Chapter Text
The trail began at Boston Common and ended at Old North Church. Two miles through supermutant territory, the August sun hot and merciless overhead. Edith had expended two hundred caps’ worth of ammunition along the way, her pack growing lighter as she made her way through the ruins of the North End, shotgun cradled in her hands like an extension of her arm. Exhausted, irritated, and aching, she craned her neck to look up at the steeple raised like a middle finger against the unrelenting blue sky.
She hesitated for a moment, hand on the Courser chip in her pocket. The thumb-sized device was her key to the Institute, and its invaluable data was shrouded in dense layers of cyber-security. The chip would not yield its secrets easily. Edith was a simple woman, her tastes and skillset tended toward gasoline and shotgun shells. Cracking the chip was entirely beyond her abilities.
After she’d killed the Courser, Z2-47, she had gone first to the Brotherhood of Steel. In the past, she had done a few errands for them, had been a welcome presence in their outpost in Cambridge. She’d gone directly from Greentech Genetics to the Cambridge Police Station to ask for help.
It hadn’t gone well. The Paladin and Scribes had made noises about confiscated the chip for their own ends, and Edith had objected. The argument stopped just short of a firefight, but just short of a firefight. Edith fled, tracking east to the Castle, where she appealed to the Minutemen for aid. They were willing but unable, and returned the chip to her after a cursory examination of its firewalls.
“It’s beyond me,” said the Minutemen technician, shrugging. “Your best bet would be the Railroad, provided you can find ‘em.”
Resigned, Edith had followed the Freedom Trail and ended up at Old North Church, winded and with blood oozing from a shallow cut on her thigh. She hesitated for a moment, and approached the building cautiously. It was red brick and white plaster, the colors stark and crisp despite the church’s age. Edith mounted the cracked stairs and paused to read the historical marker affixed to the wall.
Built in 1723, the Old North Church is the oldest standing church in Boston. Its 191 foot tall steeple also makes it the tallest church in Boston.
There was a lantern above the marker, a crude silhouette marked out in white chalk. Edith snorted and rolled her shoulders. Prepared for the worst, she swung her shotgun around, leveled it chest height, and kicked the door open. The dry wood splintered and the door burst inward, slamming against the interior wall. Edith crossed the threshold, head on a swivel, a scowl set like concrete.
The sanctuary was empty: the organ had sunk into the floor and parts of the ceiling had collapsed. Although the wood floors were warped and split, they conspicuously clean and free of plaster dust and grime. Someone had been there recently.
The hairs on the back of Edith’s neck stood up. Hefting her shotgun, she whirled around and found herself alone in the deserted church.
Shivering, she turned again, and her eyes fell on the collapsed choir loft. There was another lantern chalked on the dark wood, and Edith rolled her eyes.
“Real fucking subtle,” she said, out loud to the empty ruin. “Very sneaky. Cloak and dagger.”
Edith advanced through the ruin, down a twisting staircase and into a cave-like catacomb The walls were ancient fieldstone, mortared with thick grey paste, graves set into the walls at intervals. Edith didn’t linger, rushing forward until she found a dial set into the wall. A puzzle and a passcode. She twisted the dial to spell RAILROAD, and the hidden door swung inwards.
The room beyond was cave-like, dark and still. Two steps over the threshold, and a pair of floodlights clicked on, searing their image into Edith’s retina. She flung an arm up to shade her eyes, squinting against the bright light.
Three people stood silhouetted in front of the floodlights. Two women and a man, their features vague and hazy as Edith’s pupils slowly contracted, adjusting to the bright light. The figures swam into focus, each was armed and armored, weapons trained on Edith, faces fixed in identical scowls.
She swallowed and set her shotgun on the ground, wincing as the motion jarred her injured leg, reopening her wound and sent a fresh wave of blood trickling down her thigh. Panting, Edith raised her hands over her head. “Hey there,” she said, unsticking the words from her throat. “Railroad?”
One of the women -- white, her ash-brown hair cut in a neat bob -- shook her head. “We’re going to be asking the questions, here.” Her voice was crisp and unaccented, oozing authority. She was the obvious leader. She stood like a statue, flanked by her guards: a pale man in a blue coat and a woman with dark skin and obviously-bleached hair. The man carried a shotgun, smaller than Edith’s, but the woman had a minigun, and she carried it like it weighed nothing.
Edith faltered, then squared her shoulders and sucked in her gut despite the dull throb radiating outward from her injury. It simply wouldn’t do to appear overly cowed by the Railroad’s display of strength.
“So ask,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt.
Eyes narrowed, the woman looked down her nose at Edith. “Why are you here?” she said, lips pulled back in a snarl.
Edith looked up at her. “Looking for scavenge,” she said, insolent as a child.
“Right, and you just happened to make your way through the catacombs and past our secret door.” She thumbed the hammer on her six-shooter, the resultant click devastatingly loud in the small chamber. Edith flinched, cursing herself for a fool. Her fingers twitched in empty air, muscle memory crying out for the shotgun lying discarded on the ground. If she reached for it, they’d pump her full of lead before she could blink.
“We both fucking know why I’m here,” she said hoarsely. “You’re the Railroad, and I need your help.” The barrel of the minigun drew Edith’s gaze like a magnet drew iron filings. The woman holding it looked down her nose at Edith, her dark eyes shining and a make-my-day grin on her painted lips.
The leader cleared her throat. “You’re not a synth.”
“How do you know?” challenged Edith, pointlessly defiant even though she was outgunned and outnumbered.
“This isn’t how synths come to us,” said the dark-haired woman. “We have our methods, and this isn’t it. You’re human, and you must have some reason for being here. Out with it.”
“I told you,” Edith growled, “I need help.” She rubbed her injured thigh, wincing at the resultant twinge. “I have a Courser chip--”
“What?” The leader blinked rapidly, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. The other two faltered, turning to their leader for guidance. Capitalizing on their momentary distraction, Edith stooped to retrieve her shotgun.
The movement drew the black woman’s eyes. “Hey!” She shifted her stance, but before she could open fire, the other woman stopped her.
