A cool breeze blew through the air, shifting the leaves ever so slightly in the tree above. Nick Valentine placed his hands in his trench coat pockets, as if bracing against the chill. Being a Synth he had no need to do so, but the mnemonic impressions of his human life, or rather a human life, still remained. He did things like that out of habit, he supposed, or maybe just because it allowed him a connection to a humanity he’d never truly have. All he did have were memories implanted from the real Detective Valentine and a personality that had been programmed into him.
Nick looked down at the pair of graves before him, nestled beneath a lonesome tree in the backyard of a house in Sanctuary Hills: their house. It’d been awhile since he’d last paid his respects here. In fact he hadn't come back since the burial. He'd thought to stay away because he had wondered if perhaps it wasn’t better to just let memories fade and wounds heal, but part of him knew that would probably never happen. The day he’d met Nathaniel, the sole survivor of Vault 111, was the day that things had changed forever: for him and for The Commonwealth. Nobody had really expected Nathaniel to actually reach The Institute or find his son. Yet despite all odds that's exactly what had happened. As a result of the tenacity of a father, The Commonwealth became an entirely different place. Nick knew he'd had to come back one more time, to say goodbye properly. He hadn't known what to think or say back then. Hell even standing here now he hadn't completely made up his mind how he should remember the man, but at least he could form the words.
“Wasn’t sure what would happen when we learned you’d joined with them,” Nick muttered to the grave before him, “I suppose you tried to do the right thing at least. I don't think I can ever forgive what you did to the synths, but I guess you were just trying to set things right in your own way. Keep The Commonwealth safe. But goddamn did you make it hard to trust you after that.”
Nick felt around in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. He pulled them out and with a flick of his wrist he lit up the cigarette before taking a drag,
“Look at me rambling again like an old bucket of bolts. What’s done is done. You set things in motion and brought The Institute to heel. That’s worth something. Just wish you’d stuck around a bit longer to keep it all together. We’re going to try our damnedest, but it's a tangle you've left us in.”
Valentine looked back up and stared out towards the rest of Sanctuary Hills. What used to be nothing more than the crumbling ruins of houses was now a thriving town. Caravans and traders flowed in and out of town under the watchful protection of Minutemen guards. The crops here grew tall fed by good soil and plenty of water purified directly from the stream nearby. Scavengers had begun to pick apart Vault 111 after the bodies within had been respectfully removed and re-interred elsewhere, and now the old Vault provided a unique source of trade goods and resources for the fledgling town. Nick felt a sense of pride in seeing that flag waving above it all. The flag of a nation just now beginning to form. The dream of a united Commonwealth made real.
“Well...maybe we’re on the right track at least,” Nick smiled, “Long road ahead though. Guess what I’m trying to say, badly, is...thanks for getting us on it.”
“Ayy Nicky!” The hoarse yell of the caravan guard brought Nick’s attention back to the town, “Tommy says we’re almost all loaded up. Just gotta figure out where to pack a couple more crates of those tatos. Anyways he told me to let you know we’ll be heading back to Diamond City soon. You finished with your business?”
“I am,” Nick replied as he took another puff of the cigarette, “I’ll meet you all at the gate.”
“Ok sounds good Nicky!”
Nick stared down at the grave one last time,
“I think this will be the last time I stop by here. Hope you finally found some measure of peace in the end. You deserve that if nothing else.” Nick dropped his cigarette and stamped it out in the yard. He gave one last look as he turned away,
Flavius Valerius Pontificus Augustus Maximus Vulpes Inculta Constantine Invictus Caesar
"...Three new gunsmiths, seven blacksmiths, a chem lab, a salt mine, three brahmin ranches, a radio station and accompanying press, and a sulfur mine.”
A man in the tent scoffed.
“Half a million denarii investment and a single salt mine? My dear Emperor this is absurd the Utah governor has made a mockery of your trust! We should return to the previous distribution of funds it does not do to give such favour needlessly.”
“Thank you for the input, Colorado. However as stated before until the 80s dreggs and Mexico are subdued Utah, New Mexico and Arizona will have disproportionate investment. I doubt you truly require more funds, no? The few tribes not under the protection of the Brotherhood are trivial work if there are even any left, no?”
“Of course m’Lord, but think of what a beauty could be made of Denver!”
“Later, Governor, later.”
Vulpes did not enjoy these talks. He went through with them with the full extent of his competency of course, but he had become a Frumentarii because that was where he knew he could make the greatest impact.
“Dolos, what progress can you report?”
“My Lord, I think you will be most happy with what we have managed to do.”
Reaching into a pocket of his pre-war suit he removed two wads of paper which were NCR and pre-war dollars respectively. “The margin of error is asymptotically approaching those of the originals. We haven’t tried any other currencies but I believe we may be able to achieve similar results to any nation’s mints.”
Vulpes smiled. The ability to create falsified currency was a thought in the man’s head for a long time. Intelligence revealed that the Brotherhood of Steel’s most potent assaults upon the NCR were grounded in attacking the republic’s financial institutions and this knowledge would certainly be useful when the inevitable confrontation with the NCR would come again.
“Most excellent.” He said. “But tell me, the other project, has it come to… fruition?”
“Yes, it has.” The ghoul whistled and another of his kind (both Frumentarius and ghoul covered in sewn-on human skins) approached with a pip-boy that played a holotape of some indecipherable cacophony.
All present knew what it was.
“The seeds of Techatticup do bear fruit. Not as potent as I had hoped, but also far more transportable than I previously expected.”
“You tested it?”
“Yes.”
“The results?”
“I used a terminal to graph the effects. You may view them my Lord. With approximately one hundred test subjects we have found the waste to be able to - depending on dose in the water - create effects from as mild as diarrhea, nausea, fever, and more to ones as severe as nearly instant death and ghoulification. A water supply poisoned with a single barrel will destroy that community for years until a painful and expensive cleaning process purifies it.”
“You have out done yourself, Dolos.”
“Well I thank you m’Lord, but I would still request more funding for a continuation of the project. In camp searchlight we can find much more of the same in a manner that is so compact and yet so powerful…..”
“It is under review, Master Dolos. We must also temper our expectations in a hypothetical campaign of mass-poisonings of course. For now turn your attentions to the 80s, we shall review retrieving the radioactive material at Searchlight in a month’s time. Now let us turn to to reviewing the Aurelian Campaign.”
Legio Mexicanus
There she was, la Belle Mexico. Full of so many mysteries and wonders promised to Aurelius and the Legion at large. Oil, stockpiles of arms and munitions intended for the occupation long ago, and millions of souls yet uneducated to the glory of the Bull. Already on the march into the land some tribes and communities were encountered, and only one community and two tribes were foolish enough to try and resist an army in the tens of thousands. They were crushed of course, but before Aurelius could give them a taste of the old Legion’s conquest one of those new Grey Frumentarii put a firm hand on his shoulder, and he reared in his men.
Emperor Vulpes Inculta would most certainly be pleased when the news reached him, one more step in the path of the man’s retribution before the eyes of his Emperor.
Aurelius rubbed on the collar at his neck. After their duel the slave’s bomb was wrapped around him exactly where his throat was slit, before it managed to heal. The wound got salt forced into it such that when the collar went over it would forever bring Aurelius great pain until it was removed — which would most certainly not be in the foreseeable future. Truth was he didn’t mind the pain, what the man cared more about was the symbolism of the thing, what mattered was that he was now a slave of sorts. The mere thought that he - the conqueror of Phoenix! - was a slave! Well it would be gone in good time, and great Laurels would sit in its place. Perhaps once Mexico was integrated he would even have the honour of leading the campaign against the NCR!
For now though, he had to set his eyes on the current prize: Hidalgo, Puebla, Veracruz, with the secondary objectives of Mexico city and Tamaulipas, the tertiary objective of Guadalajara, Sinaloa and Tabasco, and the ternary objective of the rest of Mexico.
Aurelius knew that with but a few years he could do it all.
From the Frumentarii and Speculatores sent ahead of the main force a picture pleasing to the man was painted. The largest parties they could discover were two rival Empires with both claiming to be heirs of some ancient Throne of the land. Aurelius found no irony in dismissing them, whilst wearing a Galea and having his armour gilded with Latin phrases. They were both powerful in their own right, Mexico's salvation from direct nuclear hellfire letting the land grow to great prosperity in contrast to America proper. Great farms grew crops to feed the whole Legion, while many instances of pre-war technology operated just as well as before the bombs fell.
Supposedly these two Empires had a fair bit of advancement. They had working vehicles, perhaps even more than the NCR albeit with no vertibirds to call their own, the extent of their aeronautics being microlight flyers. They had stalemated each other, their long war of more than a century leaving them blissfully unaware of the danger coming for them. Both Empires had armies larger and far better equipped than the force under Aurelius. But they had grown complacent, and largely were deployed against one another; the well prepared army of the Legion would be marching right onto their flank previously unfortified believed to present no danger beyond occasional Vaquero bands. The fact these raiders had disappeared was news taken with delight, and it seemed nobody had questioned why they had. No matter, they were a good warmup and a source of supplies for the Legio Mexicanae.
Currently there were two goals for Aurelius to achieve in the immediate term. He had to take Chihuaha and Hermosillo to be staging points for the rest of the campaign. With the loss of two major areas the Habsburgs would feel pressure, and their Iturbide enemies would feel arrogant with only clues to their new threat. If all went to plan, this would be capitalized upon by the Legion and with the integration of the Empires the Legion would have a grand new population and resources. Oh, how glorious it would be….
Alan Sutler opened his eyes as dim light played though the hissing gas escaping the pod. He felt himself being moved against the sound of mechanical whirring, tossing within the restraints of the Hibernation Chamber’s bed as it moved him into an upright position. He drew a first rattling breath.
The whole process was fairly sordid, and humiliating, as strong arms seized him and hoisted him onto a waiting gurney. He was left naked as tubes were removed from his nose, colostomy, and groin, and shivering before being draped into a warmed blanket. Wheeled to a nearby antechamber, he was massaged and showered, new baseline readings were taken by the attending doctor, groomed, and was permitted time alone to shakingly navigate his first true meal.
An hour after disinterment, feeling and strength returned, he moved to dress himself in a freshly pressed uniform. However, it wasn’t until he popped the sealed case that he truly began to feel himself again. His gauss pistol lay within, nestled in thick foam, and he reached out for it – running a still trembling finger across the cold surface. Nobody else had ever touched this weapon, nobody still alive anyway, and it was the oldest thing he still possessed; a constant companion and a link to another reality brought home by the worn stamps and marking of the original Control Station Enclave. He drew the weapon from its case, inserted a new atomic battery and loaded a fresh clip, before returning it to his holster.
He emerged from the antechamber to a flurry of salutes from awaiting officers.
“Welcome back Your Excellency,” the attendant said.
“Thank you Lieutenant. It’s good to be back,” Sutler replied with an appreciative nod. He looked over at the scruffy mainlander huddled against the wall of the room, biting his lip as his eyes darted between each of them.
Sutler steeled himself, shoulder-face to the man. He drew and levelled the gauss pistol in a single motion and fired a round into the man’s chest, which obliging unfurled across the wall behind him.
“Still works,” Sutler said, holstering the weapon again. “What was he?”
“A one Thomas Henrys, sir.”
“I meant his function.”
“Oh,” the lieutenant paused. “I… think he was a farmhand or something to that effect. Honourable Captain Williams bequeathed him for you.”
“Good good. I’ll have to send him regards.”
There were four tinny-sounding pips from a public address speaker.
“Attention. Attention. His Most American Excellency Alan Concord Sutler, Supreme Commander, of the United States of America Acting-President, is on deck.”
* * * * *
His first port-of-call was always the same after disinterment. The sun was bright overhead, even through the sun-cheaters, and the neat grass still yellowed slightly despite their best efforts at irrigation.
Lucy-Annapolis Sutler, né Briggs 06-05-2231 03-05-2277 The Fourteenth Star
His son Norman, and the girls' Richardine and Grace-Constance were arranged alongside. In a moment of weakness, he’d considered a more elaborate mausoleum for his family. Even disregarding the favoritism he’d decided against it. They wouldn’t have wished for such a thing and such a mawkish extravagance would only be for his own edification. Instead they were marked by simple white tombstones, identical amongst the hundreds.
“Do I look like them?” Persephone asked, looking away from the graves.
“In so much as you look like me,” Sutler said, not looking away; she had his thin nose and slightly sunken watery blue eyes.
“I’ll take them now,” he said, accepting from her a small bundle of American flags. He leaned down in-turn at each grave, removing the sun-bleached little flag planted before each tomb and replacing it with a fresh one – as he would do again as his final act before reinternment. Finished he returned to Persephone’s side and handed her the removed flags.
“Father, there’s something on your fingers.”
Sutler peered down at his right-hand, turning it over. There were small flecks of dried blood above his knuckles, a residual reminder of the mainlander he’d shot earlier. He rubbed them away with the pad of his thumb.
Leaving behind the graves of his family, they walked together along the path leading up to the reservoir, Sutler parading the deceased as his eyes roved across each grave.
“I trust that Susan is keeping you well?”
“Oh yes Father,” she said earnestly, looking up at him and squinting in the light from the sun; like the Enclavers themselves, the Vault-Dwellers were equally pale and unaccustomed to harsh natural light.
“And I was playing with my half-brothers and sisters earlier,” a stabbing reminder that truly nothing was sacred anymore. “And we were learning more about The War again today, how we stayed and fought at Navarro to ensure that the child…
“Arcade Gannon.”
“So that Arcade Gannon could escape in the Vertibird.”
“Do you remember the names of the others?”
“They have strange-names… like Orion, and Judah.”
“They were good people.”
“Did it all happen like that Father?”
“Well of-course, it’s all my account. You’re just reading a reiteration of my After-Action Report… reiteration it means another version of.”
“Oh okay,” she looked up at him every time.
“Stop,” he said; she did so, halting to attention. He removed his sun-cheaters and placed them over her eyes; too large she held them in-place by one of the hinges.
“Thank you,” she said meekly.
The old depression into which the mainlanders had built the “Megaton” slum had been cleared years ago and replaced with a glistening pool of fresh water. Another of the many memorials was built here, this one to Augustus Autumn and all of the soldiers who had died at the Purifier. At the summit they turned and Sutler winced his eyes near shut at the dazzling sheen reflecting from the walls of the Pyramid. It still struck him each time he saw it in reality; it reminded him of the momentary awe the first time he’d truly seen Control Station Enclave with unfettered eyes from the deck of the Tanker – though that time the blinding light had come after.
“Is it true that the wastelanders eat children Father?” Persephone asked. She was staring further east, at the labour camp built around the fence-line of the small city which supported the Pyramid.
“Mainlanders,” Sutler corrected her. “And yes, some of them do,” it was certainly true, since it encompassed the population of the entire world save some couple hundred people.
“Why do you and the Officers call them mainlanders?”
“Because we’re from the sea Persephone.”
“Okay.”
“You do remember this right?” He turned to look at her. “It is very important.”
“Yes, we’re from the Oil Rig… and the Raven Rock too?”
