the funding has gotten better.” Calhoun had already finished his glass. He motioned towards the bottle and I poured him another, which he began to drink down in similar haste. “Is it just now you’re getting back?” I asked. He looked up at me, confused. “From Arizona, I mean.” He put his glass down and cleared his throat.
“I’m here to warn you,” he said, there was a grave tone in his voice now, different from its previous rasp. “I’m here to warn you about your man.”
“My man? You mean Sallow?”
“He goes by another name now.” It seemed to pain Calhoun to speak these words, once he had done so he simply stared, then he picked up the bottle to pour himself another drink.
“Please,” I implored, “have all the drink you want, I’m sure you’re very tired, but tell me what has happened.” Calhoun nodded.
“I shall,” he said. “I shall tell you from the beginning.” And with this he related to me his story, which I have recorded to the best of my memory.
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Hopefully there will be more to come??? Idk depends on how much free time I have
this first bit takes place in the Boneyard, 2246 and then the end of this chapter flashes forward to 2248
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The Boneyard is no longer quiet. When growing up there were often times at night when the city would stop for a while and the only sound would be the monotonous humming from the Fortress which would eventually blend into the ambiance. It was times like these when I would sit up and look out at the skeletons of the Old World City. They used to call it the City of Angels, and it seems they built the place accordingly: as if trying to reach the Heavens, but the Heavens came down on them instead. Carcasses are what they are; steel bones surround the decaying meat of brick and concrete. Just as any carcass, the Old World attracts scavengers. But when NCR came in they did more than scavenge.
We may have been members of NCR since the days of Aradesh, long before my time, but it wasn’t till after Navarro that the ideologues and the nation-builders in Shady Sands truly descended on the place. They had dealt with the holdouts to the north: Reno, Vault City, Redding, all were brought under the Bear. We were going to unify, they said. We would be a true Republic, not just a federation of old settlements. They were going to rebuild the Old World City and the Boneyard would become the economic heart of the nation.
It started with the Rangers; they go in first to pacify an area, get rid of all of the raiders and various pests. Then they bring in prisoners on work release to start clearing out debris and making the roads navigable. Eventually they get around to bringing in engineers and construction crews to rebuild and renovate. Piece by piece the Old World was being reclaimed.
Even the Followers were buying into it all. The leadership was always going on about expansion into the newly settled areas and further development of our facilities here in New Adytum. They started work on a Medical University, and were even able to lobby the council for a grant. Our existing services were constantly stretched too thin, underfunded and undersupplied, and yet those at the top were preoccupied with spreading out and spending vital time and resources on research projects that served little use.
It was during this time that I had completed my studies with the Followers and due to my performance was given a position in the branch of the organization that dealt with our extensive research. It was a position I would have come into with great excitement if not for the fact that I had been placed in charge of the management of various expeditions that I felt had very little use to our overall mission, especially with the precarious position we had led ourselves to.
So while my peers were spending their time legitimately improving the quality of our lives, I found myself behind a desk looking through proposals and deciding which ones to cut funding from and which ones to get rid of all together. One day I was working as always when a man came to see me. His long hair was clumsily held back by a bandana, and he wore a scruffy but short beard. I would not have thought he was a Follower of the Apocalypse if not for our emblem on the patch he wore on his heavy vest, which looked like it was meant for a caravan trader. “Dr. Hildern, yes?” he asked.
“Yes.” I responded, “what can I do for you?”
“My name is Calhoun, Bill Calhoun.” He paused, as if he expected me to recognize the name. When it was clear I did not, he continued. “I sent in a proposal, it should have reached this office.” He paused again.
“I received hundreds of proposals,” I said. “I manage a large number of the expeditions that come out of the southern districts. If you could elaborate on what...”
“Right, of course.” He interrupted. “Well, I wrote concerning an expedition to study the languages of the tribes of the Grand Canyon.”
“I see.” I was beginning to resent Calhoun’s enduring presence in my office. The Grand Canyon was at the edge of the re-civilized world. NCR has barely pressed into the Mojave, let alone go further into Arizona. All that is out there are tribals fighting the wars of yesterday over and over again, nothing that I saw useful to our efforts here. Here there were people that needed our help and attention yet every day my desk was filled with plans by young intrepid explorers to venture out into the wildest places of the wastes. They were childish adventurers and nothing more. Calhoun might have worn a beard and a few more years than most of them, but he was the same. The Followers were in no position to fund these passion projects.