“Wait,” she hissed. “You killed a Courser?”
“Sure did,” said Edith, hefting her shotgun. “And I need your help reading the data. I’m hunting the Institute.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Edith’s words hung heavy in the air like the blood-stink of an abattoir, and she began to worry that she’d overplayed her hand.
The woman with the minigun was the first to recover. “She’s crazy,” she said, dismissively. “Or else she’s an Institute infiltrator. I say we kill her and dump her in the bay, leave her body for the Watchers.”
“If the Institute knew where we were, they’d send a full kill team, not a lone gunman,” said the man. His voice was steady, but his hands shook on the stock of his rifle. “We’re not murderers, Glory.”
Edith seized on the name like a dog with a bone. “I’m not looking for a fight,” said Edith. “I need your help, Glory. All of your help. I need the Railroad.”
Glory grimaced. “Keep my name out of your mouth,” she hissed. “Whoever the fuck you are.”
“Edith,” she said. “My name is Edith Mandelbaum.”
Plainly uncomfortable, the man in the blue jacket shifted his weight from foot to foot, the barrel of his gun wavering. He looked sidelong at the leader, waiting for a signal, but she ignored him. The leader stared intently at Edith, gears turning inside her head.
Only Glory was unmoved by Edith’s outburst. Eyes narrowed, she stared down her nose at Edith, her brow furrowed in a sneer. Heart hammering in her chest, Edith met Glory’s gaze and held it, daring the other woman to pull the trigger.
The leader broke the stalemate. “I don’t know who you are,” she said thoughtfully, “but if you killed a Courser, you’re no friend of the Institute.”
Edith smiled up at her, all teeth. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The leader looked at her coolly. “Not quite,” she said. “The enemy of my enemy is a potential ally, nothing more.” Her eyes wandering over Edith’s bulging pockets. “I’m going to require a show of good faith before I’m willing to treat with you as anything but a security risk,” she said carefully.
“What,” said Edith, “do you want the chip or something?”
Her only response was a curt nod and a tight-lipped smile.
“No,” said Edith, temper rising. “Absolutely not. If I hand over the chip, you’ll just have your pet psychopath--” she gestured to Glory with her shotgun, and the other pulled her lips back in a snarl, exposing preternaturally white teeth-- “pump me full of lead as soon as my back’s turned.”
“I wouldn’t wait until your back was turned,” Glory muttered darkly.
“Enough.” The leader’s voice was like a gunshot in the small space; both Edith and Glory startled and looked guiltily at her. “My name is Desdemona,” she said. “We’re only as much of a danger to you as you are to us.”
Edith scowled up at her. “You’ve got me outnumbered and outgunned.”
“And you’re trespassing.” Desdemona’s voice was cool, clipped, impersonal. “We can crack the chip. I’d venture that we’re the only ones in the Wasteland who can.” She looked pointedly at Edith, daring her to disagree. “We can’t help you unless you help us. Give us the chip, and we can have the data off it in a week.”
“So what,” she said, “I turn the chip over to you and come back in a week to find this place abandoned? No thanks,” she said, tightening her grip on her shotgun.
The movement drew Glory’s eyes. Her frown deepened, but she didn’t move, even as her gaze flicked from Edith to Desdemona, obviously praying for permission to open fire.
Desdemona remained impassive, indifferent to Glory’s internal power struggle. “You’ll have to surrender the chip to us eventually,” she said. “I would take it as a gesture of friendship if you did so now.”
Edith bit her lip. It wasn’t too late to turn her back on the Railroad. The temptation to walk away was strong, but her feet stayed rooted to the ground. Desdemona, Glory, and the unnamed man represented her best shot at breaching the Institute. She was out of options, and without the Railroad, she was lost.
She sighed, mind made up. “Alright,” she said, her bluster and pride deserting her all at once. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for the chip. Don’t shoot me, please.”
They watched her hands closely as she dug through her pockets and produced the chip. Nestled against her hip, the metal had warmed to match her body temperature; it felt almost like a living thing in her palm. Cotton-mouthed, she crossed the mezzanine like a prisoner going to meet their sentence, and reluctantly dropped the chip into Desdemona’s hand.
Her fist closed around it, and she tucked the Courser chip into her breast pocket, out of sight. As soon as it was gone, Edith felt that she had made a mistake. The Railroad would turn on her, like the Brotherhood. They had what they wanted from her, they had no reason to return it to her. Edith had risen from the dead, had tracked Kellogg to Diamond City and to Fort Hagen, had worn out the soles of her boots on one hundred miles of broken roads. Three months in the Wasteland, and she was no closer to finding Shaun than she had been.
Blinking rapidly, Edith stared up at Desdemona and the others, arrayed like archangels in front of the arc lights, and cursed herself for a fool. Jaw set in a furious line, she crammed her trembling hands down into her coat pockets, groping for her lucky stone. Her fingers closed around the smooth rock and counted her breaths, running her thumb across its polished surface.
"Thank you," said Desdemona formally. "The entire Railroad is in your debt. We won't forget this, I assure you."
Edith smiled up at her, tight-lipped. "All I want is the data," she said tiredly. "I don't care what you do with it, as long as I get a copy of everything."
"Of course." Desdemona smiled a diplomat's smile. "One week, that's all we'll need."
"One week," Edith confirmed. She looked from Desdemona to the man to Glory. For a moment, her gaze lingered on the dark-skinned woman, her pointed nose and painted lips. Edith looked up at her, searching for words. Glory held her gaze, cool and indifferent as granite, and Edith looked away, heart hammering in her chest. "One week," she echoed, her voice barely audible in the dripping cavern. She turned to leave, her heavy tread echoing off the stone walls when a female voice interrupted her stormy thoughts.
"Wait!"
Edith stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder at the Railroad. Glory had broken rank, crossed to Desdemona's side. Edith glanced back at the concealed door and the mouth of the tunnel, but Glory's voice caught her like fish hooks and drew her back in.
"We can use her," said Glory, dark eyes trained on Desdemona. "Deacon has to have something for her to do. And it's not like we couldn't use an extra set of hands."
