“All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle”
- St. Francis of Assisi
It was a unremarkable season in Fort Worth. Merchants ran their stores, fishers were out on Lake Worth, farmers ran their co-ops, and there was little in the way of trouble. Fort Worth was a safe, stable little wasteland in so far as Texas was concerned. The Feds and townspeople scattered across Fort Worth got along just fine, unified by their belief in the American Dream and glued together by the stout leadership that the Council provided. It certainly helped that the local raider population had been decimated through the combined efforts of the FBI and local Militias. It wasn't a particularly populous region, before the war Fort Worth had been a metropolis, but now it only held pockets of cloistered communities. Still, it was a nice place, the lack of residents meant it was relatively quiet but even still they managed to be quite prosperous. Not only were there a fair few productive farms, Caravans from far and wide frequently passed through Fed territory, seeing as the Central Plains of Texas were both stable and prosperous, bringing wealth and economic activity to the region. All said it was a good place for business.
There were communities in the wasteland with all manner of fortes, for FEDRA, it was wisdom. They had a great deal of knowledge to pull from, both from the old world and the new. And as the old adage goes, knowledge is power. Of course, the Feds never really ran into many particularly notable threats, they had garnered a great deal of credence among merchants and cap brokers both far and wide, and were known for offering a great deal of clemency even to those that would do them harm. There weren't many people with strong animosities against them. They were among the precious few who would treat with their partners as equals and freely offer aid to those who needed it most, which certainly didn't work towards fostering much hostility towards them. Their small state had been built through diplomacy and negotiation. The Federal Agencies had come together and agreed to create a unified people for the sake of mutual benefit, whereas so many empires in the wasteland had been forged through coercion and conquest. They were a relatively peaceful people, and their neighbors were often content to leave them in peace.
Like all communes, however, the Feds had ambitions, things they strove hard to achieve. Chief among those goals was the re-establishment of the United States Government. Though, diplomacy was preferable to achieve this rather than war and destruction. The Feds had been sowing the seeds of unification throughout the wastes for decades, making very frequent attempts to assimilate neighboring communities and tribes. Even if FEDRA’s borders had remained largely static since 2077, the Feds had been able to expand their influence much farther than the city itself. Accumulating rapport from neighboring communities and tribes, and had established reliable streams of revenue from levies gathered from many surrounding towns. In exchange for FEDRA’s umbrella network of contacts and protection, they would pay a small price, creating a mutually beneficial relationship. Some called it an organized racket, but the Feds would call it Symbiosis, whatever that means. The re-establishment of pre-war America was the biggest motivation for FEDRA; and they worked hard, day and night, to make this goal realized by the wider wasteland.
* * *
A Giant AwakesIt was early into the tenure of Deputy Director Zachary Eckerson, head of the National Catastrophe Relief Auxiliary (NCRA) and ostensibly the leading member of the Directorate's Council. In reality, he was little more than a figure piece for the real powerhouse behind their regime, pulling the strings like Gepetto, was Dave Bowman, also known as ZAX-39. Dave Bowman was as much an enigma to Zachary as he was to everyone else in the Council. But in many ways Dave was not as changeable as people are, and not quite so transparent; and they preferred him for it.
Their little universe ran on Dave's clock, a closed world, a structured world. And Dave knew many ways of making the time pass, keeping himself comfortably certain of the security of things. Like “retiring” the head of the NCRA. The very way in which Zachary had found his way into this very position as the Deputy Director. They had told Zachary he would be insane to willingly take the position, but Zachary knew what he was doing. Or at least he believed he did.