President Winters – Shady Sands – Capitol Building Senate Chamber
“Order! Order! We will have order!”
A den of vipers, hissing and slithering and fangs bared. Poisonous inequity they stewed amongst themselves. Dealing deals within the shadows in order to carve up the limelight so that they might bask in the sun without interference.
A group of politicians, hollering, shifting and thrusting papers. Stirring up sentiments against each other, and seeking to improve their own lot above all else.
The similarity of the two images seemed easy to behold for President Winters, sat awry in his chair as the speaker attempted to regain control over the chamber. A few passing remarks between senators, a not-so-veiled insult in the house minutes and lo and behold, arguments abounded. A small nudge, the President notes the gesture of an aide towards Senator Moore, standing up, casting a single eye about with cigarette smoke tracing these motions. Order, some semblance of it, restored in time for her to speak up.
“Oh, here we go.”
He murmurs the words under his breath to himself. A hand stretches high holding a newspaper aloft for all to see. Before it is brought down, and dropped onto the floor before Winters. A number of inflammatory headlines emblazoned black and white and bold as brass.
“Another five hundred cases of allergic reactions in Redding!”
Moore turns, acknowledges the shouts of support from her fellow senators and from some of those watching in the galleries around them.
“Three hundred in Oregon territory! Three thousand in the Boneyard! Six hundred here in his own constituency of Shady Sands! And many more across our great nation! Our great nation, made less great by the man who sits across from me! Where sir? Is your shame? Have you no heart for our people? More and more you push forwards new technologies and more and more the people suffer for it! Where are our jobs for veterans? Where are the lands our settlers were promised? Where sir, is your head? For you seem to have lost it!”
He shakes his head, waits for his own allies to finish cry shame, before taking to his feet, one hand resting on walking stick, the other sweeping the chamber.
“I have no shame for there is nothing to have shame for. An unfortunate side effect I admit, oh, woe betide the 50% drop in food prices. Woe indeed for the five-fold increase in nutritional value for our average citizen, for the 87% decrease in hospital admissions for malnutrition and other such nutritional deficiency afflictions. I will not apologise for putting fresh full meals on tables where before there were but flea ridden scraps.”
A raised hand, an actor’s gesture, the humble acceptance of the cries and applause of support, letting the waves of opposition merely wash over him.
“As for the matter of jobs and land. I can only say that it is such a shame, that we have delays in surveying suitable lands and parcelling them out, because our territories are so vast in size! In the coming days, weeks and months, we will see five thousand families settled across the Oregon and Baja territories! We will see the establishment of new businesses from our good settlers thereon!”
It is all true, if a tenuous truth at that. There are still fifty thousand others awaiting lands for awarding, a further twenty thousand job losses estimated in the next quarter. And sitting down, as he ignores the truthful accusations of some of the voices in the braying crowds, he turns to his aide, enquires of his schedule.
“When am I to meet Hsu?”
“Not today sir.”
“I thought it was a JCS meeting today?”
“It is Mr. President, but Hsu is engaged elsewhere?”
“Where elsewhere? Where has he got to?"
General Hsu – Ensenada – Sentry Tower No. 4
The landscape that lies before him, James Hsu thinks, is chillingly familiar of the burning landscape of the Mojave. Rocky, sandy, a high sun above and little else below.
“At least there aren’t any fiends.”
A musing sentence, Colonel Dhatri aside him lets out a chuckle.
“I’ll fucking drink to that sir.”
Hsu is tight-lipped, the fingers of his right hand rapping the wooden balcony, before turning to look at Dhatri.
“Movement in Colorado?”
A sharp nod.
“Yes sir. Caravan fresh in from Mexicali, could just be a scout force, they weren’t clear. All these merchants, they count twenty as fifty, fifty as a hundred and on and on it goes. Damn civvies.”
Another moment of tight-lipped silence, Hsu turns, looks out over the desert. They stand high, a wooden sentry tower, the walled fortress of Ensenada, the future state capital of Baja, whenever it became a state. Dhatri in combat fatigues, Hsu the same, one dusty though, the other not-so-dusty.
“A patrol’s out of the question. No chance of it. Can we get a flyover?”
“You’d know better than me sir, the planes work, but operational go-ahead means a request to the JCS, would Venken go for it?”
“Doubt it. She might be stubborn, but with how little budget she has if something goes south, I’d do the same. What funds can we rustle up? And can we get a local?”
“Last time I did that, she killed all the fiends, then kicked our asses at the hoover dam and laughed all the way to the bank. Mexicali’s borderland. We might find someone who hates the legion, but we might one of Vulpes’ in sheep’s clothing.”
A heavy sigh, Hsu raises a hand, pinches the brow of his nose, before lowering it, looking out over at the desert, that damnable desert, raps knuckles on wood, before making a final heavy tap.
“Do it.”
Turning around, seeing the twinkling lights and raggedy huts of Ensenada, Hsu muses to himself, silently this time, that he’d rather be home at Vault City, retired, and maybe taking a walk in the market. Couldn’t be anything happening there.
Marcus Wolfe – Vault City – Market Square
Row upon row of blue jump-suited humans stand tall before him, and appraising them with a proud eye Marcus Wolfe steps up to the platform. Today is the day he sets out his rallying call across the NCR, starting here in Vault City, a tour across the NCR, finishing in Shady Sands, with hopefully enough success to make him Senator, and if a few other of his fellow candidates win, as President.
“Humans! One and all! I salute you! And greet you warmly, for we are all one and the same, and we know that what faces us will require one mind, one voice, one species. Our republic divided and decrepit. And why?”
None speak, the onlookers moving around the vast crowd of blue jump-suits pause, wondering what reason he’ll give. Wolfe leans forwards, speaks to the crowd as if he was addressing an individual alone, a soft voice that is carried by the speakers to the back of the marketplace, and feels more like a conversation, than a speech.
“Because no voters before have ever had the chance to vote for what they feel, what they know, needs to be done. Reform? No other party offers it. They offer the same old offers, land and food. Yes, good and true, if delivered. And time and time again, what do we get? No land and no food. Or no land worth farming, and no food that can be eaten without sending you to hospital.”
A few nods, a gathering murmur, a few non-uniformed party members in the market crowd, stirring things up, encouraging the swayed to speak up as well. To sway ever more voices and votes to him.
“Well, I do not promise you land and food and reform. No, I guarantee it! As city comptroller, I cleared the slums and rebuilt the shining suburbs that created and secured a thousand jobs and homes for our veterans. Did I not do that? I did. Did I promise that? No, I guaranteed it. And I did it, I did not dither and delay, as Senator Dyke does. She umms and errs and sits in Shady Sands even now, espousing dithering and delay. I say, no more! No more dither and delay! Now is the time for vim and vigour! For a new way. A new direction. Not backwards, not sideways, not staying in the same place! No. Forwards! Forwards! Forwards!”
His voice grows to a roar as shouts of approval echo across the square from the onlookers, not just his own people now, but many others too. The sick and downtrodden, who see this man, hear his words, remember his actions, and say yes. Yes. Forwards!
“And so, let us go forwards! Forwards as one mind! Forwards as one voices! Forwards as one species! Forwards as One!”
“Forwards as One!”
And as the crowd before him raised their fists as one, saluting him, Marcus Wolfe smiles, for who can beat him now? Mad Moore? Withering Winter? Or that mutated freak from the boneyard?
Ted Jones – The Boneyard – Communalist Party Headquarters
“Well done everyone! That was a fantastic turnout and response to our rally!”
Standing atop a chair, Ted Jones smiles and gives a small bow at the whoops and cheers of his supporters, his wrecked skin stretches as he motions for quiet, and drives a fist into an open palm.
“Now! I know we’ve worked hard these past few days, but we’ve got further to go, take a moment to breathe everyone, because it’s a full sprint next. We’ve got the state capitol debate at the end of this week, and then we’ve got the counter-march against that bastard Wolfe next Monday after that! And we want to send that fascist packing home tail between his legs, don’t we?!”
More cheers, cries and even a few bawdy shouts that gain many laughs, Jones smiles and nods, before motioning for silence again.
“Alright everyone! I’m going to prep for the debate starting now, but I expect at least to see a few hangovers tomorrow okay? Not to hungover though, tomorrow we hit the ground running!”
And jumping down from the chair, he sets off at a small jog, gathering cheers and laughs, makes a victory lap of the bullpen, before making his way towards his office. The door is shut behind him, his aide Jenny, eyes alight and breathless.
“Chairman! That was great!”
“Thanks Jenny, but no more time for all that. Has the line-up been confirmed?”
“Yes, it’s mixed news chairman, the national reform party have enough signatures, so Veldt will be at the debate as well.”
Jones scowled.
“Damn. We’ll have blue-suits at the debate then. I wondered why we didn’t see any today, now I know why. They were stumping up signatures for the debate. Long sighted of them, to say they’ve got the brains of Neanderthals.”
“Neanderwhats chairman?”
“Never mind Jenny, an old expression. We’ve a new world to make, no time to think about the old.”
Jenny beams, nodding in agreement, before turning away, then swinging around. A worried frown on her freckled face.
“Do you think Wolfe has a chance at the Presidency chairman?”
The chairman leans back in his chair, hands steepling, head half shadowed as his eyes trace the map of the NCR on the wall behind Jenny, of the patches of red that he hopes to make a flood across the NCR.
“Whenever the people suffer, the elite seek only to improve their own lot regardless, Wolfe is one of them. An elite. He’s just one of them, we need to remember he’s just a single part of the disease, and who knows what rot the rest of them are spreading even now?”
The Cabal – The Hub – A smoke filled room
Shipped in from a small Baja plantation, cultivated delicately, hand pressed and rolled, tarred and toasted with the finest tools, then packaged into hand-made cases. These were El Majadron Cigars, the finest in all post-war America. A hundred dollars a single cigar, the box of twenty lay empty as iced tequila from New Vegas was sipped and the cigars burned into the atmosphere around them. The Redding bull-brahmin leather chairs creaked as at last, a figure seems to lean forwards, waiting for the sounds of a car horn to finish being tooted in the street ten floors below before speaking.
“What about central America?”
“Central America?”
“Central America sounds good. I own a few clippers, they move sugar and cocoa from old Guatemala, fresh stuff, sell it in New Vegas for triple the price, two hundred percent profit after tariffs and taxes. Of course, once we increase supply, prices will drop, but demand will surge.”
“How does this benefit me? It ain’t Brahmin ranching country bubba. Squitos size of goddamn footballs in Panama, they’ll be sucked dry before you can say Kimball. And I ship as well, more than you by tonnage, and I want to get more Cuban mahogany. But the canal’s busted, we ain’t gonna fix that.”
“Nobody wants to fix that, Christ. It’d take slaves to fix that, fifty men dead a day for, what a single mile per month? No, overland’s where the money is, unload for fees, transport for fees, load for fees. That’ll need lumber and steel for rails, and brahmin to lug those supplies over the hump.”
Twelve figures shift, three others murmur, the five speakers fall quiet. Who spoke in the smoke? It’s a mystery to those outside, if there were any, the voices have tinges here, a redding country accent, slick reno tones, polished vault city affectations.
“What are we gonna do to clear out the jungle? We hire some mercenaries? I can throw a few fellas to get swallowed by whatever’s in it. Can’t risk those bastards reaching pensionable age.”
“No thank you, I’ve had enough of mercs for this year. No raiders left in Oregon but they’re still charging raider protection rates for my lumber convoys.”
“Territory fees, can’t help you there, don’t want to hamper my cash-flow from Baja. I’ll throw a few bucks Oregon way for statehood-”
A number of voices criss-cross over the other, a threat of sidetrack, a clack of empty glass on coaster.
“Central America has my vote. In favour?”
A Hub City voice, a notebook on one knee, fingers smudged with pen ink. The stock market’s just three buildings down, she’s the richest of them all. Voices call out aye. An approving nod.
“How?”
Shady Sands, a trimmed accent, clicks a tongue, folds arms.
“Fabricate an incident? Start up a settlement company, secure the shoreline with ex-veterans, propagandise its success, stir up the natives. Clash, stir up the Senate. Clear the way for Moore in the election. We’ve got all we need from Winters, he’s approaching unpopularity, time to swap in for a new honeymoon period.”
A hum went around the room, a few counter-suggestions, rebuttals, amendments and then an agreement.
Central America, a not-so invisible hand of the market had stretched out, and found an investment.
The taunts and jeers from the advancing Ghosts we unending and all equally unelegant but threatening. Alexus had most certainly underestimated the strange tribals as they bore down on the Legion’s position with their combined arms assault. Cavalry and storm trooper vanguard advanced after some sort of mortars blunted the proverbial phalanx of the Legion, followed up with more ordinary troops to cement gained ground and provide covering fire for further advances.
But Alexus knew he would prevail. He was operating under what was once known as deep battle doctrine, and while at many points the will of the auxilia nearly gave out the Legionnaires always seized victory from the jaws of defeat. The ghost people had advanced too far for their own gokd, and soon their salient would at its root be attacked from two sides turning it into a pocket – a pocket that would become a great many slaves and pieces of equipment for the Legion.
"My Lord, they're about to come into our trenches, shall I order the signal?"
"No."
"But my Lord, they are bearing down on our very positions, surely it is time?"
"Though to most this lesson comes earlier you will yet learn that victory belongs to the bold young Centurion." and as far as Alexus was concerned, that was that.
From their dugouts his Legionnaires unleashed powerful volleys of fire bringing down a great number of the incoming foe, but it was not enough. The Ghost Klan entered the positions of the Legion and bayonets were raised against tire irons and golf clubs.
Again the Centurion by Alexus started to say something about having to react, but he shushed the man as his eyes closed. The Centurion Maximus waited until he could finally smell blood and powder, and at last he nodded to a pubescent Speculator by his side. A firework erupted, and following it two more on either flank, and yet two more, and so on and so forth. Drawing the ripper gifted to him by the new Emperor himself in a powerfist clad hand Alexus turned to the Centurion by him. "Let us assist the brave Legionnaires" he stated, before roaring a battle cry lost to history and wading into warriors of the Ghost Klan.
The strategy was not one Alexus was wholly comfortable with, reminiscent of what the NCR had done to his comrades at boulder city those many years ago. And yet such frontline bait and trickery was becoming standard for the Legios as a whole, netting victories in every theater of war; Alexus had doubted the Frumentarius Emperor and his ways, but he had proven himself in the crucible of war more than once and - stopping his close quarters slaughter to look ahead with binoculars - it seemed yet again. The Ghost Klan outnumbered and outgunned the Legio Oklahoma but with creative stratagems and secure logistics they were gaining ground daily. However, Alexus at the same time had little to show for it. The Ghost Klan had largely made a living by feigning weakness and thus attracting raiders who they in turn raided and decimated. They had little in the way of any cultivated farms or industry, and the poor stock that they were would have little use beyond a hefty sum of slaves. Of course it would be a road to new conquests that would at least pay for itself in plundered equipment, and Vulpes Inculta was far more understanding than his predecessor. But somehow he couldn't shake the feeling this was a failure for which he would be reprimanded.