“I sent it from the field,” Calhoun offered an explanation, “perhaps the courier never made it.”
“Yes, perhaps.” I responded, relieved that I had seemingly been spared from having to outright reject his proposal. “Where were you in the field?”
“The Utah. Went up two months ago on the Little Loop and then across the 80 into New Canaanite territory. Spent quite a while with them, they’ve got quite a large operation set up there. Trading, but they also send out missionaries.” The Utah was more civilized than the Grand Canyon, I’ll give him that. A relationship and trade with New Canaan could certainly be seen as an admirable goal, but as Calhoun continued he seemed almost solely concerned with New Canaan’s missionary work. “Here.” Calhoun reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a document, “I have a copy of my proposal, everything is outlined.” I begrudgingly took the document and read it over. “From what I’ve been able to figure out there are numerous tribes inhabiting the Grand Canyon area, and the New Canaanites have been sending missionaries for some years now. While I cannot attest to the success of their proselytizing, many of them have been able to learn the language.”
“Listen, Bill.” I said calmly, I had learned in my few months in the position more than anything else how to effectively turn people down. “I’m sure you’re aware of the limited nature of our funding at the moment. This really doesn’t fall very high on our priorities.”
“Read my report, please. As it says, the New Canaanites will be able to act as adequate translators, and I have already arranged for the planned expedition to arrive near the Canyon at the same time as New Canaan’s next mission. I would need very little support from you.”
“Well I’m not sure we can provide any.” In fact I knew we could provide almost none.
“Even just one other man to aid me would be sufficient. Please, Doctor, we know so little about the Grand Canyon area. We need to make our presence known and learn all we can about the tribes there, and we shouldn’t wait for the New Canaanites to convert them all before we do so.”
“I thought you were relying on the support of these missionaries.”
“They’ve been able to make inroads where we’ve refused to. As of right now their help is all I can get.” Calhoun then looked up, as if he had discovered something. “But you can change that. Yes. I just need some basic support and we can establish connections with these tribes before the religious folk get too far. And once the Grand Canyon has been studied we can use it as a foothold for the rest of Arizona and New Mexico.” Calhoun was talking faster now with more energy in his voice, he had the sense that this would be the way to convince me.
“When did you plan to leave?” I asked.
“Around three weeks from now. Does this mean you’ll help?”
“I’ll look into it, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Look into it. Please, this is vital, I promise.” I nodded my head, sporting a half-genuine smile. After a moment, Calhoun left promptly. I can’t honestly tell you that I did my best to find something to aid this expedition. Two weeks after our first meeting I had exhausted most options and was ready to tell the man that nothing could be done. It was around this time that I received another visit to my office, although a very different one.
It was near the end of the day, the majority of which had been spent in the same manner as all the others: sifting through paperwork and trying to keep cool under the hot New Californian sun. There was a sudden knock on my door.
“Yes, come in,” I shouted. The door opened and I was surprised to see an old acquaintance on the other side.
“Thomas! You’re really moving up aren’t you?” The man was Edward Sallow, we had known each other during our studies. He was my age and we were both young men, but he had a certain juvenal look to him that I did not. He always kept himself clean shaven and his hair cut short and neat, something that was not easy to do in the wasteland.
“Edward? It’s been a while.” I couldn’t remember exactly the last time we had seen each other, but it must have been when we were still students. While we were somewhat close we had wildly different interests during our studies. I focused on medical and scientific work, for it was the reason I joined the Followers in the first place. I wanted to acquire skills that would be most sought after in this world, and medicine seems to be at the top of that list. Sallow did not seem to enjoy being with the Followers at all, which always confused me. He was not a bad student, but he only truly applied himself in a given subject if it interested him. He had become quite intrigued by Old World history, even going so far to take courses in Latin. Here was a language that died of its own accord some sixteen-hundred years before the rest of the Old World did, yet Sallow along with a surprisingly large cohort of my peers devoted immense time to learning and studying it. Sallow went further to specialize in linguistics and anthropology, although I always got the sense that he was not as naive as some of the others in his field concerning the usefulness of such a discipline in the wasteland. In the times before the War people could go off and study whatever they wanted to, but with the apocalypse came a kind of simplification. Science, medicine, engineering, these things were necessary, but more abstract and fruitless studies would have to wait. Too many of my colleagues were too far from understanding this. Sallow understood it though, and perhaps that made his devotion to his field less due to naivete and more to indifference.