He was a snake to the core, having spent his entire adult life working his way up the ladder, and was extremely devoted to pursuing his thirst for power. Everyone else saw his move from Assistant Attorney General under Ephram McCarran to the Deputy Director of the NCRA as a lateral move. Everyone but him. Outwardly, his job made him the most powerful man on the Council. It was through him that FEDRA policy was ordained to the general public.But in reality, his duties as the Deputy Director of the NCRA essentially meant he was subservient to Dave, and a mouthpiece for the Council. This meant that oftentimes, NCRA Deputies were selected for their charisma, which Zachary certainly possessed, but more importantly for their ignorance in the great game of politics. Zachary wasn’t ignorant, but he could have won an Oscar for playing the part.
Zachary had foreseen the hardest part of his job to be dealing with notoriously aloof Dave, and yet Zach found the rumors to be just that; hearsay. Dave had doggedly tried to draw him out of his shell with innocuous questions, asking him about music, films, games, his previous positions. Not about his family, and not about his intentions or ambitions; certainly not about politics or religion, which quickly made it better than many conversations over coffee with his previous colleagues. In comparison with plenty of people he knew, Dave seems nothing but socially astute and charming. The two of them discussed Homer versus Virgil, a 400-year-old French treatise on instrumentation, the composition of the ideal cup of coffee, the film Frankenstein, even the Gulf Stream. After that, their ongoing conversation steered itself back to the subject of logic, which is both comfortably within Dave's wheelhouse and most of all; emotionally neutral. The ZAX always had plenty of things to say, even when Zachary didn’t; he operated in a state of conscientious restraint that reminds him of a favorite tutor he'd once had. Regardless of where his opinions come from, if they're fished out of a massive pre-provided database somewhere or strung together out of buzzwords, they're diverting enough to still be worth listening to. It must be diverting for Dave as well; he might crave the distraction.
Still, Zachary couldn’t help the feeling that Dave was trying to sound something out, that he was trying to coax something out of him. Dave wanted his complete attention and he'd get it.
* * *
Ashes to AshesPatience, Sam's mother had always told him, back when she was stout and gentle and smelled of New Mexico chilies, was a virtue. She had said this often, and it was one of the few things that Sam remembered well about her, and so he had held it close in all the long years since his mother's death. It was a better memory than the horror her face had formed when she’d been murdered by raiders. And in time, the advice had become ingrained deep within him. Sam could wrap himself in his coat, and let his eyes scan the street for clues and let his mind wander towards better memories. Memories of his mother, her smell, and her hand reassuringly on his shoulder. Then the words would return to him.
Patience is a virtue.Special Agent Samuel Clemens sat on the entrance steps of a burned out pawn shop across the street from the abandoned saloon that his skittish acquaintance chose as their meeting place. He was wrapped in his old trench coat, a small man with hair the color of ash, clearly a Fed, probably dangerous, nursing a bowl of noodles from a pushcart just around the corner. A man with a mission, stoic, conspicuous. But still apart of the furniture of life in the Warrens. Hood rats dressed in rags hurried past him, in and out of the many storefronts just down the street, none of them giving him a second glance.
Sam guzzled down more of his quickly cooling noodles and kept his eyes open and smelled again the green-chili smell of his mother in the kitchen.
Patience is a virtue, Sam. She always made him wait before he could eat dinner.
Patience is a virtue.More people passed by on the street. None of them wanted to look him in the eyes.
There was a man, older than Sam, he didn't look like he belonged in the Warrens. He kept glancing around, alert, wary. Sam didn't think that the man noticed him. Just another vagrant huddling out of the cold. The man went into the saloon.
Wonderful, some rando was going to ruin this whole exchange.
Sam finished his noodles. He drew his coat tighter around him. Fort Worth was chilly this March.
Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. There was warmth and safety in that, in the memory.
Sam sighed softly to himself. He would have to move soon. It was a pity. This was a fine place to spend an afternoon: watching people, learning the rhythms of the district, putting the pieces together. Sam would gladly have sat a while longer.
But he had not come to the Warrens to people watch.