Desdemona studied Edith like a specimen under glass, brows drawn low over her hazel eyes. Edith stared back at her, shoulders squared, unconsciously mimicking Glory's straight-backed posture. "If you're looking for a gun-for-hire," she said, "you won't find better."
Drummer Boy shifted uncomfortably, but Desdemona and Glory exchanged a look. "We don't usually hire independent contractors," she said, and Glory nodded. "Our agents join the Railroad to help synths, not line their pockets. We can't ask anyone to risk their life for a cause they don't believe in."
"I don’t believe in your save-the-synths death wish," said Edith bitterly, “but I’ve got no love for the Institute. They stole from me.” She blinked furiously, and screwed her courage to the sticking place. “At this point, risk my life just to spit in their eye."
Desdemona nodded thoughtfully, a calculating expression on her face. "If you're serious about this," she said slowly. "I'll put you into contact with one of our field agents." She hesitated, choosing her words her carefully. "We’ll compensate you for services rendered when you return for the Courser data." Her hand drifted to the Courser chip in her breast pocket; she clutched at it through the layers of her vest and scarf.
Glory grinned, radiant in the gloom. "God, Deacon is going to have kittens when he hears about this. A new partner: the last thing he never saw coming." She laughed and turned to Edith, her face lively and lovely in its animation. "Hey rookie: don't let him give you a hard time. If he starts telling stories, just hit him until he stops."
Desdemona sighed. "Please don't. Your contact's name is Deacon, he'll rendezvous with you in Bunker Hill." She paused. "Will there be anything else?"
"Yeah, how will I recognize your contact?"
"Sunglasses."
"Sunglasses?" said Edith, incredulous. "That's all you're giving me to go by?"
"That's all you'll need," Desdemona muttered darkly. "Trust me, he makes himself hard to miss.”
---
Her contact was leaning against the main gate at Bunker Hill, eyes hidden behind dark shades, bald head shining in the late afternoon sunlight. White, runners' build, medium height, somewhere between late thirties and early fifties. He stood out, subtly, although was dressed like every other Brahmin hand in the yard: grimy coveralls, worn flannel work shirt, and shit-caked boots. His posture was wrong, too attentive, too active for the milling crowd. This was a man that wanted to be seen and claimed otherwise.
Edith stopped in front of him and he studied her like an insect under glass. "Do you have a Geiger counter?" he said, stifling a yawn.
"Mine's in the shop."
He nodded, his expression unreadable behind his mirrored sunglasses. "What a relief," he said, without affect. "They told you about the countersign. And here I was worried that they'd sent me a complete greenhorn."
"Deacon, right?" Edith bit back her irritation and stuck her hand out, trying to play at civility and cooperation. "Name's Edith."
He ignored her extended hand. "So I've heard," he said. "And I don't mind telling you: I'm not exactly excited about this arrangement."
She let her hand drop to her side. "They warned me you were an asshole," she said.
He almost smiled. "Lies and slander," he said. "I'm delightful. Come on, let's walk and talk."
She followed him out of the gate and down the street, away from the soaring monument and deeper into the tangle of offices and shops. The cracked streets were overgrown with kudzu and wild aster, and the echoes of their footsteps were muffled by the green carpet. The god-awful harbor stink was softer here, muted by the sharp smell of greenery and the old tang of blood and gunpowder.
"First things first," he said. He had a long stride, and Edith had to take two steps for every one of his. "Field agents do virtually all their communication with HQ via dead drop. You familiar with the term?"
"Vaguely," she said, quickening her pace. "I've read a few spy novels in my day."
"Bless," he said. "That's pretty much where we get all our ideas. Code names, signs, countersigns, dead drops, secret radio frequencies, blood oaths. Good stuff.” He stopped abruptly in the middle of an intersection, sighting down the twisting streets. He turned left, and Edith followed.
“Anyway,” he said, “we're looking for a dead drop, it's somewhere near the old Mass Chemical building. Check for chalk signs on the mailboxes."
Edith nodded and fell into step behind him, leg aching. She fingered her shotgun and thought of the Courser chip in Desdemona's breast pocket. 'Deacon' and his mission could be a diversion or a decoy, could be an ambush. She didn't like his attitude, she didn't like his mirrored sunglasses. She had met only four members of the Railroad, and so far, she liked none of them.
One of them, she corrected herself. Glory was alright, if only because she was honest about her intentions. Edith much preferred open hostility to veiled wariness.
Deacon reached a corner and stopped abruptly. Lost in her thoughts, Edith walked into his back, and he turned to frown at her before he gestured down the street. "We got a raider camp down that way," he said, "so we're going to go that way." He pointed west, away from the bridge and the old chemical building.
"How many?"
He frowned, brow furrowing over the rims of his shades. "How many what?"
"Raiders," she said. "There's a camp. How many in it?"
"You're not serious, are you?" He glanced down at her weapon and his frown deepened. "It'd be easier just to go around."
"For us, maybe," she said. "But what about the next caravan that comes down this way? Streets are pretty much impassable if you've got a Brahmin cart."
"Caravans have guards," he said. "And I’m not sure if you noticed, but we're two assholes in leather armor. I don't know what our odds are against an entire camp of screaming chemfiends, but I don't think they're good."
She patted the stock of her shotgun, grinning manically. "This little piece is fully automatic."
He stared at her, dawning horror on his face. "Oh my god," he said. "I get it now. You're one of those. Dez is probably hoping you get us both killed so she doesn't have to listen to my puns any more."
"Yeah, with your sunny attitude, I can't imagine why she'd you on suicide missions."
He looked at her for a moment, utterly expressionless. "They send me a heavy with a sense of humor," he said, mostly to himself. "I pray for an infiltrator with a taste for theater, and they send me a heavy with a sense of humor."
Edith rolled her eyes. "Sorry to disappoint," she said. "Maybe I'm not real happy about being out here, either. I bring down a Courser, I hand the chip over to you people on a silver platter, and I get stuck running errands with a cagey asshole. Guess what: this isn't how I wanted to spend my afternoon, either."
"Wait," he said, "back up. You what?"