“It’s good to see you.” We shook hands.
“Well, is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.
“Yes.” Sallow's expression grew withdrawn. “Well,” he said, “there’s no easy way to put this.”
“What is it?”
“I need your help Thomas.”
“Mine?” I asked.
“Yes.” Sallow looked around the room, then he sat down. “To be perfectly honest you’re the last person of any consequence that I know well enough to talk to about this.”
“Please, explain.” I was quite surprised. This was not a man who was quick to expose much about himself. This may have been the first time I had seen him visibly nervous. Usually Edward Sallow put on a face. He would stare at you coldly and you could only guess at what he was thinking. He must have been desperate for aid, to come to me like this.
“I’ve gotten in a bit of trouble. The leadership, they want to get rid of me.” He let out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head. “They say I antagonize others and I’m not ‘properly devoted’ to the Followers’ mission. They just think they can push me around because my…” His voice trailed off, he looked down. His face had reverted to its familiar lack of emotion.
“Yes?” I prodded. “They think they can push you around because?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then he opened them and sighed.
“My mother.” He said it swiftly, as if to get the admission out of the way. I leaned forward. “After raiders killed my father she brought us here, to the Followers. She worked in the library, cooking and cleaning. The Followers wouldn’t have let me in if not for her, I wasn’t able to get in on my own. But she died last year, and that’s when it started.”
“When what started?” I wasn’t exactly surprised that Sallow had not been driven to the Followers due to passion. At the same time, however, I did not feel that Sallow had taken his place among us unearned.
“They just keep making excuses. They look down on me now, or I guess they always did, and now I have no excuse for being here.” I nodded. “You have to help me,” he pleaded. “They’re going to kick me out.” I thought for a while. Eventually, my conversation with Calhoun came to mind.
“Well I might have something, and it would work.”
“Good,” he said.
“But,” I cautioned, “it is a bit rough.”
“What do you mean?”
“A man came to me, maybe you know him. His name was Bill Calhoun.” I could see from Sallows' expression that he was aware of Calhoun.
“Yes I know him. He spends months out in the wastes with low-life tribals, basically lives off of our dime in order to study barbarians.”
“He came to me asking for help. He’s trying to put together an expedition, something about the Grand Canyon. Here I have his proposal.” I shuffled through my files and handed Sallow the paper that Calhoun had given me. He studied it. “I said I would try to get him some support. He’s arranged for some missionaries from the Utah to help.”
“New Canaanites. Fascinating people.” Sallow was reading Calhoun’s document very closely. “He says they’ve been able to learn the tribals’ language and he wants them to teach it to him.”
“Right,” I said. “Well he asked for support and I said I would try to get some. I could probably convince the leadership to let you off the hook if you were willing to go on this expedition.”
“That would be months I would be away!” Sallow quickly got up from his chair and walked to the other side of the room. “That sounds like a punishment.”
“Well, that is sort of the point,” I said. Sallow began to pace. “I can probably convince them that some time away will do you good and we can have a sort of fresh start when you get back.”
Sallow ran his head through his hair. “This is the only option?”
“Yes.” In truth it probably wasn’t. I could probably have gotten the leadership to back down without having to send Sallow away, but I promised Calhoun that I would get him his assistance and here was an opening. Besides, Sallow was a linguist and he was supposed to be interested in these kinds of things. Maybe he would come back with a new outlook, and that indifference I spoke of would melt back into simple naivete.
Sallow stood for a while, appearing deep in thought. He sat back down, and we continued in silence. As the day had now ended, I started to get ready to leave. “Edward?” I tried getting his attention but he seemed as if almost in a trance. I tapped his shoulder, and Sallow jolted up.
“All right,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Tell Calhoun he has his support.” He seemed surprisingly resolute for a man who seemed so conflicted just moments before.