* * *
HiraethMany of Fort Worth's streets had been cordoned off. Along the sides, spectators from all over the city watched and cheered. They came in thick clothing and the frosty air turned their cheeks a rosy pink. The cold of winter was waning, but this Spring was still unseasonably cold. From Stockyard Station the wild cheers could be heard like the sounds of a distant battle. Eleven robots of different makes and models raced down the streets. One robot for every major town within FEDRA. It could be a reckless tradition but one the Council, and interesting enough that Dave Bowman, refused to not be upheld this Spring Equinox. The robots careened around corners with the skill only a calibrated machine could achieve. But the race was not without its dangers. One town’s robot, the one from Saginaw, malfunctioned and went careening into a market stall.
Directors Byron Anders and Oliver Powell were watching together from the balcony of one of the downtown skyscrapers. This was a heated competition they had both enjoyed for as long as they could remember. They caught glimpses of the robots, bedecked in neon decorations, as they appeared on different streets. As the robots got closer, they were able to tell which was which.
"There!" Byron pointed.
"Damn! The Warrens are in eighth!" Naturally, Byron cheered on the eyebot, dubbed
Piece o’ Junk by the other teams, from his home city. The Warren robot almost always lost. Byron was only twelve the last time they had won.
"I wouldn't mind the bot from Mansfield winning. They're in second." Oliver replied, watching intently himself.
"My money's on Deadwood. The bot has been catching up after being in seventh. Good bot, just got off to a rough start." Byron replied.
Another roar came from the city signifying another crash.
"Looks like Arlington is out. Who will it be?" Byron asked. He felt a rush as he always did during the race. One that could only be matched by the rush he’d felt as a Gutter Rat in his youth. There would be many fortunes won and lost in Fort Worth after this race.
It was the last leg of the race. The robots could now be seen kicking into high gear coming straight at the gate to the Business District. Deadwood was now in second and Mansfield fell to third. Though the robots were so close the conclusion of the race still balanced on a knife's edge. Both men leaned on the railings to cheer their bots then cursed when the Bedford bot crossed the threshold first.
"Bullshit!" Byron cursed while tossing his wine over the edge of the railing. Oliver also had a look of distaste on his face though was able to compose himself far better. It was strange how much everybody in Fort Worth cared so much for this race. In the days leading up to it, the most popular discussion was on who would win. Oliver remembered walking into the Council’s chamber before they began that day and found they were arguing over the trivial topic. Along with his own advisers and agents in his office.
"It appears that I owe Carmona a few caps" Byron grumbled.
“The Director of the Treasury shouldn’t be gambling Byron. It isn't ethical." Oliver reprimanded him with a grin. It was hypocritical because he had placed some bets in private with Carmona as well. Hardly anybody could resist betting on the races. Even the hardliner Brian Foss had lost his prized laser pistol to a collegue. Director Witlow had lost his prized luxury skiff one year. Oliver now owed Carmona dinner and some caps.
"I was so sure it was going to be Deadwood this year! They were underdogs, sure, but they should have had it in the bag." Byron said disappointed.
The two walked down from the apartments chatting. There was still an air of tension from the heated argument they’d had in the council chambers the day before, but for now they seemed to be getting along. They ended up in the building’s courtyard before the statue of Mark Twain. He was one of the greats, a pre-war colossus in the realm of literature. Despite their wildly different upbringings, both men had read the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn religiously in their youth. The two stood quietly for a while studying it, and in a strange sort of way the statue only made them sad. Back before the pre-war this figure likely elicited pride and perhaps hope. But now, it was as if the greatness that humanity had once known had been lost, never to be found again. This was perhaps the hundredth time they had found themselves standing in the same spot before this same statue, but the first that this feeling had crept over them.
"Don't worry Byron, we can come back." Oliver said as Byron stared at the statue of Mila.
"I’m not so sure." Byron responded right away.
"How could things ever return to the way they were?." He paused deep in thought before turning to his friend.
“Having faith is believing in something you just know ain't true" Byron recited from Huck Finn, a morose smile plastered across his face, before stepping away to rejoin the festivities.