"What, the Courser thing?"
"Yes, the 'Courser thing,'" he hissed. "How the hell did you pull that off? There's nobody alive who can take on a Courser single-handed."
"What, like it's hard?"
He stared at her for a long moment. "Have you met Glory yet?" he muttered, "because you two would really get along, god help us all."
"Come on," she said impatiently. "What are we doing, where are we going?"
Deacon sighed. "We're skirting the raider camp," he said. "It's not that I don't believe you, it's that I'm suddenly developing hypertension and all that gunfire and bloodlust is bad for my weak heart. We've got a dead drop to find, come on." He turned and started down the western street, and she had no choice but to follow him, seething.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence, and reached the Mass Chemical building before dusk. As they moved through the shadowed streets, Deacon pointed out symbols chalked on the walls. "Rail signs," he whispered. "We use 'em to communicate out here."
They found the dead drop in a rusted mailbox two blocks south of the regional office. Deacon pulled a ring of keys from his belt, fit one into the lock, and wrested it open. It was empty except for a single holotape, which he tossed to Edith without a second glance. He closed the mailbox and wiped the marking away, signaling to any watchers that the message had been received.
"Go ahead and give that a listen," he said. "Then we're onto phase two."
She fumbled the tape and jammed it into the holoplayer on her Pip-Boy. The recording was grainy, the words difficult to parse amid static: "Window is open for a heavy to make contact, but they should act now. The package is still in my possession."
Blinking, she looked up at Deacon. "What the hell does that mean?"
He sighed. "Stockton's got a synth hiding out in Bunker Hill, and he needs us there. Looks like we're headed back the way we came."
She swore. "Does this happen often?" she demanded. "How often are your people backtracking to chase down these damned dead drops?"
"Goodness, you’re only three hours in, and you've already identified the Railroad’s greatness weakness, aside from numbers, resources, and compassion fatigue," he said. "Well done. Now if you're done complaining, let's beat feet. I don't want to be stranded out here after dark."
"Bet you wish we'd cleared that camp now," she challenging, trailing after him. "Would've been less raiders to dodge on our way back."
"You can walk and talk simultaneous, yes?" he said. "Come on, you can rub it in all the way back. Let's get gone." He started down the darkened street, towards the harbor and Old North Church. Edith sighed, aggrieved, and set off after him, scuffing her feet against the worn asphalt, disturbing dust clouds and tender green shoots. Deacon moved through the falling dark on cats’ feet, and Edith jogged to keep up, her footfalls thunderously loud in comparison.
He stopped once or twice to frown at her; she idly scratched her nose with her middle finger.
They crossed the bridge without incident and found themselves in familiar territory. Skirting the raider camp, they stumbled into a pack of wild dogs. Every shotgun blast was a vindication, wordless “I-told-you-so” pointed in Deacon’s direction. He had the good grace to remain silent as they trudged back to Bunker Hill.
Old Man Stockton was grateful to see them, features going slack with relief at their approach. Sign and countersign, and he gave them their mission details: clear hostiles from the rendezvous point and hold it against the feral ghouls in the area. Stockton would be by with the package, and then a runner would come to escort the synth to a safehouse. Simple, really. Straightforward.
Edith didn’t hesitate to express her irritation, loudly and at length, with both Stockton and Deacon. Deacon was jackrabbit tense beside her and relaxed slightly when he realized that she was veiling all her complaints in metaphor. Angry as she was, Edith chose her words carefully and hid their shared allegiance and the package’s identity in allegory. To eavesdroppers, she was just another hired hand looking to renegotiate the terms of her contract.
“Completely unac-fucking-ceptable working conditions,” she said. “How the fuck’re we supposed to do our goddamn jobs if you’re going to dress up our orders like that? Would a fucking note not have done? We’re all literate here.”
“Keep your voice down,” Stockton hissed. “You must be new around here, missy, because a veteran of our organization would know better than to question our methods.”
“Really?” she shot back, “‘cause I’m starting to think you just like jerking us around.”
They were beginning to attract stares. Stockton dabbed at his shining forehead with a filthy handkerchief, and Deacon tugged at Edith’s sleeve. “Knock it off,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “I get it, you’re pissed off, but you’re going to blow our cover. Settle.”
She jerked her arm from his grasp and glared at him and at Stockton. One of the nearby caravanners cleared his throat and a guard said, “Everything alright there?”
“Fine, fine!” said Stockton, flashing a politician’s smile at their audience. “Just an, ah, disagreement between myself and two of my employees! But I think we’ve reached a resolution.” He turned on Edith, his smile curdling on his thin lips. There was genuine anger in his eyes, and she was immediately ashamed of herself.
“You two should go,” said Stockton icily.
“Sorry,” Edith mumbled, eyes on the ground. “‘S been a long day.”
“All the same,” he said. “You have your next task, go.”
Edith went, shamefaced and avoiding eye contact. Deacon followed her out of the settlement. “Well done,” he said drily. “You handled that well, I think.”
“Spare me,” she grumped. “Dead drops are fucking stupid, and you know it.”
He shrugged. “They reduced casualties among runners by two-thirds,” he said softly. “Stockton’s a paranoid old bat, but he’s not wrong. We don’t do the whole cloak-and-dagger routine because it’s fun and exciting. There are lives on the line, ours included.”
She sighed. “Why do you do this?” she asked quietly. “This whole ‘Railroad’ thing. It’s crazy, right? I can’t be the only one who sees that.”
For a moment, Deacon said nothing. “Now that’s the million-cap question, isn’t it? Why do any of us do the things we do? Death’s inevitable and the whole world’s fucked, why bother getting out of bed in the morning?”
“That’s different,” she said hotly.
“How?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. It just is. But you’re still insane to be risking your neck for the synths. I mean, they’re not people, not like you and me.”
“I’m going to have to stop you right there,” he said. “If you genuinely think that way, get out. Go home. You can’t half-ass this; the stakes are too high.”
“I don’t have a home to go back to.”