“I will.” I smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly, “you’ll be back home sooner than you imagine.”
“Perhaps,” he said. He was cold again, whatever emotions he had let out of him earlier had retreated in the face of danger. He stood up. “Thank you, Thomas.” We shook hands again. “This really means a lot.” With that he left, and I soon followed, to go home for the night.
I saw neither Calhoun nor Sallow again before the expedition took off. I signed the appropriate paperwork, contacted the sufficient higher-ups to get them off of Sallow’s back, and sent the whole thing to some other department to manage. The supposed date of the expedition’s start passed, and I heard not a word of it. If not for a few conversations and one document, I would have never known of its existence.
My life went on, largely behind that desk. Days, and then months, and then years passed. The city went on as well. NCR’s reclamation efforts continued at their usual pace, and every so often the Followers would open a new clinic or other center of some sort in a new area, and there would be a big to-do in the office surrounding it.
A little more than two years after I organized the expedition, President Tandi died. She was 103, how she lived so long when many of the patients in our clinics don’t see 20 I will never know. Cynics chalk it up to elitism, but I doubt someone like Tandi would keep some breakthrough in medical technology that could sustain her life like that from a group like the Followers.
Another point of contention, now that retrospective was permitted, was that Tandi’s presidency lasted 52 years. Many had a hard time seeing this as a true democracy, and there was mounting pressure on the new president to institute term limits. But to most people, this was a time of mourning and little else. The average citizen cared little about whether or not they lived under a democracy. They cared that Tandi united large swaths of the wastes, that she made the roads safe and facilitated trade, that she rebuilt our cities and improved our quality of life. Strong and stable leadership is what they were mourning, more so than Tandi herself, as people could already see the descent into factionalism that was about to occur in Council Hall.
They had been parading her coffin around the Republic, and when it finally reached us they had a memorial downtown, and leadership said we were all expected to attend. They gave us black armbands. People held candles. There were a number of speakers: our mayor, some councilmen, generals, even the leader of the Followers. They had all come to praise Tandi, for none of them had been given the honor of burying her. That would happen when she returned to Shady Sands, in what they said would be a private ceremony.
Walking back from the memorial, I noticed a man in the crowd. He wore no armband. His hair was long and wild, and his clothes worn. Something, though, seemed familiar about him. I had seen that heavy vest before. When he turned, I saw that there had been some kind of patch on his arm that he had ripped out. He noticed me as well, and his eyes grew wide.
“You!” He started towards me, his hand outstretched. “It’s all your fault,” he cried. “You sent him, you’ve done this!” He grabbed on to me and I tried to restrain him.
“Please, who are you?” The question seemed to offend the man.
“You know who I am.” He was right.
“Bill Calhoun?” The man nodded. Now that he was close I could see that there was a deep scar on the left side of his face.
“Can you give me a drink?” he asked. His eyes closed for a moment and he looked as if he was in pain.
“Yes. Come to my office.” I let go of him, and we walked together. We reached my office and I let him in. Instantly he looked around, taking the place in. I went to the cupboard to get him a drink. Calhoun sat down.
“It hasn’t changed much,” he said suddenly. I placed the whiskey on the table, and he picked it up.
“No it hasn’t, and neither has the work,” I admitted, “although the funding has gotten better.” Calhoun had already finished his glass. He motioned towards the bottle and I poured him another, which he began to drink down in similar haste. “Is it just now you’re getting back?” I asked. He looked up at me, confused. “From Arizona, I mean.” He put his glass down and cleared his throat.
“I’m here to warn you,” he said, there was a grave tone in his voice now, different from its previous rasp. “I’m here to warn you about your man.”
“My man? You mean Sallow?”
“He goes by another name now.” It seemed to pain Calhoun to speak these words, once he had done so he simply stared, then he picked up the bottle to pour himself another drink.
“Please,” I implored, “have all the drink you want, I’m sure you’re very tired, but tell me what has happened.” Calhoun nodded.
“I shall,” he said. “I shall tell you from the beginning.” And with this he related to me his story, which I have recorded to the best of my memory.
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Hopefully there will be more to come??? Idk depends on how much free time I have