He could only focus on the future now, he muttered to himself as he disembowelled a Klansman. Perhaps if following this he could strike upon Texas….
Legio Nebraska
Dead Sea had to admit that Nebraska was quite a beautiful place. The rolling grass contrasted by plateaus and dotted with the animals not too mutated, or at least mutated not quite so ugly.
But he wasn’t here to view the beautiful vistas. The Red Prolas Tribe was a threat in the locale, and one that had to be stomped out fast with unparalleled brutality. Like the NCR it carried more to it than just a promise of prosperity, but also a component of nostalgia for dead pre-war ideologies. The big Red Book they followed, with which the Frumentarius ghoul was apparently very well acquainted; men over the sea were apparently very much supportive of it while America was bent on eradicating. Dolos believed his experience from before the war would help crush these strange people and as far as Dead Sea could see he was right.
Most important was to crush the lesser tribals that they were using their strange internationalism to gradually take in. Without their little compatriots though, the men of the Red Book would be nothing.
“They’re in this cave.” The Speculator pointed, Dead Sea nodding thankfully. He made a motion, and the column of Tributarii that came along went inside with their rifles upraised. Resistance was… futile.
Fully automatic fire cut through the first lines of defenders and the attempts at ambushes in melee within the elaborate cave system were easily foiled by the Tributarii’s own experience in close quarters combat. Any who surrendered were given the kindness of mercy, Vulpes and Dolos believing they could quickly reorient the tribe, while the present advisors from the people of the Red Book had to be interrogated. The defeat of the tribe took less than an hour, and their leadership was chained before being made kneel.
Dead Sea looked at them from Shaman to Chieftain. They were pathetic now, brought low and fearful. But that would change.
“Unchain them.” he said, repeating himself when the Tributarius beside him gave a confused look. “Unchain them. The Rock Stalker tribe is now under the protection of the Legion.” the Centurion Maximus said, smiling behind his mask — the campaign was going well.
...Ah. How often had she found herself sitting upon this balcony admiring the sunrise, which was budding and cresting over the hot city that she for all her life had called "home"? Or perhaps she was being too poetic about it all, really, though all the same the activity had become a personal habit that seemed to help her relax. A sight that long before the bombs fell remained the same, regardless of the landscape, a consistent factor that would always show its face. Or as it was summed up more succinctly in the ever common local saying: "The sun will always rise again".
Whatever the case was, the sound of the door opening and the metal clunk of two suits of power armor rang in her ears as the Caucasian redheaded woman turned her head slightly to the side.
"My lady, your father requests your presence in his morning Council."
One of Gemini's eyebrows cocked upwards, her tall and amazonian frame turning about from where she'd been leaning on the railing as she properly faced the two palace guards in full.
"An odd request...did he specify a reason for this?"
"No, my lady," the other of the two soldiers spoke up, standing at respectful attention, "Well..."
The other soldier lightly elbowed him in the side, causing the man to suddenly cut himself off.
"Hmm? You have permission to speak your thoughts in this matter, soldier, as I follow you both back to my father."
A moment of pause, then a soft sigh.
"My lady, from what we heard as his imperial majesty called us in...there might be troubles brewing in New Orleans. And otherwise. I cannot say for certain, so please disregard these meager theories."
Gemini's lips pursed some, her brows furrowing in turn.
New Orleans had been in the development process for a few years, but due to the nature of the place it only made sense that such a more recently annexed area would take time to adjust. It was a place of great wealth and opportunity, and already it had begun to pay off the nation's debts in spades starting from the worst of them and moving up from there. Perhaps it was a faster way to ensure repayment, rather than let things get moving on their own in the rest of the Empire, but at the same time she could not truly speak for her grandfather nor his decisions back then. Her father had at least done what he could to smooth things out and organize since, at least, yet the situation was what it was.
Securing the land outside of the city had been already moved along far better, but the greatest issues of New Orleans were something she had dug into in her own private hours and time as well. A city of debauchery and wealth, of gangs and violence, of business and bullets. Or at least so the first rumors of it had spoken of when reaching the capital over the eastern telegraph lines. In truth it was a place that seemed to have a long history, and whilst her father and grandfather had left local factions in charge for now the decision was one she personally disagreed with.
Whilst maintaining a familiar power structure would hopefully facilitate an easier transition after the city's annexation, and Tekisasu itself was already gaining good ground there to boot, leaving the conquered leaders to mull and stew about in their own hiding holes was asking for disaster. It was asking to allow the seeds of rebellion to be sewn, which even if they had influence in the city and some support could turn on them if such an uprising began to snowball. Incidents and killings already had been reported, even as the reports of the good were pushed to try to cover it up. It was a sad thing, and yet no surprise that it would indeed take a true labor and effort to keep the balance and peace there.
There was an entire Yette contingent on standby, even, that most did not know was being kept there to drive towards New Orleans in case of the worst.
Other troubles beyond those in New Orleans at the moment, however, were merely icing on the old world cake. Not good, but merely adding to the overall burden of things in their own ways.
But for now, rumors aside she desired to hear it straight from the horse's mouth.
"Hmm...my thanks. Rumor or hearsay or not, however, I surmise when I arrive that all will become clear.
Now then, enough idle chatter. Let us make haste to the Councilary Room. I shall not keep my father waiting."
The Unified Imperial State of Tekisasu
The Council of New Orleans
Council Building, "Oldies"/Neutral Territory, New Orleans
Around the large, circular table in the center of the somewhat-cleaned but ultimately dilapidated room the representatives sat in what had seemed to be an eternal silence. One could hear a pin drop in there, even as the guards for each one of them silently stood around the walls of the room with their weapons in their hands. It was so unnatural for them to be this quiet, especially for certain ones among the four of them, and yet the very matter that had led to this meeting being called seemed to hang in the air like an ominous presence. And how could it not?
"...Well, one of us must speak up bluntly I suppose, rather than keep sitting about like a bunch of frightened children," George said, accentuating his words with a certain sense of distaste and annoyance, his hands folding as he rested his elbows on the wooden table with a light 'creak', "What you propose, Sylvia, is simply suicidal. It is beneath my people to make into such trouble when such is not necessary, and frankly speaking we will have no part. Our own profit margins are still intact, even if cut into some with the money being siphoned out of your distasteful lot, and so far business has been well."
"Says the proud fool himself! How long will you wait for these interlopers to tread upon you, upon all of us, before you see the light? By Bernard's grace, these interlopers will see us and all we hold dear destroyed! I have seen it in a vision, i have seen it on the streets, i have seen it in the way their cocky soldiery march about with impetuousness about us!
They seek to change our people, and so how long before these turn the people upon us in turn? How long until none of us remain to sit at this table, when the plans of the infidels have become too deeply rooted? When blinded to ignorance and decadence by those who call themselves kings, the wisdom of the masses is led astray from the truth and the way.
To ensure the safety of the city, we must drive out those who have sought to plant such roots!"
"Shut yer trap, ya' druggin' fool ovah' preacher. Yeh' don't know ya' left from yer' right, an' tellin tha' rest of us what ta' do? More an' that, ya' cain't say ey' are gonna' get rid of us. Struck in them terms we have wit' em' it gives us our land, and as long as we got are' land ahm' content with my kinfolk ta' keep doin' business."
"You think it'll be that way forever though? You may have your strength on the home front, Gatortooth, but once they take a greater hold the rest of us will be 'phased out' entirely. They're trying to split us apart as it is to boot.
Already the Gass Guzzlers barely come to every other meeting of the Council, simply to get payments and catch up on the last few meetings, and we know how the old man and his son feel about the rest of us. If they break out, who's to say they don't come riding into our turfs and gunning us all down with support from these wannabe occupiers?
And as my people have learned from those documents they 'procured', our profit margins are going to be cut into even more as time goes on! If that isn't enough proof of trying to weaken us for the slaughter, then maybe this will convince you."
The silver-tongued woman spoke in a sharp manner, cutting back at her vocal opponents and eliciting a glare from two of them. Even so, she reached back as a personal guard approached her and handed over a sheet of paper. From here she slid it onto the table, where the other merely stared for a moment before George reached over to grab it.
"...A garrison in Lafayette? Please, Sylvia, restrain your hysterics for long enough to have common sense! Clearly they would be there to help lean out the lingering raiders, and it isn't like any proper use of those goons out is left that would make myself or anyone with a brain feel sympathy for them at that."
"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, George? Or did that massive stick up your ass finally poke your brain too?
No one amasses some forces like that, with a straight shot to here having been made to boot, without a reason for doing so. Amounts of troops like that don't just sit around in one spot to go take out simple raider groups or clear the area of their trash. They are getting ready for something, preparing for something, and so should we.
Doesn't matter if their presence gives us some more income at the moment to 'compensate', if we get too complacent we are going to get weeded out after they cut us down to size.
Right now we are a threat to them, deal or not deal, because we have any sort of renaming control over the city. Not to mention the Oldies tossing in their lot with them like a lovesick puppy."
"The tide of darkness will be upon us as the woman speaks, and only by Bernard's grace shall we take liberty from the hands of monarchical tyranny!"
"So? You think too little of us, Sylvia, they could not hope to get on our bad side if they want to get anything out of this city. They need us.
Besides, say we do rebel and manage to somehow break free for a moment. What then do you propose? We'd be left weak by the time we purged the 'occupiers' and the Oldies both, or has your mercenary hiring scheme accounted for that as well? Clearly hiring Raiders to run amok worked so well against those from without. Hmm...who was it that proposed that idea again, and nearly brought us into a war with the Gass Guzzlers?
Ah, yes, you."
"We ain't gotta fight less' we' pickin' ah' fight, plain an' simple. King territory ah'd be able ta' hold em' off anywho if'n the worse appens', an' they ain't wanna' be pissing off tha' Gatortooth Clan either."
"Are you both so comfortable in your own positions you would let the enemy draw you in? For shame! Do not proper yourselves up so highly, for do you not remember the might showed on that horrible day? You think your areas would be strongholds, enough to fight an entire army?"
"I for once have to agree with the nutjob, none of us could hold out individually if the worst hit. But at least think about what is going on before you speak about my business that you really have no idea about. We have to prepare for the worst now, and if we don't get our asses in gear we will die like the Raving Raiders did a few years ago. Just without all the pomp and circumstance.
Even you, George, can't deny crap is starting to snowball. You know the profit cuts are going to get worse, and you know that garrison ins Lafayette is there for a reason beyond just raiders. Besides, the raiders did their job until they slacked off about it on the day of. Assholes."
"..."
"...Look, les' jus' cool ah're heels sum', cain't get thin's done right wit'out thinkin' proper. Much as at' whore tosses bout' words, we gatta' think bout' this stuff are'selves firs'. So can weh' jus' adjern fer' now?"
The room seemed to go silent after the hulking man of the swamp spoke, the assembled representatives sitting there in a dead silence once more. Sylvia was glaring daggers at Paul at this point, George was sitting there with some frustrated concern writing itself into his usually composed face, and bluntly speaking from Paul's perspective Nathaniel was already getting jittery like a worked up jet addict who'd been sitting still for too long.
Eventually, however, several nods were made in agreement after some more time.
The Pyramid was designed to be impressive and imposing, Sutler’s mark on the old capital’s skyline, portent of things to come, etc. Functionally, it was built to house the enormous new EnclaveNet computer system that was vital to the Sutler’s control – and indeed his own planned longevity – as-well as a defensive fortress. But when it came to governing in-person from the real world, he preferred to the former Overseer’s Office in Vault 101 with its aspirations of grandeur and faded industrial-opulence. The Vault reminded him of Raven Rock and the Oil Rig somewhat, given that Vault-Tec had been a primary contractors for both facilities.
Stepping out of the elevator into the cavernous Atrium, he and Persephone were treat to a thunderous cacophony of applause from those gathered around the catwalks and upper-levels; his Enclave, clearly distinct in their black uniforms, proportionally more invested than the blue-clad Vault Dwellers. A set of bleachers had been set up in the center of the ground-level as a stage for the choir of the Youth of America whom welcomed him.
“Hail to the Chief who arose for the Nation, Hail to the Chief we salute him one and all. Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation. In proud fulfillment to your great noble call.
Yours is the will to make this grand country grander. This you will do, is our strong, firm belief. Hail to the one who has risen as Commander. Hail to the President. Hail to the Chief.”
He typically went by “President” with the Vault Dwellers, despite the tainted nature of the title in his own eyes; it belonged to a different era than the now and its usage made him slightly uneasy. He brought a hand out from behind his back and gave something between a salute and a wave and dredged up some memory of his dead family, and with it a paternalistic smile.
“Thank you Compatriots,” he saw most of the crowd stiffen as returned to his formal posture. “It is a blessing once again to be amongst you all here. I wish I could match this gesture with some appropriate words, alas my return is merely perfunctory and I have nothing prepared. I can merely wish you all another good, and safe, day beneath the aegis of the United States of America. America prevails, and you are dismissed.”
He had connived “America prevails” as a mantra, and it always brought him satisfaction when it was dully repeated in his wake like an amen. He had also known full-and-fine well of the greeting he would receive since it was protocol. The truth was that he did not like giving speeches, least of all ones primarily composed of platitudes; it stunk of Eden and he was not good at it in any event.
He been a somber and angry child, a soldier but not of the soldier-class. Before being KIA, his father had always told him that the new, Post-Project world, would require technicians and engineers more than soldiers – since all organized opposition would be dead. In countless other lives where he had not capitulated to his anger, he would have died a junior-rate technician in the guts of Deck 12. But it had not been to pass, and all such futures – good and ill – were buried in a pile of slag at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean; and he was still alive, somehow, as either the Enclave’s savior or it's Albatross.
As the gathered clumsily made to return to their duties he locked eyes with Susan Mack, whom blanched and remained rooted as he slowly strode across the length of the Atrium, hands firmly pressed into the small of his back.
“Susan,” he said. “Very good display.”
“Yes, very stirring sir.”
It was always odd to hear the mother of his child refer to him as “sir”, but then Persephone was the product of the Genetic Policy Unit’s algebra and an appointment with an AutoDoc. Susan was pregnant again, by whom he did not wish to know, and likely would be for the next seven years to meet quota; he had granted himself the luxury of only siring one new child. Not including multiples, sabbaticals, or other unfortunate circumstances, it is expected that a young woman could produce a platoon of half-siblings in their lifetimes – who in turn already had their future progeny prescribed. One-day such unpleasantness would no-longer be required.
“Persephone used the term “wastelander” earlier today,” he continued. “That is not in-keeping with the approved terminology. Please correct this error."
“Yes sir,” she said flatly having learned how to control her desire to glower some years ago.
“Goodbye Persephone,” Sutler said with a fatherly shoulder-pat. “I shall schedule some time with you later this week. I expect to hear all about Navarro from you."
“Yes father, I will. Goodbye and have a good day,” she smiled and followed after Susan, who was dismissed with a short nod.
He remained for a moment, watching them depart through one of the Vault's ports, before turning on his heel.
* * * * *
Taking his seat in the Overseer’s Office, he could resume again direct command of the nation. Besides the usual sundries of daily administration, his mind was preoccupied with a specific notion.