“Then we’ve reached an impasse.” He sighed. “Seriously, think on it. And by the way: welcome to team Railroad. Our motto is ‘it’s all gone to shit,’ we’ve got it on pins and jackets.”
She snorted. “Inspirational.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” he said. “Now hurry up, we’re burning moonlight.”
---
They reached the rendezvous point. It was a dingy Protestant church. The wide doors were flung open and the gloomy sanctuary was garrisoned by a pack of feral ghouls. Edith waded into the chaos, swinging her shotgun like a cudgel. She knocked two ghouls to the floor, filled a third with buckshot, and then turned on her heel and shot a fourth. She fell into her stance automatically: knees flexed, feet wide, the butt of her shotgun braced snug against her shoulder, her cheek pressed to the painted stock. There was a rhythm to it, a dance: pivot, aim, shoot, pivot, aim shoot.
She made short work of the ghouls, then turned to Deacon, grinning. He shook his head and shrugged. Edith rolled her eyes and went to work dragging the bloated bodies out into the street. He did not offer to help.
Stockton arrived with the package sometime later. The synth was designated H2-22, and he looked human enough. There was nothing to give away his inhumanity but his rigid posture and affected speech. The synth was too formal, too polite, and Edith was relieved when Deacon suggested that they wait in silence.
They spent a wordless hour in the ruined church, tension humming between them like a storm front. Edith fiddled with her lucky stone, turning it over in her hands so the flecks of mica sparkled in the lantern light. Deacon paced, chain smoking and dropping ash and butts onto the scarred wooden floor. The synth explored the church, peering into shadowed alcoves and running his hands over the wooden altar, his eyes glazed with wonder.
Edith kept the synthetic man in her peripheral vision. He seemed harmless as he plucked an empty Nuka Cola bottle from a garbage bin, but his uncanny nature had her on edge. His movements and gestures were almost human, but every few seconds, his robotic nature would reassert itself in a clinical head tilt or precisely-calibrated side step.
Another fifteen minutes, and the contact arrived: blessedly human, a black man in a slick leather jacket. He introduced himself as High Rise and clapped Deacon on the back, then offered his hand to Edith and H2. His handshake was firm, and he spoke very quickly, bright smile flashing in the dim light as he spoke. "I need your help," he said, voice pitched low. "The old neighborhood's pretty lively tonight; I can't get our guy through all the raiders and muties without help."
"Gosh, it's just too bad nobody killed all those raiders earlier." Edith spoke sardonically, sharp as flint. Her voice carried in the church and they shushed her reflexively.
"How bad is it?" said Deacon. "Any chance to sneak around them?"
"Let me put it this way," said High Rise. "I wouldn't be asking for help if I felt confident about my ability to 'sneak around.'"
Mouth set in a thin line, Deacon nodded. "Alright," he said. "We can get you to Ticon, but we need to get back to HQ. We can't stay there overnight."
"That's just fine," said High Rise. "I'm worried about making it through the streets. Once we get to Ticon, she’ll defend herself."
Deacon nodded. "Well, that settles it," he said, turning to Edith. "Sounds like we've got ourselves an outlet for your bloodlust. Do you want to take point?"
She grinned at him. "I thought you'd never ask."
He gestured out the church door, into the darkened streets. "Lay on, MacDuff."
It was a mile from the rendezvous point to Ticonderoga safe house. Unusually for Boston, the streets were open and straight, wide boulevards lined by darkened buildings and broken streetlights. Crooked alleyways branched off from the main path like snares for the unwary.
Edith kept her head on a swivel, vigilant against the shadows. No attackers appeared, and she had almost begun to relax when Deacon said, “We’re close. Seems like you were overcautious, High Rise.”
Before the agent could respond, the sharp crack! of a high-caliber rifle split the still night. A bullet whizzed past overhead and a harsh female voice cursed and spat, “Get ‘em!”
A dozen raiders emerged from the shadows, brandishing wire-wrapped weapons and dressed in piecemeal armor. Growling, Edith swung her shotgun around and fired into the crowd. One man went down screaming and she pumped the slide and fired again. Deacon and High Rise took up the defense, and Edith dove into the fray, charging. The raiders scattered like roaches, staggering backwards out of her way. They were lightly armed and armored and only half had guns. The rest were equipped with baseball bats or dull knives, blades glinting meanly in the moonlight.
Edith conserved her ammunition and wielded her shotgun like a club, bashing the raiders with the heavy stock. They ducked and ran, and the raiders with guns covered their retreat with erratic fire, bullets snapped past and embedded themselves in the brick wall behind her.
Grinning, she turned back to the others. Deacon and High Rise stood amid a pile of bodies and gore, breathing like they’d run a marathon. H2 wasn’t with them. Edith frowned and opened her mouth to ask where he’d gone; she was interrupted by a piercing scream.
The blood drained from her face. Without hesitating, she dropped her shoulder and ran in the direction of the scream. She plunged blindly into the alley, turning left then right, then left again, and rounded a final corner to find herself in a dead-end alley.
H2 cowered against a dumpster, frozen with terror. Laughing cruelly, a raider advanced slowly, a silvery six-inch knife clutched in their grimy fist.
"Get down!" Edith bellowed, H2 tore his eyes away from his attacker and looked at her dumbly. The raider slashed at him, and the synth cried out, throwing his arms up to protect his face.
Snarling, Edith threw herself at the raider, using her shotgun like a baton to force them backward, away from the panicking synth. Fumbling with the grip and the forestock, Edith swung her weapon around and leveled it at the raider. It was too long for close quarters; she didn’t have enough room to aim.
The raider knocked her barrel aside and lunged at her, knife flashing. Blood roaring in her ears, Edith parried clumsily and forced them backwards again, desperate to give herself enough time and space to aim. Growling in frustration, the raider dropped their knife and drew a pistol from their belt, firing wildly.
Edith got one shot off. It was all she needed. Her round connected with the raider's chest and they staggered backwards, gun slipping from their fingers as they clutched at the wet, fist-sized cavity in their sternum. They were dead before they hit the ground, stumbling backward into the wall before collapsing, face-down, on the asphalt.
Winded, Edith turned to H2. The synth was cowering against the wall, mute and ashen with terror.
"You alright?" she said hoarsely.
"They shot you," he said, his voice small. “You’re bleeding.”
Edith looked down and put her hand to her belly; it came away red. All at once, she became aware of the awful searing pain of torn flesh and spilled blood, she slumped against the wall, cursing.
H2 rushed forward to support her weight. "What's going to happen?" he said, his voice choked with fear. "Are you going to die?"
"No," she snapped. "I'm fine. We have to find the others and get to the safe house." Leaning heavily on H2, she pushed away from the wall and began moving toward the mouth of the alleyway.
Every step was a fresh agony, pain radiating outward from her belly. She imagined she could feel the bullet in her hip, deformed and buried deep in her muscle. She had been shot before, but the pain was different, amplified and reshaped by her irritation and concern for the pale young man -- pale young synth -- at her side.
He guided her into the main street. Bodies littered the asphalt, but none belonged to Deacon or High Rise. Relief bubbled up in her like champagne and she suppressed the feeling immediately.
Don't get involved, she reminded herself, don't get attached.
"Fuck," she said, "where are they?"
H2 swallowed. "Hello?" he called. "Deacon? High Rise?"
"Shut up!" she spat, tasting blood on her tongue. "You'll give our position away!"
Footsteps down a side street. Growling, Edith wrenched herself away from H2 and swung her shotgun around, finger twitching against the trigger guard.
"Edith!" Deacon and High Rise appeared around a corner, and Edith sagged in relief. She swayed on her feet, and H2 caught her, slipping an arm underneath her shoulder to keep her upright.
Deacon was limping and High Rise was bleeding freely from a gash on his forehead, but they were alive. Pale behind his sunglasses, Deacon surged forward and caught Edith's other arm, ducking under her shoulder to help H2 support her weight.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said. "What happened?"
"She saved me," said H2, wonderment in his voice. "There was a bad person with a gun and a knife, and she saved me."
"Did she now?" Deacon looked sidelong at her, and Edith groaned.
"This hurts," she said. "I'm losing blood pretty fast."
"We're almost to Ticon," said High Rise, "come on, hurry!"
High Rise lead the way and Edith followed, supported by Deacon and H2. The synth babbled nervously, repeating "she saved me," over and over until the words had lost all meaning. Light-headed with pain, Edith swallowed a groan and suppressed the urge to tell H2 to shut the fuck up.
She was relieved when High Rise stopped abruptly. "This is it," he said, gesturing toward a ruined skyscraper. "Come on."
Ticonderoga was situated in the building’s penthouse. The three men hustled her into an express elevator, which shot upward like a rocket. Edith’s ears popped just as the elevator chimed, and she found herself in Ticonderoga. The safehouse was three rooms, all surprisingly clean and comfortable. A combination living and dining room lead into a well-stocked kitchen, and a flight of stairs lead upwards into a dimly light bunk room. A hallway held chemical toilets and humming diesel generators; empty gas cans were stacked neatly in a corner.
“Get her on the table,” Deacon commanded, and H2 and High Rise hastened to follow his orders. They hauled her up onto the kitchen table and pushed her down onto her back. Deacon assumed the lead role: head surgeon of Ticonderoga’s improvised operating theater. “H2, there’s a medkit and a bottle of clear alcohol in the bathroom,” he barked, “I need it now.”
The synth jumped to, and Deacon peeled Edith’s armor off. High Rise appeared at his shoulder with a wickedly sharp knife, and Edith gasped. “It’s alright,” said Deacon, and he cut her blood-soaked shirt away to expose the gunshot wound in her side.
H2 burst into the room, brandishing the medkit and the liquor. Deacon took the medicine and High Rise took the bottle. He held it to Edith’s lips and she drank gratefully. The burn was welcome distraction from the stabbing pain in her gut.
“This is going to hurt,” said Deacon grimly. “Do you want a belt to bite down on?”
“What are you doing to me?” she said, her voice small and choked.
“We have to clean and bind the wound before we administer a Stimpak,” said Deacon, eerily calm despite the blood on his hands. “I’ve got to get the bullet out of you and stitch you up. Do you want something to bite down on?”
She swore and let her head fall back on the counter. “Just fucking kill me.”
“Give her the belt.”
High Rise put the leather to her lips and she accepted it; was grateful when Deacon dabbed at her belly with a liquor-soaked rag. High Rise felt her down and H2 hovered nearby like a pale, anxious ghost.
“Is she going to be alright?” he said, wringing his hands. “Is she going to die?”
Sweating, Deacon ignored him. He dug the bullet out of Edith with a needle and a tweezers. She bit down on the belt, stifling screams, jerking and thrashing in High Rise’s hold. Pain wracked her body and twisted her limbs. The impromptu surgery hurt like childbirth, and she had been anesthetized for that.
Distantly, she heard the clink of lead in a glass dish and Deacon began to sew her up. The tug of the needle distant and remote after the agony of removing the bullet, and she had slipped halfway into unconsciousness by the time he finished. She scarcely felt the Stimpak at all.
“Done,” said Deacon. His voice was very distant.
“Will she live?” H2’s voice was choked with anxiety.
“She’ll live,” said Deacon.
“You should get some rest,” said High Rise, his voice pitched low and soothing. “Come on, I’ll show you the bunk room.”
Edith groaned. The liquor and the Stimpak had clouded her head. She felt the pain abstractly; like the death of a distant relative. Unpleasant, but bearable. She groaned again, and Deacon’s pale face swam into focus over her head. “Get some rest,” he said, gently, pushing her hair back off her clammy forehead. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
She fixed him with a baleful stare, then drifted into blissful unconsciousness.
---
Edith slept for fourteen hours and woke groggy and aching, still on the kitchen table. The Stimpak had done its work; her flesh had knit in her sleep. It still hurt, but the raw pain had faded into a manageable throb. Overnight, her empty belly had grown more pressing than her mostly-healed injury.
Edith rolled onto her side and opened her eyes. Mid-afternoon sunlight poured in through the Venetian blinds, painting the room in soft golden light. There was an overstuffed sofa and a coffee table covered in books and magazines, and a Railroad flag pinned to the wall. H2 napped on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, thin arms wrapped around thinner legs.