The Children of Atom were a lunatic cult, even by present standards, that never-the-less had the wherewithal to produce some very nasty homebrewed energy weapons, as-well as establish self-sustaining outposts across the Eastern Seaboard. They were useful in this regard, as Native-American’s had been as scouts (when not foils) for the colonizers.
Sutler had been preparing to make overtures to the Institute, who were understood to be a concealed and highly scientific establishment... they might even be Pure-Humans too. But that had been dashed when information gleamed from the Children had named “Doctor” Madison Li as their leader.
That she remained alive was bad enough and that she should prosper even worse; officially she was the highest-ranking target for the Enclave, even unofficially a close second, and most certainly the most capable of being hit. Retributive justice was seldom carried out on woman, largely on the grounds of taste as-well as practical considerations, but an exception could be made for she who was responsible for the situation that they were currently in.
Without Liberty Prime, in whose reactivation Li was responsible, the Brotherhood of Steel would not have stood a chance against the Enclave – as Adams Air Force Base had proved. Like most mainland “soldiers” they were effectively garrison troops and lacked an understanding of battlefield tactics, both the strategic and local – as far as Sutler was concerned anyway.
He had dispatched one of the former Talon Company mercenaries to Massachusetts to perform reconnaissance and had taken personal command of the affair. He’d ran the Secret Service back in the Rock and had longed for the chance to return to a line of work he found more fulfilling than the actual administration or a predominantly agricultural nation. That work had all been SIGINT however, primarily using Eyebots, since the Enclave themselves did not make good spies. It was for this reason that he’d dispatched a mainlander to do the job.
Maybe he would consign her mind to an empty cell, in a pocket universe of the Simulation World to be wiped over-and-over again… or perhaps he would just shoot her. Maybe he'd keep her alive until Persephone was ready to execute her; intimate involvement with the Enclave's greatest enemies could become a ghoulish family tradition.
Dr. Xavier Morales eyed The Director of The Institute carefully as she strode down from the Advanced Systems lab towards him. Every step she took seemed to his mind to be laced with arrogance and pride. She felt superior to her colleagues in every manner not the least of which was intellect. She’d made little effort to hide these feelings even before she’d ascended to the Directorship, but now it was plain enough that even a child could see it on her face. Xavier despised her every move, her every word, but there was nothing he could do about that self-satisfied smug smile. Not yet anyway.
Walking alongside Director Madison Li were her ‘bodyguards’ which consisted of a trio of heavily armed and armored Gen-2 Synths that escorted her nearly everywhere she went within The Institute and beyond. They were clad head to toe in heavy Synth armor that had been painted a dark shade of blue for recognition and armed with modified Institute rifles. The armor itself was some advanced composite alloy that had just come out of Advanced Systems research that hadn’t yet made its way into full production. What little documentation Xavier had come across coupled with hearsay from a source he had within the lab indicated the armor was significantly stronger than the current model and was highly resistant to laser and ballistic weaponry. Madison hadn’t yet approved it for full use and it seemed unlikely that she would in the near future. She no doubt wanted to keep that sort of research strictly controlled or worse yet….only send it to the surface.
Xavier scoffed at the notion of some rag-tag farmer from The Commonwealth, a Minuteman, being clad in Institute military gear. On the face of it it’d be an amusing sight and would likely provide some valuable test data in live fire activities if nothing else. But the thought of what might come next was more harrowing, how long before Madison wanted every technology The Institute developed to be shared with those above ground? How long until The Institute was merely the research wing of a nation that strictly controlled and regulated them? How long before they were forced out of their home and up top to live amongst the monstrosities and misery of the wasteland?
He shuddered. No, that would not happen.
Madison approached him, no hint of a smile anywhere on her sullen face,
“Dr. Morales, I received your intel report. Overall it was satisfactory. A little less speculation on your part would be appreciated. When I ask for what the SSIB has on a particular location, I’m not looking for your personal thoughts.”
“Apologies Director,” Xavier replied, mustering up as much contrition as he could, “I’m afraid our pre-war archives are incomplete in this regard. I was able to turn up a number of references to the facility in military correspondence but unable to determine specifics as to the research and project goals.”
“Then that’s all you need to say. I don’t care to read three pages of fluff on things you have no hard data for.”
“Again, my apologies. I simply wanted to give you as wide a range of information as possible.”
“Hmmph. Indeed.” Madison stepped into the spiral elevator along with the three Synths.
“Anything I can assist with while you are on the surface Director?” Xavier asked, forcing a cheerful smile.
“Continue all current monitoring operations and give me a summary of it when I return. In other words, do your job...and that’ll be enough.”
“Of course Director, have a safe trip to the surface.”
With that one of the synths pressed a button and the door to the elevator closed, and it swiftly began ascending up through The Institute and towards the molecular relay control room. Once Madison and her synths passed through the upper ceiling layer, Xavier’s face dropped to a snarl.
“Speculation? If she had half the brain she thinks she does it’d be clear that my ‘speculation’ was based on reasonable inference and deduction. Hardly irrelevant.” He muttered, “Watch yourself you ungrateful…”
Xavier stopped himself and looked around. There was no-one in sight in the Concourse thankfully, owing to the early hour no doubt, but he chastised himself none-the-less for allowing his emotions to get the better of him. He knew better than most that it was best never to assume that there was no-one watching. All it took was a single slip-up and he could wind up exiled. What use would he be then?
Always polite, always dutiful. Always supportive of The Director. That’s who I am here. Remember. He thought, and walked away.
Diamond City - Council Chamber (Diamond City Mayor’s Office)
Mayor Becky Fallon rode the lift up to her office within Diamond City. Although nowadays with the formation of the CPG, it was hardly just ‘her’ office anymore. The Commonwealth Provisional Government Council met inside what used to be the Mayor’s personal office, while she herself had moved the Diamond City Mayoral office to one of the back rooms that McDonough had outfitted for his living space. Seeing as how she wasn’t going to be living here at all but instead would remain at her old house inside her ‘Fallon’s Basement’ shop, that new arrangement suited her just fine.
Becky stepped off the platform and strode up to the double doors leading to the Council chamber, she paused only a moment to adjust her dress suit and then opened them. As she’d expected, Madison Li was already seated with her Synth security detail fanned out around behind her.
“Director Li..” Becky said simply as she took her seat.
“Mayor Fallon..” Madison replied.
The pair sat in silence for a few moments, with Becky desperately wishing she was somewhere else. Her and Li always had a tough time conversing when it was only the two of them, and neither was particularly interested in much other than the business at hand. Fortunately Becky didn’t have to wait long before the rest of the Council began to trickle in.
The next to arrive was Kessler, leader of the Bunker Hill Caravaners,
“Glad I’m not late, I should hope we can wrap this up before too long. I need to get back to the Hill.”
“I’m not expecting a long meeting,” Li said, “Provided of course we don’t have unnecessary debate.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Becky added, eyeing Kessler. She knew full well it was Kessler who would likely be the primary opposition to what she assumed would be the wider Council opinion. The Caraveners had been some of the worst affected by The Mechanist’s rampage after all. Nothing less than the Mechanist’s head on a spike would probably convince them.
Kesller ignored the comments directed towards her and took her seat. Within a few minutes both Wiseman and General Ronnie Shaw of The Minutemen arrived at the council room. Ronnie sat down in her usual gruff manner without a word while Wiseman gave up his usual niceties,
“How’s everyone doing today?” Wiseman smiled broadly, “I think The Slog is going to have its largest crop of tarberries yet this….”
“Gunners on the move again. Lost an entire patrol squad last night to an ambush. Found their heads lined up nice and neat on a fence post outside Quincy,” Ronnie interrupted as she lit up a cigarette, “So my morning hasn’t exactly been peachy Wiseman.”
Wiseman’s smile immediately evaporated, “I’m...sorry to hear that.”
“General Shaw, could you refrain from smoking in the Council chambers?” Dr. Li asked.
“I could,” Ronnie replied.
“Ronnie…” Becky chastised as she glared at The Minutemen General.
“Fine,” Ronnie let the cigarette slip from her fingers and fall to the ground, where she promptly stomped it out, “Can we get started talking about this Mechanist then?”
“Yes...I received an intel report on the location mentioned in the holotape…” Li began.
“Director Li, not all members are present currently.” Becky interjected.
Li furrowed her brow, “Oh yes of course...my mistake. We’ll have to wait until Val...Mr. Valentine arrives I suppose.”
“No need,” Came a voice from the doorway, the Synth Detective entered the council chambers and removed his hat, placing it on the table in front of an empty seat, “Sorry for being tardy. I needed to stop by the office after I arrived back from Sanctuary this morning. It's doing well by the way.”
“Good. Then we can officially begin,” Li continued, “As I was saying, I received an intel report on the location specified by the holotape: The Robco Sales and Service Center. Information on the facility is scant at best but aside from the obvious front of being a robotics shop, we’ve found references in pre-war military correspondence pointing to the location as holding some sort of Department of the Army research lab: likely a black site of some sort given the senior level of the communique we uncovered.”
“So what were they doing down there, just creating killer bots?” Ronnie asked.
“That’s unknown at the moment but...yes some variation of that.” Li replied.
“I don’t suppose CIT was involved at all in this project was it?” Nick asked with an eye towards Dr. Li, “Natural to guess they might have been given the robotics angle.”
“No,” Li said firmly, “We extensively searched The Institute’s pre-war databanks for any connection to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology: student and graduate files, faculty and staff correspondence etc. We even searched through old career center postings at the University. Nothing. It's not impossible of course that some CIT students or graduates were working within the lab, I’d even go so far as to say it's likely, but if that’s the case there was no direct partnership with the University itself. Our pre-war records for CIT are virtually complete so I have no reason to suspect that we may have missing or corrupted data on this: it simply doesn’t exist.”
Nick sat back in his seat and folded his arms, “So, a hidden lab capable of building a literal army of murder-bots underneath a RobCo shop in Boston eh? Sounds like quite the mystery.”
“So what are we going to do about it then? We’re not seriously considering allowing this Mechanist to go free are we?” Kessler interrupted.
“Not free, no,” Becky said sternly, “Never free. I believe what this ‘Isabel’ girl says in that what she did was an accident, I truly do. She sounded genuine and indeed heartbroken that her actions caused so much death, and the robot attacks have ceased…” Becky paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, “But her actions are still inexcusable. Accident or not. She needs to face judgement in some manner.”
“Agreed,” Wiseman nodded, “She needs to answer for her crimes. I lost a good friend to one of those attacks.”
“I lost a lot more than that,” Kessler snapped, “I want her hanged.”
“We’re not going to execute her,” Dr. Li said firmly, “Get over it. If her holotape is correct, then she’s too valuable to simply be made an example of. Let her serve her sentence in other ways.”
“Like what exactly?” Ronnie raised an eyebrow.
“She has access to a massive trove of data and information within that facility. And she is likely very intelligent, a veritable genius in fact, if she was able to repair and restart production within the facility on her own. If she truly is genuine in her confession of guilt and remorse….then let's put her to work. Let her help to repair the damage she’s done by giving back to The Commonwealth.”
“I agree,” Nick said with a nod, “No need to kill her. She made a mistake, a massive one no doubt, but she had good intentions. We don’t need to string her up like a common criminal.”
“Let's make sure that’s the case then,” Kessler said, “I want to speak with her myself and see if I believe her. Send someone to the Sales Center and put her under arrest.”
“Fine. I’m not opposed to ensuring that she’s not going to cause further problems,” Li replied, “I propose we send a team to venture down into the lab and meet The Mechanist.”
“No Synths,” Ronnie grumbled, “None of your scientists either.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” Li replied, “Instead my suggestion is that we send MacCready, a few Minutemen, and perhaps one of your people Kessler.”
“I’d like to go as well,” Nick said piping up, “Or would I be excluded under that ‘no-synth’ rule of yours?” He looked to Ronnie with a sly grin.
“Nah….guess I’ll make an exception in your case Detective.”
“Agreed.” Li said, “Any objections?”
The room was silent and Wiseman and Becky shook their heads in response,
“One condition,” Kessler said, “I want to interview her, alone, when she’s brought back. If I’m granted that, I’ll agree.”
Li nodded, “If that’s what it’ll take, I have no objections to that Kessler. Very well then, we’ve reached an accord. Let’s begin moving on this quickly, I want the team ready to go by tomorrow.”
Aurelius was quite amazed at how these Mexican cities operated. The Frumentarii had found out that the Mexicans had figured out the perfect solution to food problems by walling off vital parts of the city that had work of all sorts in it, while letting the rest get infested with radroaches, radscorpions, feral dogs, molerats and even deathclaws. There were however reinforced gates to allow local huntsmen armed to the teeth to go in, and return with grand hauls of meat and rainwater. It wasn't luxury by any stretch but it was a type of autarky unheard of in America's wastes, which in turn allowed the city centres to return to something akin to life of the early 20th century (though far from those of the 21st). Some factories had even resumed their manufacturing and that was all Aurelius needed to know that these cities were an immediate focus for his campaign to pique the interest of his Emperor.
Yet he could not so quickly rush towards them. The Empire who's borders he had broken through had at last reacted to its border patrols and gendarmes in the region disappearing, having finally received confirmation this was a product of invasion rather than corruption. In response they sent several reserve divisions of full combined arms with the intent of crushing the incursion as fast as possible so all attention could be diverted to the rival Empire. They would be punished for their arrogance.
The warrior decided he had no time for a slow campaign of attrition. No, he would meet them in open battle and crush them there. But he could not strike them as a mere tribe either. While not armed with semi-automatic rifles as standard issue the average Mexican trooper was a match for an NCR conscript, though somewhat of a sidegrade rather than an upgrade.
As the two armies came upon one another they both dug trenches, the Frumentarii having found that trench warfare had created a nearly century long stalemate between the two rival Empires of Mexico, and so it wouldn't be imprudent to mirror this.
The most important parting gift of the Emperor were a great assortment of parrott guns of varying calibre all the way from small 20 pounders for fast transport in light support fire purposes all the way to great 300 pounders that could with sheer concussive force render tanks inoperable in spite of the very basic technology of the weapon. Rather ironically they would not be used in the first engagement between Legion and Mexican army, improvised wooden cannons being blasted instead.
The plan was to lull the foe into believing the Legion had a far greater technical inferiority on the strategic scale, and that it had numeric inferiority here on the tactical scale. Bait followed by counterattack had become almost the standard stratagem of the Legion and it would be employed here too.
Aurelius's goal over this engagement was to route the force before him in a single blow such that he may capitalize the otherwise exposed flank to make great ground. To that end he would have to wait a considerable amount of time which admittedly he wasn't sure he had. But once a critical point of confidence would be reached among enemy officers they would presumably be given the order to charge and take over the Legion's trench, (which would also be made look seemingly primitive, stakes instead of barbed wire and planks instead of sand bags) where they would be met with ferocity they could not imagine. At the half way mark snipers would open fire along side the real artillery of the Legionnaires. When only a third distance would be left carbines would open fire and machine guns would be reserved for when a quarter of the way was left for the charging Mexicans. At the tenth-way mark shotguns, submachine guns, pistols and flamethrowers would be unleashed and just as the Mexicans would be about to hit the stakes and jump into the trenches a counter-charge would meet them of Legionnaires bearing machetes, shields and other weapons of extreme close combat. These reserve Legionnaires would be ordered to give chase to the assaulting Mexican forces once presumably they routed and would follow them into their trenches; they would yet be ordered to not overtake the men they were chasing such that officers staying back to guard their lines would be hesitant to give the order to fire upon their own men (and indeed if they did wisen up and gave the order to fire they would have to get through a line of meatshields that were their fleeing comrades before they could hit Legionnaires).