Dozing, dressed in a battered coat and covered in dust and grime, the synth looked very human.
Edith swallowed and looked away. Their gear was piled in the hallway by the elevator, a jumble of broken-in boots, firearms, and canvas bags. Deacon and High Rise were nowhere to be seen: either out on errands or elsewhere in the safehouse.
With a grunt of exertion, Edith sat up and examined her injury. The flesh remembered the bullet: a pale knob of keloid swimming in bruises, reddened flesh bound together by black thread. Deacon’s stitches were very neat and very small, tied off with a small knot. Jaw set, she picked at the knot until it unraveled, then removed the stitches, wincing with every tug.
“You’re awake. How about that.”
Edith looked up sharply; High Rise slouched against the wall. He was barefoot and dressed in an undershirt and patched khaki slacks. He crossed the room and bent to examine her scar, hmm’ing appreciatively. “Looks good, to me,” he announced. “Deacon knows his stuff.”
“Is he a medic?” she asked, tugging her dirty undershirt down over her belly.
“Deacon? Nah.” High Rise hesitated. “Deeks is more of a dabbler,” he said carefully. “Jack of all trades.”
She slid down off the table and found that her legs were steady enough to support her weight. “Where is he now?”
“He went out to radio HQ and check the dead drops,” he said. “With all the booze and chems we pumped into you, we didn’t think you’d wake up for another couple hours, at least.” He smiled. “You’ve got an iron liver, Edith.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled, and her stomach growled audibly. The Stimpak had accelerated her body’s natural healing response, sapping her energy reserves to fuel tissue growth and t-cell production. “Do you uh, have anything to eat?”
He did. The kitchen was well-stocked, and she felt a pang of Old World nostalgia at the sight of the overflowing pantry: pre-war canned goods and tv dinners, thick tarberry jam, neat rows of pickled carrots and tatoes. Her stomach rumbled, and for a moment, she was paralyzed with indecision. It had been so long since she had the luxury of choice.
She made a meal of pickles and Sugar Bombs. Two centuries past its expiry date, the cereal was stale: textureless and flavorless. To Edith’s changed palate, it was ambrosia, and she ate directly from the box, stuffing greedy handful of cereal into her mouth. The pickles were vinegary and delicious, flavored with an herb she didn’t recognize.
“H2 was worried about you,” said High Rise. He leaned casually on the counter and pitched his voice low. “He wouldn’t sleep in the bunk room. He wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”
Edith swallowed a mouthful of cereal, her throat suddenly dry. “Really?
High Rise nodded. “Yeah. Deacon wanted to slip him dramamine to help him get to sleep, but he finally fell asleep around three.”
Edith stared at H2, wondering what it meant to save a synthetic life. He wasn’t a person, but he’d had an emotional response to her injury. He had practically carried her through the alleys until they found Deacon and High Rise. The synthetic man was small, pitiable, practically child-like in his proportions. Everything about him seemed human, but Edith’s reptile brain recoiled in terror from his uncanny nature. He hadn’t been born, he had been constructed in an Institute laboratory. But like a natural human, he breathed and sweat and bled.
Asleep on the sofa, he looked human, like a young man barely out of boyhood. His conflicting natures spun in her mind like a thaumatrope: man and machine, person and object.
Dizzy, Edith blinked rapidly and looked away. “I’m going to get my things ready,” she said softly. “As soon as Deacon’s back, I need to get out of here.” Swallowing, she decided that she’d be glad to leave Ticonderoga behind.
---
Deacon returned, empty-handed, just as night fell. He took fifteen minutes to piss and refill his canteen, then Edith and Deacon set out together. They rode the elevator down to the first floor and walked out into the silent streets. Her entire body was a knot of pain: her side ached and her neck prickled with sunburn. Wincing, breathing hard, Edith followed Deacon through the deserted alleys and streets. He chose a convoluted route that skirted raider camps, Brotherhood outposts and Minutemen checkpoints alike. After an hour of walking, they reached an inconspicuous door on the waterfront. It was weathered by sun and salt and sea air, surrounded by crumbling red bricks.
"Let me guess," she said, "Narnia?"
"No, but I appreciate the reference," said Deacon. "This is the back door to HQ. There's a network of connected tunnels, and I need you to pay attention, because I'm only going to show you the route once."
She nodded. "What happens if I can't remember it?"
He stared at her, his expression unreadable behind his mirrored shades. "You get lost and the ferals eat ya," he said seriously.
Edith blinked, and Deacon laughed.
"Nah, you'll get really turned around, but someone would come looking for you before it came to that. Glory goes through a couple times a week with her minigun to keep it clear. If we're evacuating, the last thing we need is to get caught up in a firefight." He shrugged, one-shouldered. "Come on, let's get under cover."
He turned the knob and tugged; the door stuck in the frame. It swung open after a sharp jerk. Edith was quietly disappointed that there was no hidden mechanism or secret knock.
The tunnels were less confusing than she had feared. Not really tunnels, but passageways dug between adjoining basements, the openings reinforced with steel girders. The path was lit by lanterns, a subtler messaging system than the obvious chalk tags elsewhere in the church.
Ten minutes in the tunnels, and they emerged in the Railroad headquarters: a cavernous crypt, electronic equipment and yellowed paper stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Desdemona stood at a central table, her back to the tunnel doorway, deep in conversation with a short, dark man in a crisp white doctors' coat. The man in the blue coat -- Drummer Boy, Deacon had mentioned his name in passing -- lingered by a computer terminal, chatting to a skinny black man in grimy overalls and a foil-lined cap. Edith glanced around the room, searching for Glory and finding her nowhere.
More distracting than the other woman's absence was a rich scent of gravy and stewed meat; Edith's stomach rumbled audibly.
Deacon cleared his throat. "Aw, did we miss dinner?"
Drummer Boy nodded in greeting and his companion waved; Desdemona and the doctor turned on Deacon and Edith with impatient frowns etched into their faces.