Yet as the enemy mustered for the storming of Legion lines the fact plans rarely survived the first few moments of combat washed over Aurelius, giving him great pause. There really were a lot of them it seemed, looking through his binoculars. “Jesus fucking Christ.” the Tributarii beside him muttered, and to be frank he concurred with the sentiment.
“Increase the engagement range for all except the last lines. Seventy-five meters approximately, tell the Decanii to exercise their own judgement as the enemy nears.”
Aurelius took off his helmet and wiped his brow, before ramming it back on. The Mexicans were now exiting their trench, marching forth in a great series of long rows. Their rifles were still slung, at this range discernible as hunting rifles or similar bolt action variants. Bayonets were not mounted upon them yet but they had them at their belts and were clearly to be mounted once closer. Whatever manual of arms they had most certainly drilled it well. Thus the wooden cannons opened fire with their iron balls, the things dropping inaccurately only occasionally striking near the rows of Mexicans let alone actually hitting a man, with no explosion following their fall leading to casualties in the single digits from each gun. A whistle was heard in the far distance, a clear command from one of the foe’s officers. They stopped, affixed bayonets, and finally charged. They had their fair share of war cries and such, but nothing too savage. Finally, the true artillery and Legionnaire snipers opened fire now that the appropriate threshold was hit. The Parrott guns were a design four centuries old just like the rifles of about half the Legionnaires in the trenches, but much like the small arms they were nevertheless devastating. A mixture of direct and indirect fire struck out with some balls flying horizontally to knock down many men in a line, while others were let fall down upon the men further back in the Mexican assault such that those in the rear would not be spared the morale shock of their comrades at the front.
The enemy did not buckle under this sudden onslaught yet, however, as officers gave out commands and battle chants. Many Mexican soldiers dropped to the ground without seemingly being hit, these soon evident to be their own snipers with optic and laser mounted on picattiny rail.
Aurelius smiled. He had in spite of all his best efforts underestimated his foe. Well, he would bring them to the state he had hoped they’d be in. From it’s leather sheathe he removed his own rifle, ramming a stripper clip into the masterpiece before sighting down it. In spite of calls of his advisors to return to the safety of the previous vantage point Aurelius ran forth to the front shelter, assisting his troops where they failed. While they focused upon eliminating the officers of the enemy, each shot he took removed one of their counter snipers.
Clack.
Already all ten bullets were expended. He looked about, then went on to reach for the FAL held by one of the Grey Frumentarii that had followed him. The man didn’t let go, and so Aurelius struck him before returning to his previous position. Down on his arse the Frumentarius reached for his sidearm in furor but his commander put a placating hand on his shoulder. For himself the disgraced Phoenician removed sniper after sniper, continuing on even after a shot bounced off of his helmet; he only saw it as the enemy doing the work of being found for him, in spite of his recent vows to gird his arrogance.
Thus it was that threshold after threshold was crossed by the charging Mexicans, more and more weapons held in reserve opening up on them. The force was now a fraction of what had set out but it was still a great amount of men running forth with bayoneted rifle. Not just that it seemed, the enemy having specially dedicated many weapons for the storming of Legion positions like machine pistols, exotic laser RCWs and even…. “Grenades!”
They were flash grenades, clearly from occupational riot police centuries past. New Model Legionnaires were well drilled in how to react to grenades and thus appropriately hit the deck, covering head and ears. But no amount of drilling and preparation can actually save you from the concussive blasts that followed. As the explosive barrage quietened down the Mexican troops did not immediately charge in afterwards, first doing their best to form impromptu ranks to fire off the entirety of the magazines in the bolt action rifles, a strategy no doubt honed upon their rival Empire. A hysterical giggle erupted from the commander as the enemy’s own case of a plan not surviving first minutes came into play. Though their well drilled rank fire did bring many Legionnaires down it gave time for Aurelius to give two crucial orders. First, for medics to run ahead and distribute stimulants to the disoriented Legionnaires to bring them into a warrior’s rage and up from their knees. Second, it would allow his reserved men held back in preparation for a counter-charge to go at the enemy without them having loaded ammunition to cut them down. Only barely coherent in his ecstatic state Aurelius barked the orders into his receiver, laughing as a carnage unfolded before him. The enemy did react very well to the sudden burst of angry men in funny looking outfits coming at them with machetes, forming a sort of quasi-phalanx with their bayonets. Many a Legionnaire was impaled then and there, but the first martyrs drove enough chaos into the Mexican ranks that the following Legionnaires created a true carnage.
Man after man fell, and eventually nerves cracked. Though grabbing and pulling back a few runners and threatening to shoot a few more, the officers of the assault soon knew it was time to retreat. A complex series of whistles announced the retreat, and back across the dirt they ran.
"Forwards!" Roared a Decanus, both close quarters Legionnaires and the riflemen maddened on drugs following close behind. As ordered they rarely actually caught up to the fleeing Mexicans, preferring to keep them live as human shields. Of course they made sure to cut one down every so often to keep them on their toes, but for now they were happy to just make ground.
They got closer, and could now see into the enemy trenches over the shoulders of the cowardly foe. Advancing some distance behind his men on a motorbike Aurelius looked through binoculars and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. The enemy was hoisting HMGs into positions. Their artillery remained quiet for now, so at least part of his plan had worked but what was happening at the front of the enemy trenches nevertheless unnerved him.
He soon found out why.
As the Legionnaires were close to finally entering enemy positions a series of whistled signals were made, and as one the retreating Mexicans dropped to the ground covering their heads. Instantly the remaining defenders of the Mexican trenches opened fire with all that they had cutting down hundreds of Legionnaires that weren’t wise enough to likewise hit the deck in mere seconds. Aurelius braked and dropped to the ground so as to not be shot down from here, observing from his telescope. There was now an impasse, which while not great for the foe was far better than their entire assaulting force being decimated to the last man and their trench being taken over. Aurelius however thought he had a way of breaking the little stalemate, oh yes he did!
He crawled some distance back to get to the Frumentarii who had followed him on their own bicycles, and spoke to them. To their frontlines the Legion had brought many caged dogs, the commander having suspected they might be needed rather than staying in logistical reserve. He would give the command by radio to have them be released, and he’d give a blow to the horn that would get most of them running to him. From then on he’d crawl as close to the Mexican trenches as he could, giving the horn another blow every so often to give the dogs fresh bloodlust running forth.
The Frumentarii initially hesitated to concur to the waste of resources, but then they considered that in his modernization efforts Vulpes cared less and less for Legion Mongrels and thus they were disposable. The plan went through, and it had success. Many dogs were shot down on their approach, but they were much shorter than a man and much faster, not to mention Mexican gunners were hesitant to fire upon them instead of the men they had to keep suppressed while their comrades slowly tried to crawl back to their lines away from the Legionnaires in turn crawling towards them.
Their indecision would cost them, as Aurelius ordered the Parrott guns to all stop fire, reload, and prepare two successive volleys to suppress the Mexicans just before the dogs hit them. One line of bombards fired, and then another, and then the concussed Mexicans had to face the full brunt of a great many dogs barking and howling breaking right into their positions. Many pounced upon the retreating Mexicans, and many got caught in barbed wire, but just enough broke through to silence some MGs to in turn allow the suppressed Legionnaires to arise, and charge yet again. Many died, indeed the majority of those who stormed the Mexican position died but just enough remained to hold the line for their reinforcements to arrive to frighten a surrender into the surviving Mexicans.
The battle was over, and the enemy officer knelt before Aurelius on his improvised Throne with his sword upraised as offering. The disgraced Legate took it, testing the balance once or twice before sheathing it and placing it at his belt. “The Sword of the South.” he dubbed it, before turning to one of the Frumentarii that spoke Spanish. “It will be a fine gift for the Emperor. Inform Colonel Alvarez that he has a choice of either being impressed into our troops, dying an honourable death, or as a coward being sent Northwards. I wish to rest now. Let the men do likewise, we move South in two days time.” and as far as the man was concerned that was that.
Issac Jabsco - Talon Company, Enclave Operative Designation “ORION” The Commonwealth
Issac’s long journey north was finally coming to an end. The broken highway beneath him had given way to wet marshlands some time ago, and it had been an increasingly difficult slog to make his way through the terrain of the southern Commonwealth. Wading through the disease-ridden quagmire had been bad enough, but evading the numerous mutated abominations that called it home had made it nigh intolerable. He’d seen more than enough Bloodbugs to last him a lifetime. If it wasn’t for the accompaniment of his Mr. Gusty escorts and a hazmat suit he doubted that he’d have made it.
Certainly marking that down as a potential obstacle for any military operations or trade missions here. Enclave ecological data needs a major update. He thought.
Issac had taken a rest tucked inside of a rocky outcropping, where at least he’d have solid ground to lay on while he waited for the scout he’d sent out to return. The three Mr. Gusty units that carried his supplies and now helped guard his position were spread out in the corners of the outcropping’s perimeter. The military robots, supplied by The Enclave, hovered motionless above the bog, silently scanning the area for signs of hostile life. Issac had come to rely heavily on the bots throughout the trek since they provided him much needed additional security and, at the same time, served as adequate pack mules.
Before long a soft electronic hum could be heard, and a floating eyebot meandered back to the makeshift shelter looking no worse for wear. Issac quickly pulled forth a pip-boy from a waterproof bag strapped to one of the Gutsy units and plugged it into the floating scout.
“Poseidon Energy...excellent,” Issac mumbled as he shifted through the data, “It’s perfect….just what I was looking for.”
----------------------
En route to the Poseidon Energy plant that the eyebot had identified, Issac took stock of his situation. In his time in Talon Company, he’d performed all manner and stripe of jobs: hits on well protected warlords and kingpins, sabotage, and espionage...he’d made himself a name in certain circles for being able to pull things off that most mercenaries would balk at. Yet despite this, it was his older brother, Joseph Jabsco, that had taken the reigns of power in the organization, eventually becoming Talon Company’s Commanding Officer. When that had happened, Issac had redoubled his efforts, performing nigh suicidal actions that made him the most sought after mercenary in the Capital Wastes. While he’d made quite a name for himself all on his own, he never quite managed to bring himself out from behind his brother’s shadow. And when Joseph was killed in action, Issac was passed up for the Commanding role.
It was shortly after that when The Enclave had rolled their gargantuan mobile base crawler to Megaton. In spite of the collective hopes of the region’s populace, The Brotherhood had finally been defeated at whatever climatic battle had heralded the end of the war. The Enclave had emerged triumphant, and The Capital Wasteland swiftly fell under their thumb.
Issac knew when he saw the base crawler which horse he intended to back. The Enclave had shown their technological and military might to any potential challenger and it was clear they were dominant over all. Through this Issac also saw a potential ticket to power of his own. He knew that despite their victory, The Enclave had been weakened by The Brotherhood and they’d no doubt have need of men such as himself: guns for hire willing to ply their skills to the highest bidder. He was right, they paid him well for his skill set and he’d netted himself a substantial sum of caps, weapons, chems, and ammo. His ill-gotten gains hardly appeased his appetite however, and he craved more. He wished for the one thing he yet been able to attain: citizenship.
Above all else, Issac wanted to join The Enclave as a full member and be given an officer’s commission. It was a lofty goal, to be sure. Issac was no fool, he understood that The Enclave looked down on wastelanders and very rarely hid that disdain. That feeling seemed particularly true for Supreme Commander Sutler. Yet he was certain if he proved his worth an exception might be made. Such a reward would indeed give him the prestige and power he craved so deeply. Visions swirled in his head of him being placed in command of Talon Company, lording over even The Commander and able to do as he saw fit with them. Perhaps, in time, he’d earn even greater accolades.
Yet there was much to do before he could hope to achieve such a prize. First thing first was to complete this current objective. He knew the lengths to which Supreme Commander Sutler would go for vengeance, and it seemed the best way to ingratiate himself with the Enclave leader. Bringing him the heads, or better yet still living bodies, of those who had wronged the Supreme Commander so deeply might just be enough to win Sutler’s gratitude, and in turn, perhaps his favor. That was the very reason he’d journeyed this far north to The Commonwealth. For one of the most sought after targets of Sutler’s was here.
The looming concrete facade of the Poseidon Energy plant finally came into view as Issac crested a small hillock. As the data had suggested, it was an excellent location from which he might start a forward operating base. Practical, defensible, well-intact with a large parking lot out front to provide a serviceable area for a potential vertibird landing, which if he succeeded in his mission would no doubt be required. It was also, surprisingly, uninhabited which Issac thought noteworthy given his own appraisal of the plant’s usefulness. It had to have been occupied at some point in the recent past.
His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped inside the plant’s doors and found evidence of human remains scattered about and clear signs of a struggle.
“Burnt clothing and bones,” He said, picking through the remnants, “Scorch marks on the walls….likely killed with laser weaponry.” His eyes then caught sight of something else on the ground, a metallic skeletal frame unlike anything he’d seen before.
“Synths,” He said, and drew his 10mm from its holster.
“Voice command module active, confirm,” Issac turned to the Gutsy bots behind him.
“Confirmed,” One of the Gutsy’s replied, “Ready for orders sir.”
“Sweep the building. Fall back if hostiles are encountered. Do NOT engage.”
“Well I guess it's the commies lucky day then! We’ll hold off on sending them to meet their maker for now!” With that the Gutsy units enthusiastically began clearing the plant room by room.
He doubted there were any Synths still lingering around, but if there was, he did not intend to commit to combat with them. He’d retreat if it came to that. From what he understood, The Institute wasn’t likely to just overlook an attack on their property without investigation.
“Don’t need to draw attention to myself this soon,” Issac muttered, and he followed the Gutsy bots deeper in to the building.
A couple hours later and the sweep was complete, there wasn’t much left in the plant but at least it was fully secure. Issac setup a temporary camp inside one of the pre-war offices and set his robots to guard the immediate area. He’d barricaded the front doors as well, and was confident that if anyone came sniffing around, he’d have adequate warning. For good measure, he’d set the eyebot to patrol the facility while he slept.
Before he laid down for the night however, Issac pulled a cylindrical object out of his backpack and set it down. He extended the object’s folded up tripod legs and then pulled the cylinder outwards to form a long antenna. With the press of a button on the base, a small dish expanded around the tip. That done, Issac plugged his pip-boy into the now fully extended portable deep range transmitter. The transmitter was an invaluable tool that he’d been given from his Enclave contact and apparently Sutler himself had approved its use in the field for the operation. It enabled a direct encrypted connection to EnclaveNet even from a great distance.
Issac logged his progress,
“<ESTABLISHED FOB IN COMMONWEALTH. TRANSMITTING COORDINATES AND SURVEILLANCE DATA. MISSION PROCEEDING AS PLANNED SUPREME COMMANDER.>”
One-eyed, cigarette laying lazy between her lips, Cassandra Moore brings up a hand, takes a long drag, moves away the cigarette and blows the smoke out the window over Redding’s market square and the crowd gathered there. A rally by the National Reform party, taking the steps up to the speaker’s lectern, their leader, Marcus Wolfe.
As he begins his speech, Moore tilts her head, studies the figure. A tall man, black wavy hair streaked with grey combed and oiled back, a moustache trimmed sharp and a calm voice. His tone is familial and authoritative at once, paternally stern. He speaks out over a crowd, a mix of jumpsuits and ordinary people wearing the National Reform party armband.
“How many followers does Wolfe have?”
“Across the republic? Or here?”
“Both.”
“10,000 members nationwide, 500 here.”
“There’s a hell of a lot more than 500 in front of us now.”
Her aide nods, standing hands clasped together, awaiting orders. Another long drag on the cigarette, Moore glances over the crowd, speaking as she thinks.
“Families there, friends as well. Supporters spread out through the crowd. Busy day at the market as well, gets people to stop and listen to him. Pamphleteers, the stall for membership sign-ups doing a brisk trade.”
Falling silent, Moore leans forwards a little, catches the tail-end of Marcus’ speech. The man is leaning forwards, holding the lectern, looking at all of the crowd, making those within it feel as if they and them alone are being spoken too.
“For what do we need? I ask you this? Reform. Reform. Reform. Out with the old and in with the new! Old laws from a time now gone should be unmade, new laws reflecting this modern age should be made in their place! And this I promise to you, national reform, by the national reform party!”
As the crowd cheers and Wolfe descends the steps, fist pumping into the air now and again to rising acclaim, Cassandra looks back at her aide.
“Where are most of his supporters?”
“Vault City is where you’d expect, but the Boneyard, oddly enough.”
Moore frowns, stares at Wolfe in the crowd, shaking hands, kissing babies and having photos took of him.
The chairman mutters the words to his team as they mill around, waiting for the debate to start, which by the looks of it from the moderator who has just sat down, wouldn’t be too long.
“Good luck Chairman!”
Such words are quick to be uttered his team as the lights dim and the candidates take their seats, the moderator leans forwards, taps the microphone, announces the candidates.
Cheers, boos and applause punctuated the announcement of each candidate, before the debate swung into action. All questions had been agreed on by candidates beforehand, and covered a general topic, which allowed the candidates to argue their view on each issue, before a new question was posed. As things went on, Ted Jones at first felt nervous, then confident, until finally he found himself buoyed by a wave of cheers. He had the crowd on his side, and the other candidates sat nervous. Veldt especially seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure, Zhao lost the room when pressing for the implementation of GM crops in Boneyard allotments, Rodriguez was Jones’ intellectual rival, but lacked support in the room.
Finally, as the debates drew to a close, each candidate delivered their closing speech. Drawing the last word, Jones listened, applauded politely, or shook his head in disagreement as he felt necessary, until at last, he could stand and make his speech. Taking to his feet, Jones looked over the crowded room of the State Capitol chamber and began to speak. He pressed home his argument, the erasure of income and social inequality, business regulation, upper income taxes and more. Until, as he came onto the issue of mutant rights, the room seemed to stir. A jeering cry, Jones ignored it, unable to quite see the back of the room where a lot of noise seemed to be emanating from. He rose his voice, and then suddenly, there was a loud cry, something flew from the crowd, clipped the side of his head.
Ducking, Jones stands and sees the room fall to pieces, the crowd scrambling into or away from the brawl as blue jumpsuited national reform party thugs try to push forwards towards him. As the police wade in to regain control of the floor, Jones finds himself pulled from the stage by a civil protection agent, ushered to the room where most of the candidates are waiting. He can’t see Veldt, and casting one desperate last look back into the room, with fists and truncheons clashing, he can only find one thing to say to himself.
Ceiling fans spun and spun and spun, circling out hot air and bringing in hot air, not at all helped by the constant state of agitation that gripped the office. Raised voices, lowered voices, the criss-cross of a dozen languages and tongues, and sat waiting at a desk in the corner, Maria Cruz, captain of the NCRMS De La Gado and its attached wagon train. With papers in hand, fanning herself as she waits for the customs official to finish signing the last pieces of bureaucratic red-tape. With a final muttered apology, the last paper is signed, releasing cargo from improper impounding.
Standing, muttering a thanks, Maria Cruz stands and gathers her papers, before departing the office, where she meets one of her crew outside. One of the hands, James something-or-over, she can never remember half of their names.
“We done?”
Maria quirked an eyebrow at the question by the hand, impatience clear in the voice. She nods, hands over the papers, glancing around the square as she does so.
“Yeah, get these to the wagonmaster. It’ll take two hours to be ready for moving for the harbour, so I’ll be in the Dancing Diablo if I’m needed.”
The hand nods, moves away, leaving Maria Cruz alone. Content with this, the captain turns, makes her way to the local watering hole for most of the foreign traders in San Jose. A crossroad of trade in Central America, along with Panama, and Nicaragua, and wherever else had functioning roads to connect the Pacific to the Atlantic, San Jose these days seemed to be more prosperous than ever. It could be heard in the air, more and more traders moved through the city than ever before. The world had burned, but as with every wildfire, the charcoaled soil became fertile again and new things sprung forth once more.
Stepping over the threshold into the Dancing Diablo, Cruz holds up her hand, signals for a tequila from a waitress. Sitting down at a nearby poker table, she takes up a hand, buys in, begins playing and half an hour in, a new player joins them. Maria notes the new voice, a new tone, English-speaking, heavy accent.
“Say, that accent, you Texan?”
Maria said as the dealer shuffles the deck, a brief break in the game, time for a conversation, a cigarette or just a silent drink. The Texan nods, sips a bourbon and replies.
“Yeah, you one of them New Californians?”
Maria nods, a talker and a drinker evidently, someone after her own heart. As she takes a sip of her tequila, a thought occurs to her.
“Say, how much do they know about the NCR in Texas?”
High Elder Renald stood before a large table in the center of the room, garbed in the robe of an elder. A Pip-Boy 2000 laid in front of him, displaying a wall of text on its screen. Next to the Pip-Boy were various maps and reports, some cleanly typed upon pre-war paper, others crudely handwritten on the backs of pages stained by 200 years of exposure to the elements. This was the beating heart of the Brotherhood of Steel, from which they coordinated their forces across their territory. Even without the Calculator, Vault 0 was a stronghold without compare across the territory of the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel.
The distinct noise of a high tech door opening echoed throughout the room as Renald's guest arrived. A man fully enclosed in a red hazmat suit bearing the rank markings of a Head Scribe stepped through the threshold.
"Head Scribe Wainwright, it's good that you have finally arrived," the High Elder spoke, unfazed by the man's unusual garb. "Have a seat, have much to discuss."
"Of course, High Elder," sounded a speaker on the scribe's helmet, conveying his voice imperfectly through the suit. "Is this about the airship expeditions, or are Vault 0's computer systems acting up again?"
"Nothing like that, Head Scribe," the High Elder responded, "That salvaged vault supercomputer hasn't given us any trouble since the last repairs were made. We have other matters to discuss. As High Elder, it is my responsibility to ensure that efficiency of our operations is not compromised, and I require a specialist in technical matters in this respect. Additionally, I believe of someone with a scribe's background may prove useful in diplomatic dealings of nations that place higher worth of scientific endeavors than martial ones, but we will cross that bridge when we come to it, so pay it no heed for now."
"Very well," replied Wainright, as he took a seat. "What would you like me to look over?"
The High Elder slid the Pip-Boy over to where the scribe sat. "This is our most recent data regarding shipments to and from our facilities. My first concern is the Buena Vista plant. To my knowledge we've finished construction of the recon airships, so why are aircraft components still being shipped there?"
"The components are for work on the Hellion Bomber," Wainright answered. "Your predecessor was particularly invested in getting it operational and mass-produced, and had us working night and day on it. With the airship project finished, we have resumed our previous work."
"Ah yes, the Calculator's prototype aircraft," Renald reminisced, somewhat pleased at the news. "What sort of progress has been made on it?"
"Last I heard, there was some debate over what sort of robotic systems should be used run it. Possibilities include sizing down the computer systems from one of the vaults we scavenged, or augmenting its current electronics with a Mr. Gutsy processor to handle piloting and targeting functions" Wainwright stopped himself, realizing that he was rambling about technical details. "Should I presume you intend to uphold the Brotherhood's ban on the use of CODE-programmed organic processors?"
"If you are referring to Robobrains, than that is correct," Renald clarified. "The Calculator was proof of the unsoundness of that concept, and my predecessors were wise to ban the use of such dangerous and immoral technology."
"Very well," Wainwright stated, satisfied with the answer. "What else did you want me to look over?" Wainwright asked.
"Scroll down to Chicago," the High Elder ordered. We're expecting a shipment weapons to the Vault 0 region for the new initiates, but according to this, there's been nothing outgoing from our plant in Chicago. What is going on over there?"
"Industrial accident. I'm told it was because a junior scribe was mistakenly placed in charge of something beyond his ability. Minimal damage, no deaths, but production was halted for a while," Wainwright reported matter-of-factly, not even looking up from the pip-boy.
"And nobody thought to tell me?" Renald asked, visibly upset. "This may look like a minor setback to the scribes out there safe in Chicago, but out here it means a critical delay in the arming and training of our troops! Inform all scribes that any mishap that disrupts our military operations must be reported up the chain of command, regardless of the severity. We may be blessed by a relative calm, but that is no excuse for laxity."
"Affirmative, High Elder, all accidents will be reported." the chastised scribe conceded. "There will be no more repeats of this miscommunication."
"See that there isn't," ordered the High Elder sternly but calmly. "And if there's anything else in these reports that stand out to you, let me know."
"Err, actually, High Elder," Wainwright said, putting the Pip-Boy down, "There is something unusual I'm seeing. A large shipment of Mirelurk Eggs from Tekisasu was sent to Deathclaw territory on the Kansas-Colorado border. Is this correct?"
The High Elder chuckled, his anger from the previous matter seemingly gone. "You read that right. A while back, some of the Deathclaws stationed in Missouri developed a taste for Mirelurk meat, and now one of the Matriarchs has requested a large quantity of Mirelurk eggs in place of the usual live Brahmin shipments. I'm not sure if she wants to eat them as they are or hatch them first, but that's their business."
"Feeding eggs to Deathclaws. Arming tribals. Appointing a Glowing One to office of Head Scribe. The elders back in California will no doubt be quite perplexed our doctrines when we re-establish contact," the Head Scribe joked, having taken notice of his superior's lightened mood.
"Let them be perplexed. They've done little but dig their own grave with their foolish orthodoxy. And when they contrast their failures against the success wrought by the ideals of Barnaky, Latham, and the Warrior, they'll see the wisdom in our ways. Whether or not they'll have the humility to concede their mistakes and change their ways, I cannot say. Now, if there is nothing else, you are dismissed."
The scribe got out of his chair and walked out of the room. The door noisily shut behind him, as Renald thought to himself. As the saying goes, there is always another enemy, but with the lull in conflicts at the moment, the Brotherhood finally had breathing room to re-establish contact with the other Brotherhood Elders. Unfortunately, finding the remnants of the "original" Brotherhood would prove tricky. The western elders were rumored to have gone into hiding after the thrashing that the NCR gave them, and the expedition to the east was supposedly defeated by the Enclave.
For now, Renald's strategy would be to seek out new trading partners in the east and west, and from there they would be in a better position to track down the rest of the Brotherhood of Steel. One airship would be headed towards New Vegas, an independent city-state said to be defended by an army of remotely controlled robots, not unlike the late Calculator's forces. The second would head to the ruins of Boston, where there was rumored to be a scientific community specializing in highly advanced robotics.
It would not be long before the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel would become known from coast to coast.
Flavius Valerius Pontificus Augustus Maximus Vulpes Inculta Constantine Invictus Caesar
The Emperor was tired, and was thus walking towards his tent to rest. At many points he was offered the chance to sleep in an air-conditioned building or RV, but he declined all offers preferring the same rolled up canvas of his early service to the Legion.
There was a feint smile upon his face, that brought on by a productive day. The tendrils of the Frumentarii were spreading ever further and the homefront was getting ever more secure. The next day would be fruitful, and the night would be peaceful. Except, it wouldn’t for now. As Vulpes Inculta walked along with a few Praetorians about him his walk was interrupted by the approach of the governor of Colorado.
Vulpes sighed, knowing it was far too late to try to walk around the fellow. Frequently he had to make (admittedly idle) threats to the man for overstepping his bounds, but he was too useful of a man with his little charts and agendas in running his territory. Forcing himself not to sigh, Vulpes nodded to the man. “What is it, Lord Colorado.”
“Ah, my Beloved Emperor, how fortunate it is I came upon you.” the man said, in spite of fortune having played no part in this.
“What is it, Lord?” Vulpes asked impatiently.
“Denver my Lord. I really do think we should revisit the topic.”
“We have gone over this. Unless you have something new to add to the discussion the topic ends in the same way.” Vulpes walked on expecting the man to have nothing of the sort, but he was wrong.
“As a matter of fact my dear Emperor, I do. The cyberdogs? We’ve discovered their source.”
“Elaborate.” Vulpes demanded.
“I’ve ordered all the Frumentarii under my command to scour the city, and though many are now food for the feral hounds they found the sub-basement of a factory in the city to still be operational. How? They cannot determine, but whole batches of cybernetic dogs are released from there daily with no sign of ceasing or stagnation. They are more faster and stronger than ordinary mongrels we breed, they are more durable and are far more efficient with their feed. Where a spear would pierce it’s skull it would be blunted by hardened plastics, where a bullet would burst its innards it may well bounce off of steel. I understand in coming wars against the NCR and other advanced adversaries you wish to retire the use of these dogs. But think of how they may come to be brought upon tribals? But a pack of them would tear through whole villages in our way; indeed, many would have their valour crushed to simply see these monstrosities. Further, given we no longer need the ordinary hounds with our future use of the cyberdogs we will be able to freely use the ferals to feed our troops while they clean out the immediate area and bring the city to life.
“Why do we need the entire city then, Lord? Insofar as I can see we only need the one facility.” For all his capabilities as an administrator Lord Colorado was almost childishly jealous of the other States, and wanted a true capital for his territory.
“Because! If there is a facility operational from before the war in the sub-basement of that factory then what might other sub-basements harbour?”
“We both know that the factory working is a statistical improbability, I can all but guarantee you will not find more working factories yet automated.”
“Of course not my Lord, I have tempered my expectations!”
Doubtful, Vulpes thought, but he let the man finish his thought.