"Well?" said Desdemona, blunt as a brick to the face. "How did she do?" She spoke to Deacon as though Edith weren't standing beside him with gunpowder and blood caked underneath her fingernails.
Edith rankled at her tone, but Deacon took it in stride. "The new meat did fine," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "But that's all you're getting out of me until you get some food in me."
Desdemona sighed and gestured vaguely at a pre-war stove in the back corner of the massive room. "Dinner's on the stove," she said. "I expect a full report tonight."
"Yes mother dearest," said Deacon, sharp as nails. "Shall I wash up? Put on my Sunday best?" He spoke sardonically, but there was warmth in his tone: prickly words built up around a core of familiarity and genuine fondness.
Edith amended her first impression of Deacon to make room for his friendship with Desdemona. She had already decided that she disliked the Railroad as a whole: disliked the secrecy and the codes, disliked the demands and the inefficiency. Its members were mostly assholes: hard-assed Desdemona, flighty Deacon, milquetoast Drummer Boy. She hadn't made up her mind about the black man in the coveralls, but the doctor was looking at her like she'd tracked dog shit all over the carpeting.
The only one worth a damn, in Edith's reckoning, was Glory.
She glanced around to confirm the other woman's absence, then followed Deacon to the makeshift kitchen. The pot on the stove contained stewed venison in a brown gravy: beans and little shreds of meat, mushrooms, and crosscut carrots. The stew was only lukewarm, but it smelled invitingly of paprika and black pepper. Edith served herself a generous portion and Deacon took the remainder, scraping the bottom of the pot to get up all the carrots and gravy.
Edith settled herself in a corner with her dinner and ate ravenously. The stew was quite good by post-war standards, and it took everything in her not to lick her bowl clean. Instead, she looked around the room, studying the sundry members of the Railroad.
Desdemona was arguing with the doctor, gesturing violently at a map spread across the central table. He was scowling at her, brow furrowed, arms folded over his chest. Drummer Boy and his companion -- boyfriend, judging by their familiarity and easy intimacy -- stood shoulder-to-shoulder, murmuring to one another as the taller man fiddled with the terminal, fingers clacking on the keyboard.
Deacon noticed her interest in the other agents. "That's Doc Carrington," he said, pointing. "And that's Tinker Tom. He’s nuttier than a shithouse rat, but he's good people." Tom pecked Drummer Boy on the cheek, stooping to kiss the smaller man.
Deacon almost smiled. "Dez said you already met Glory, and all that's left after her is PAM."
"What, no code name for Pam?"
"PAM is an acronym," he said. "Stands for Predictive Analytic Machine." He licked his spoon. "She's a robot."
"You're shitting me."
"I shit you not!” he said cheerily. “PAM is uh, a singular entity. She's great, she's just." He scratched his head. They'd been outside for hours, but he had mysteriously failed to acquire a sunburn despite his fair skin and reddish eyebrows. "She's a little hard to describe. She’s also good people."
"And where's Glory?"
Deacon looked at her sideways, his eyebrows raised over his sunglasses. "I don't know," he said, "why do you ask?"
"No reason," she said quickly, shoveling stew into her mouth. "Jus' curious."
"She's probably out running errands," said Deacon, shrugging. "Dez and Carrington keep her pretty busy these days."
Edith set her spoon down. "What does she do, though? Is she just muscle?"
"There's nothing 'just' about Glory," he said. "But essentially, yeah. She's what we call 'a heavy.' Mostly, she makes runs like the one we did tonight, but she also keeps our routes in and out of the 'Wealth clear."
"By herself?" said Edith. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Excuse me," he said, "did you not try and convince me to storm a raider camp earlier today? Why the sudden concern for safety?"
"I--" Edith felt her face growing warm. "No reason."
He fixed her with a quiet, intense stare. "If you say so."
"Whatever," she said, casting about for a change of subject. "What do you do, then? Besides irritating everyone, I mean."
"That is what I do," he said cheerfully. "Jokes and light espionage."
Edith rolled her eyes. "Seriously," she said. "You're not in charge, that's Dez. You're not even second-in-charge, but you're obviously in charge of something."
"And what makes you say that?" he asked, his voice pointedly casual.
She shrugged. "When I showed up, they said 'give her to Deacon, he'll have something for her to do.' You know everyone and everything, or you act like you do. Plus you brought me into HQ, and no one said anything. Dez made it sound like I'd never get to see the inside of this place, but you just brought me in here like it didn't even matter." Another half-shrug. "Seems to me like you've got some sort of authority around here."
"You pay attention," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "Alright, fair enough. I'm the Railroad's senior intelligence officer."
She ran her finger around the rim of her bowl. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
"Jack of all trades," he said, leaning back in his seat. "I do a bit of this and a bit of that. Mostly, I just travel the 'Wealth and gather data. Check in on our tourists."
"Tourists?"
"Non-HQ agents," he said. "People like Stockton."
She nodded, chewing her lip. "Do you do the dead drops, too?"
"Nope. That's Drummer Boy."
"So you're the intelligence guy, Drummer Boy does logistics, and Glory kills stuff?" Edith tapped her fingers against her leg, glancing around HQ, trying to memorize all the names and faces.
"More or less." He hesitated. "And since you've just pumped me for information, now seems like a good time to say 'pretty please don't sell us out to the Institute or the Brotherhood.'"
"I wasn't planning on it,” she said staunchly. "All I want is the data off the Courser chip.”
He sighed. "Look, I don't want to start a fight with you, 'cause I know you'd kick my ass. I just want to restate the precariousness of the Railroad's situation and maybe play on your innate sympathy for scrappy underdogs."
Edith snorted. "Try again, wise guy. And maybe this time, you could play on my innate love of money."
"Yeah, well, 'the love of money is the root of all evil,'" he said, "and I'm relatively confident that you're not a bad person."
"Only relatively confident?"
"These are desperate times, Edith. I don't know if you noticed, but we're a little understaffed right now. You could be exactly what we need.”
"Well, sorry to disappoint."
"You haven't yet," he said quietly.
Edith had no response to that.