“Of course we won’t find working factories. But consider this, the sub-basements of the area seem well deep enough to not have been so viciously damaged by the ravages of the bombs and the local population of dogs - combined with the radiation of the area - have kept the area clean of scavengers and prospectors ever since nuclear hellfire scoured the Americas. Firearms, electronics, packaged foods, medicine, supplies of all sorts. It is a veritable treasure trove my lord, and if we can restart the production of the cyberdogs we can use them against their feral kind to clean out the city to pick it clean of what it has. Many buildings are in very good shape still and can later be repurposed for purpose ranging from industry to administration and clerical work.”
The desire of the Lord to have a true city under his domain was nauseating. However, his earlier points were at the very least fairly convincing in regards to sending an expedition to the locale. Though he probably shouldn’t have made such a decision at this time and under such conditions, he really was rather eager to get this over with. “Centurion Allarus is under your command. We will discuss the matter further in the morning, dismissed.”
Operating Squad "Venus"
Click
A song started to play on the radio, and it was a fairly nice one. The Frumentarius removed the holotape before placing it in his pip-boy to let the piece start from the top. It really was groovy, even if his active-headset was inverting the noises somewhat.
“Found something, Sir?”
“Just a nice holotape.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
The Frumentarii exchanged laughter. The Poseidon building had been unfruitful, prospectors long since having picked anything immediately useful from it and they couldn’t find anything relating to Petro Chico as desired. But you know, the holotape made the time feel well spent nevertheless.
They had been up North for quite some time now, about a month ago having left the last areas where the Legion exercised formal control.
Ultimately their aim was to find a band of 80s appropriate to groom into leaders of the greater tribe such that a great force against the NCR may be formed. Alas, it seemed for the moment that they could not find any. Drunkards resting on their laurels were the best they came upon so far, and to be honest the leader of the Frumentarii group was rather disappointed. Perikles was starting to think that they were on a wild goose chase, to be frank. Of course it would be some time before he’d be ready to voice this to his Emperor in comminiques, but nevertheless it was at the forefront of his mind.
After a short lunch the Frumentarii packed up their gear and went towards the exit of the building they were in, until one whistled, making a motion for his comrades to follow to the window he was at. Smoke was being belched in the distance, and soon the sound of a great motor followed. It was a column of bikers moving very, very fast.
“These ones we haven’t seen.”
“Yeah, markings are different. Similar, but not identical.”
Dr. Xavier Morales - Vault 88 Underground Laboratory
A bright flash of blue brought Xavier squarely inside of the Vault 88 caverns as he re-materialized from the molecular relay. His eyes adjusted to the relatively dim light of the makeshift laboratory carved out within. The caverns he now stood in were a result of tireless months of work and unceasing labor provided by absounded Institute Synths. Shielded from the surface’s background radiation and well hidden from prying eyes, it made for a perfect location from which they could continue to conduct research, and remain completely undetected by the CPG. A lone ghoul claiming to be Vault’s overseer had been the only impediment standing in the way when they’d first occupied it, but that had been swiftly dealt with.
“Hey welcome back Xavier,” the cheerful voice of Dr. Holdren greeted him from behind a large console amidst a plethora of electronic equipment and large tanks of bio-med gel which gave off a sickly green luminescent glow that bounced off the cave's ceiling and rock walls.
“Clayton...yes...good to be back indeed...” Xavier replied, looking around, “Where’s Zimmer?”
“He’s topside at the moment. He took S3-47 and Z4-22 with him. I’m expecting him back any moment now.”
Xavier nodded, “I see…I’m afraid I don’t have all that long. So I’ll ask straight-away: anything you have to report?”
“Ah! Yes, there’s been a number of updates since you last visited here. I know it's been some time so I’ll bring you up to speed briefly.”
“Yes it was impractical to slip away. The ….Director...kept me busy with some unforeseen work. A matter on which I’d like to speak to Zimmer when he arrives in fact.”
“Say no more,” Dr. Holdren said with a wave of his hand, “But yes come over here and have a look.”
The former Bioscience Division Head ushered Xavier over to one of the bio-med tanks, allowing him to closely inspect the contents within. It appeared to be a grossly mutated animal of some kind, a mole rat perhaps at one time, although there was no doubt a mixture of different animal species within. Great numbers of legs protruded from its abdomen and enlarged incisors stuck out violently from the abominations mouth. The effects of the Forced Evolutionary Virus were incredibly pronounced and always manifested rapidly. Whatever horrors the creature(s) experienced in its last moments would have been utterly unbearable,
“A failure, to be sure, but I’m close to replicating my previous results. As you can see, the cellular structure of the creature bonded quite….aggressively with that of the other two subjects: a canine and a roach respectively. It's proving quite difficult to create a stable chimera formula, but I’ve no doubt it's possible. Some time and more specimens is all it requires.” Dr. Holdren beamed with pride, “I should think I’ll have something workable soon.”
“And you’re confident you can create a...living creature in this manner?”
“Oh absolutely. Based on information from the data Dr. Zimmer provided on The Capital Wasteland and my own understanding of numerous pre-war experiments with FEV genetic engineering, it's very much a real possibility. Although the creatures created post-war in such a manner...Centaurs I believe they’re called….are at best pitiable abominations. They’re little more than the results of Super-mutants playing around with FEV and throwing anything and everything they can find into their vats. I fully intend to perfect such a creation and ensure its stability as a living creature, the uses for such an organism are virtually endless.” Dr. Holdren’s smile widened, and he looked to Xavier to be positively enraptured with his work and the creativity of it all. Xavier had to admit it was more than a little unnerving, but certainly praiseworthy.
“Imagine being able to essentially cross-breed species with ease: eliminating negative traits in both and enhancing positive ones, and what's more doing this in such an impossibly short amount of time. Spitting in the face of evolution itself...it's fascinating frankly. To think that pre-war science was already dipping their toes into this line of work with remarkable results. I intend to build upon the foundation they left and perfect it.”
“Fascinating...truly,” Xavier replied, “Although I’ll be honest Clayton I’m less interested in the science of it all and more concerned with practical applications to solve our current predicament.”
“Oh of course, I’m still considering that a top priority. The current line of research I’m pursuing is weaponizing an organism in such a manner that would suit our needs. I expect promising results in that area, and if you like to delve further on that topic, we can discuss the other branch of FEV research related to it.”
Dr. Holdren led Xavier round a bend and towards a large dip in the cavern, below them lay a natural pit on top of which an energy barrier had been erected around the rim. Inside this pit, a number of super-mutants could be seen meandering about, all seemingly lost in a daze brought on by numerous sedatives. Gen-2 Synths patrolled the rim of the pit, closely monitoring the mutants below with their energy weapons ready to vaporize any that might become unruly,
“Human trials are on-going, but I’m afraid it's more of the same. I never expected to make much progress with this line of research considering how much effort was poured into it by the FEV Lab back at The Institute. Irradiated wastelander subjects continue to produce the same strain of unintelligent mutant organisms, as always. However, with Dr. Zimmer’s assistance we’ve made progress on the control chip,” Dr. Holdren held up a small vial containing a tiny electronic device, “The programming was relatively trivial as you know, but it's been difficult to figure out how to produce it in sufficient quantities without access to our manufacturing facilities. Help from some pre-war equipment has done the trick however, and Zimmer is actually out looking for a final component we can use to begin actively developing them. I’ve taken to calling this little endeavor the ENFORCER protocol.”
“And you’re confident that you can give them complex commands with it enabled?”
“Of course! I can understand the hesitancy, let me demonstrate,” Dr. Holdren snapped his finger and reached for a nearby device, “Lets just do something simple first…”
Holdren pressed a button on the control device and the super-mutants immediately snapped out of their previously dazed state and moved swiftly into an ad-hoc square formation. They stood silently with eyes forward, not moving a muscle,
“Pacification protocols are enabled by default, and the voice command module is active...step forward two steps!” The mutants complied, each striding forward twice.
“Turn around!’ Again the mutants complied.
“Now for something a bit more complicated…” Dr. Holdren grinned ear to ear, “Pacification mode off...there we go….now...kill the third member of the front row!”
There was a short pause, as the mutant’s implant seemed to register the command, and the mutants quickly began to lunge at the singled-out mutant. The mutant in question had no sense of self-preservation, and simple stood silent as its brothers tore it limb from limb.
“Thank you,” Holdren replied with an exaggerated bow, “Frankly I’m just glad that I was finally able to get something useful out of the FEV trials, other than synthetic organics of course. To think that years of human experimentation went by and no-one thought to pursue this line of research...boggles my mind frankly. I think Father made a grave mistake when he decided against allowing further cybernetics projects. The melding of biological life and artificial constructs is a fascinating area I’d like to continue to explore.”
“Rest assured that won’t be the case anymore….once we’ve reclaimed The Institute from Li and her ilk….we can freely pursue projects like these. You’d have my full support in such endeavors.”
“Spoken like a politician,” the voice of Dr. Zimmer came from behind. He wore a cleanly pressed pre-war suit, in lieu of an Institute lab coat, and beside him stood two Coursers, the last of their kind, in leather armor looking much the part of hired mercenary protection for the old man, “You act like you’re already The Director, or that you are guaranteed to get the position when the dust settles on this.”
Xavier chaffed under the rebuke but smiled nevertheless, “You misunderstand me Doctor. I’m merely suggesting that once The Institute is back into our hands, we’ll be the ones setting policy and approving research projects. Not short-sighted individuals like Li and the rest.”
“Indeed and we’ve a long way to go to achieve those ends…no need to get ahead of ourselves...Dr. Holdren, I acquired the component you were looking for. And I’ve identified a few more locations we might use for sweep and retrieval to acquire more materials.”
“Excellent,” Dr. Holdren clasped his hands together, “Thank you Dr. Zimmer.”
“Vic--Dr. Zimmer,” Xavier corrected himself, knowing how much Zimmer hated the use of his first name, “There’s another more important matter that needs to be looked into. The Commonwealth Provisional Government is meeting on the surface today with regards to a particularly sensitive topic of discussion.”
“You’re referring to The Mechanist?”
“Indeed,” Xavier nodded, “I believe they intend to send an expedition to the facility we identified in scouting. I’ve no doubt they intend to meet with this Mechanist and potentially secure some manner of cooperation with them.”
“Hmmph. No doubt they’re seeking to make use of the facility too,” Dr. Zimmer furrowed his brow.
“Naturally I provided Li what details on it I needed to deflect suspicion, but there was one element I left out: it was a laboratory specifically dedicated to the creation of Robobrains, making use of some rather cutting edge pre-war technology to achieve the goal of the proper use of wetware to drive inorganic processing. Additionally, one phrase kept appearing in memoranda over and over: CODE. It was related in some way to brain reconditioning. I’m sure you can agree that sort of research could be of great interest to us.”
“Agreed, let's not simply allow the CPG to walk right in and help themselves to whatever is down there. I assume you have some sort of plan then?”
“I believe I do,” Xavier grinned, “Thanks to you both. Clayton, how would you like to get more substantial test data on your Enforcers?”
The one thing that Sutler enjoyed most about leaving the simulation world was it allowed for true isolation. He’d ordered away his close protection and simply gone for a walk in the dusty perimeter above Vault 101 before stopping to sit on the small rock from which he could see his domain. The pyramid dominated his field of view, its lofty pinnacle still higher than he currently was, but the sunlight reflected beautifully from the Augustus Autumn Memorial Reservoir.
Objectively of-course, it was a unnecessary risk, a sharpshooter or even a quiet molerat could easily get the best of him from here. It was such moments though, outside of the simulation, that let him feel like a real human again. He liked to be alone, and he liked a cold beer, and he liked to throw stones aimlessly just to see them skitter across the ground. Being the Supreme Commander was not easy and he remembered an argument before with Autumn where he had told Sutler that he was fit to be an NCO but nothing greater.
He didn’t like to remember the arguments he’d had with his long-gone friend, including the last time that they had ever spoke, made only more bitter by the fact that Sutler was basically doing everything that Autumn had wanted to do before anyway. He preferred the older memories, back on the Oil Rig, as young and carefree men more concerned with boredom than existential crisis; of taking their two beers and chatting aimlessly about the chests of various compatriots they would enjoy being able to pin medals on.
“Sir,” a voice unexpectedly called. Sutler glanced over to see a red-faced officer waving a slip of paper tape. Sutler had given permission for his moment to be interrupted for anything especially pressing. The officer saluted and handed the slip over to him.
Back in the cool interior of Vault 101, Sutler returned to the former administration wing. The duty officer saluted and handed-him a clipboard, the documents of which Sutler scanned whilst the officer briefed him.
“We informed you immediately sir,” he was saying. “Co-ords indicate a Poseidon Energy plant on the southern periphery of Boston.” Poseidon Energy, of-course…
“Have you tried to establish a PoseidoNet connexion?” Sutler asked.
PosiedoNet was one of the Enclave’s many aces. A pre-war communications network between the facilities of the Poseidon Energy company, it had also served as a secure network for the Department of Defence and other government agencies with whom the company was intimately involved; it had been selected for use after a possible nuclear conflagration and hardened sufficiently. Even today the network remained partially operational, though was seen more as a liability than a useful tool – at-least until now.
“We’re working on it sir,” the officer continued. “North-east took it fairly bad in the War, we’re trying to figure out which nodes are still running and won’t result too much packet loss.”
“I see.”
The away team was currently just one man, Issac Jascabo, of the Americorps and a relative to the incumbent Commander Joseph Jascabo; a competent and highly capable reconnaissance asset. That Jascabo had replied directly to him showed a degree of temerity and, if Sutler had to guess, ambition. It was true that Sutler was the operational head of the mission, but the personal nature of the response still irked him. Or maybe it was just a Wasteland thing, or a Talon Company thing, or stars knows what-ever else with these people.
“You should send a message to Commander Jascabo,” Sutler continued. “I’m sure he’d like to know that his brother is still alive.”
They had prepared their away team in-advance, more than just field-ops it was equally likely that some diplomacy or official overtures may be necessary. The forward-commander then had to be someone whom Sutler could trust to act as a plenipotentiary – of which there was only one candidate.
* * * * *
It was some hours later when Sutler would look up from his desk, as the door slid open and the towering figure of his oldest compatriot stepped in.
“Sir,” Colonel Granite said, snapping a firm salute. Sutler returned the salute, before crossing the ground between them and following up a firm handshake with a solid embrace. On the rare occasions when Sutler was already out before Granite, he never met him at the Pyramid, preferring the privacy of the office.
“Good to see you in the flesh again Dom,” Sutler said, beaming un-controllably. He waved for the man to sit down before resuming his place at his desk. For a man, physically, pushing 60 Granite was still a physically active man; even the ravages of the Hibernation Chambers hadn’t taken away his imposing stature.
“Likewise Al, though I’m just as excited to be going on an away mission. Just like old times.”
An honest man had no business being in the city of sin, and if anything, Red Wheel was an honest man. He never had felt comfortable around people, and never had he seen so many mingle at one place. He felt a thousand eyes on him at once, the loud noises around him made him feel small and the constant laughter from all sides seemed so wickedly mocking. The blood rider of the road-chief might tower high, above his two companions, yet be felt very distant from them, as he walked behind them, far from their laughter and joking. Thunderbird, great road-captain of the 80s was roaring drunk, clinging to the shoulder of the equally drunk Shout-Thunders, who’s hands missed the backside of a passing gambler, who turned and gave him the finger. Turning her head at him, the woman hurried her step, as Red Wheel just kept on walking. The booze never had the amusing effect on him, that it had on other men. It made him just slower, be it in reaction or wit, so he never understood the desire of other men to get drunken. And here, everyone was drunk, loud and wicked. He turned his nose at a passing whore, her breasts exposed to the night sky, as she tried to lay her arms around him. Without a word, he pushed her away, before closing up to his two friends, ignoring the woman's curses behind him.
[Six hours before]
Even the taste of the steak, that so perfectly laid before him on a plate, seemed off. None of the three 80s had any skill in the usage of fork and knife, and so they awkwardly cut the meat in front of them, before, in a moment when no waiter was looking, began to dig in with their hands, just like they had always done on the road, and their ancestors once had, and still did in the halls of the painted host and freckled maid, high above on the eternal highway. The taste was deep, the spices burned his tongue and even the blood of the brahmin tasted too clean and slick. A cold shiver ran down Red Wheels back, as he placed the meat back on the table, and looked away, yet it was Thunderbirds clear voice, that finally ripped him from his thoughts. "You dont like the women, you dont like the shows, you dont like the booze and you dont like the meat...highway above, why the fuck did I even bring you? Whole world wants to see Vegas and I can haggle them to let me bring two lads with me, and all you do is look like someone pissed on your bike. Is there anything you grim fuck enjoy here?" Red wheel looked at Thunderbird, the tall, sunburned man, with the broken nose, and deep green eyes, who´s hair had been bound in braids, while he wore a suit that gave him such a fitting look for Vegas, that for a moment, Red Wheel wondered if there was a place, this man would ever be out of place. "...your company.." He wanted to say, but instead just grunted and reached for the salt. "That boxing match was nice.." he grumbled, returning to his steak after giving it some salt, trying to wash away the clean and slick taste from it, and somewhat neutralize the spice.
"Yeah, but you sucker placed your bet on the losing fighter. Told you that ghoul had fighting eyes." Shout-thunder took the steak up once more, but this time, a masked waiter came close. "My good sir, may I please humbly ask, that you are following the adequate etiquette of this place? For our tribal guests, we do provide guidance on how to..." For a moment, it looked like Shout-thunder was about to throw the steak into the waiters face. A smile grew on Red-Wheels face, for he would love nothing more, then beat up some of these slick mask wearing folks, reminding them on what the true world was like, outside these walls, where the highways were long and free. He felt his blood boil, but then Thunderbird already had his hand on his companions arm, and stopped him with a stern look. Turing to the waiter, he gave him a disarming smile, and send him off with a wave. "Just use the fucking fork and knife lads...ain't that hard! Besides, when weren't you handy with the knife, blood-brother?" Shout-Thunder nodded shortly, and for a few seconds, Red Wheel felt such emberassment over the fact, that he would have almost ruined the evening for Thunderbird. He had talked about Vegas, ever since he had heard of it, and now, before they would ride along the highway, to the east, he had wanted to see this place with his own eyes.
"One day, I will bring my sons to this place. All of them. And they will eat in here like proper civilized folk." Thunderbird once more picked up the fork and knife, and cut the meat gently. "Gonna come in here, Thunderfoot in one hand, Thunderstone in the other...and I will tell them, about the time that their oil-uncles sat here with me." Shout-Thunder snorted over that. "You better keep the visits to the Gomorrah to yourself, blood-brother. Or to that redhead of yours. Fiery temper that one." Once more, Red Wheel felt the envy inside him. He hated that red haired slut, that Thunderbird had taken during a raid, and become so infatuated with. She didn't appreciate him, she loved that Brat Thunderfoot, not him. Why could Thunderbird not see the snake at his side? And why didn't he hear when he was warning her about her. But he always just said, that it was his way about women, and his general dislike of them, that spoke, not the naturally true intuition he had about her...and that brat Thunderfoot. "You know that I like them fiery brother. Gives me something to live for, besides your depressing company, blood-brothers. And something to come home to, once we have seen the east. For we will ride, brothers! Every Chapta-housa we visit, I shall speak. I shall bring forth all the prospects and form a might chapter...for let me tell you, I came here with you, as a Road-Captain. But when I will visit this place one day with my sons, I will do so as a road-king!" Red-Wheel couldn't help but feel the fire burning inside him. He would follow Thunderbird to the end of the world, and beyond it. For he truly was the kind of leader, old stories told about, worthy of the name of the conqueror of the I90, legendary Thunderbull.
Leaning against the wall, Red Wheel let out a sigh, as the sound of puking assaulted his ears. Shout-Thunder was laughing, like the mindless goon he was. "I fucking...told ya...you cant stomach..all that booze... Far in the distant, the sun was rising, yet this damn city, still wasnt asleep. Nobody here seemed to sleep, as all was unnatural and wicked in this blood place. Red-wheel hated it so much. "I...i gonna...gonna bring...thunderstone...and thuunnderfooot here! And...and Redhair...w--we gpmma..watch the showss in the Tops! And we gonna eat ICE cream!" Stumbling, Thunderbird pushed Shout-Thunder to the side, clutching the sides of Red-wheel. "YOU...BLOOD BROTHER..will come with us! And scare..all them off who wish to harm my sons! You...me...and SHOUTA..THUNDA..." The mentioned blood brother just grunted, as he leaned against the wall blinking and groaning. "Promise that you will protect my sons...when we all go back to vegas, brother...when we all go back to Vegas.."
Red Wheel Road Captain of the Orphans of California - Today, long after the good times
Killing scorpions was easier, then to kill the vermin of the same name. Jet had burned through them, harder than the NCR had done. How they could have remained in Nevada, was a mystery to Red Wheel. The ash and fire of the place, burned in his nose, as he looked at what had become the normal sight for him these days. Another camp, burned and looted, to be sacked fully by his men. Not that the scorpions, or Vipers or Fiends or Khan remnants in the regions had much of anything left. Vegas had bled Nevada dry, turning it into a place of wandering tribes, fearful of the city of light, that always seemed to loom at the night sky.
Red Wheel climbed off his bike, as he held onto his warclub, the smell of death, blood and piss, becoming so attached to the name of Nevada for him, that he hardly could smell it anymore. Turning to his left, he could see his Sergant-atta-armsa approaching. Back his days, he would have been hardly old enough to count as a true Mem-bar warrior, but these days, old men like him were rare, and the young were so prevalent, that Red Wheel felt like residue from a long gone time, even though he was hardly near his 40s. "We took 20 captives worth taking, Road-Captain! Food for maybe a week, and engine-blood for four days! We lost two prospects in the assault.." It felt like he had heard this news countless times. Reports of a raid, the loot made, and the losses suffered. For him, it meant little more, then being able to endure a week more of this. A week more of raiding another shitty village or camp and of nights that seemed so endless, filled with cold rage against the bear to the west, fear for the city of light in the south and guilt for they who had been left behind in the west. "Load them up! We're going to see to it that we trade the captives for further gas and ammo. Kill the rest of the captives. And make sure that the lads don't touch the jet or women."
Walking through the ruins of the camp, Red Wheel had hardly any thoughts for the fallen, be they Scorpions or 80s. So many good men had died in Thunderbirds war against the NCR, what did these losses mean compared to them? He had long given up to hope to see them again on the eternal highway. Hope itself had become a thing of the past, as duty to the chapter was all that remained for him, now that he, who had given his life light and hope, had died. The good days were over. The hard days of the past were over. These, where the days of shit, trapped in Nevada, too weak to face the bear again, too proud to return home and too bitter to bend the knee to the legion. Nevada, once a place of hope, had become a cage, for the 80s of the west to perish in. Yes, they had come with strength and fury upon the scorpions and vipers and all the other scum, but Red Wheel had not the will or charisma of Thunderbird. He led, because he had been the last one standing, the last one willing to ride west. Shout-Thunder had taken his men and road east, but Red-Wheel would not forget, or forgive. They had taken his light from this world, and they would pay...or, so he had thought. For years, he now was trapped in the cage of Nevada, and for years, this was his life. Indeed, this was the time of shit.
Once more, the road trembled under the hundreds of bikes of Red Wheels road chapter. Once more, they were riding north, away from the city of lights. Rumors had it of an untouched town near the NCR border, but still outside their protection. Red Wheel would go there, and if luck would be on his side, the NCR would have some of its soldiers there. Not enough to fend them off, but still enough to give him a taste of revenge against them. Being the road captain, he rode a few hundred meters before his lads, along a broken highway. It was his place to lead them, to guide them and to protect them. But he no longer could promise them glorious victories, or gasoline to keep their engines running. All he could promise them, was that he would not turn his back on California. That he would stay in Nevada, ready to fall upon the NCR when the day to repay came. Yet it had not come yet, and each passing day, made it seem like it would never come. What was there left for Red Wheel to do? He had given up on the 80s that had fled to the ruins of Salt-Lake City, bowing before the Bull and his protection. For an 80 did not kneel! Redhair was now leading them, and Red-Wheel still regretted that he had not strangled that witch long ago. But he had not, for he had been to heartbroken over the death of his light, his friend...his blood brother. He still could hear his laughter in the wind, his howl when he gave the red bike the final push. But he was dead, hanged in front of a roaring crowd in Shady Sands.
He wished he still had the will, to hope that he would one day see him again, on the eternal highway, where they could ride together, eternal and free. But he no longer had these illusions. All he had were memories and a choking desire for revenge that became more unlikely with each passing day. Once more, Red Wheel increased the speed of his bike, hoping that at least in speed, he could escape it all, be it just a few passing minutes.
Nick Valentine had taken the lead of the small team that the Commonwealth Provisional Government had decided they’d send to the Service Center to determine exactly who The Mechanist was and how she should be appropriately brought to justice. A one Captain Joseph Martin, appointed directly by General Shaw, had led a group of seven armed minutemen from The Castle. As had been agreed upon by the Council, their squad had met up with a woman by the name of Wilma Bardin at Bunker Hill who was to be the representative for The Bunker Hill Caravaners, the group perhaps most affected by The Mechanist’s transgressions. Nick had then met them all outside of the ruins of the Old North Church, and from there they’d taken a ferry boat across the channel to East Boston where the Mechanist’s lair was supposedly located.
On the boat ride over, Nick couldn’t help but think of the old pre-war theatrical dramas that had so often played over the radio in Goodneighbor: that of the stalwart Silver Shroud, the daring Mistress of Mystery, and the evil Mechanist. They’d always brought an amused grin to his synthetic face as he contemplated the irony of a robotic Detective listening to a pre-war play about how a vigilante crime fighter would stop a mad-man who wished to replace humans with robots. Now that same Detective was off to stop the Mechanist himself, so did that make him a twisted version of the Silver Shroud in this little farcical play? Perhaps...or perhaps the real tale was far more complicated than those pre-war stories could have ever hoped to portray. After all, was this Mechanist really evil? Or was she simply a girl who’d hoped to change the world for the better and failed? That’s what Nick wanted to find out most of all here.
Outside of the Robo Sales and Service Center the group had met up with the final member to take part in their expedition. Robert MacCready stood leaning up against the brick wall of the building when they approached and he was certainly outfitted for just about any situation. He was armored head to toe in a full suit of heavy combat armor and he wore a belt across his chest and waist with grenades of various types strapped to it. A heavily modified plasma rifle unlike any Nick had seen before was propped up against a railing nearby. It was clear The Institute kept their newest above-ground operative well supplied with both caps and armaments. MacCready regarded the group with a casual glance as they approached and he stood up to grab his rifle before making his way towards them,
“New toy you got there?” Nick quipped, pointing at the rifle.
“Yeah, you could say that. Something the egg-heads gave me to test. A little something they’ve been working on. Ooh boy...do I love it. I figured we’d sure as hell need some real firepower here if it comes to a fight. Other than those cute little glowsticks you’ve got there.”
“Watch it,” Captain Martin replied, “Our laser muskets can still blow a hole through that pretty armor of yours with no problems...egg-heads give you that too?”
“Matter of fact they did,” MacCready smiled, “And really...I doubt it would.”
“Cut it out with the dick-measuring contest,” Wilma interrupted, “Let’s talk shop. Where’s The Mechanist?”
“I did a little recon before you all came,” MacCready began, “Took a look around inside the shop and around the perimeter. There’s some sort of massive pre-war security door in there, which must have been hidden behind the wall before the war. Damn near closest thing I’ve ever seen to it is one of those Vault doors. If we would have had to actually break through that...I’d say we’d have been here until the next Judgement Day...but looks like The Mechanist is welcoming us. It's wide open, just like she said it would be.”
“Welcoming us, or it's a trap...” Captain Martin replied.
“Doubt it,” Nick shook his head, “If what you said about that door is true then this is the real deal. The pre-war facility that The Institute was able to identify must actually be in there, and if that’s The Mechanist’s lair, it makes no sense for her to lead us here if she just intended to kill us.”
“The Mechanist’s Lair?” MacCready chuckled, “You’ve been listening to one too many of ol’ Kent’s broadcasts there Valentine.”
Nick gave a shrug, “The Mechanist obviously thought that old character was important somehow. Important for her to build an army and kill over it: intentional or not. The way I see it, we should take that characterization seriously.”
“And they’ll answer for their crimes accordingly” Wilma said definiantly, ‘Lets go.”
“After you,” MacCready said with a grin as Wilma pushed aside and entered the building.
--------------------------------------
A short time later and the group had reached the elevator that the Mechanist had identified to them in her message. It sat behind the main security check-in for the facility and, just as she’d said, the elevator was unlocked and operational. Without much ado, the group piled into the elevator, only 5 of them were able to fit at one time and so Captain Martin gave the order for most of his Minutemen to stay behind and follow once the elevator returned. It was yet another risk they were taking, and if this did turn out to be some sort of trap, they’d be split up for a brief window of time.
Luckily however, when the elevators opened at the bottom there appeared to be no such welcome waiting for them. They were greeted by a dimly lit hallway instead. Cautiously, and with weapons drawn, they made their way down the hallway, passing a room which looked to be some sort of living quarters for whoever was down here. Finally, they came to a door, MacCready gave a nod to Nick, and the detective opened it, revealing a large control room with consoles and robobrain automatons clicking away at inputs.
Suddenly a figure appeared from out behind one of the consoles, a young woman with dark hair in a green jumpsuit now stood before them. Her posture easily denoted nervousness, perhaps even fear, as she clutched her arms together. The woman raised a single hand to brush away strands of hair that had fallen across her face,
“H-h-hello.”
“Isabel?” Nick said, as he began to walk towards her, “Are you Isabel Cruz?”
“Y-yeah, one and the same. Just me down here...well aside from the robots but...I..um….”
“So are you The Mechanist then? Wilma stepped forward aggressively, gun raised “Do you have ANY idea what you’ve done?”
Isabel put her hands up reflexively, “Y-y-yes I am, but I didn’t do it! I mean….I didn’t mean to. I thought I had everything figured out...but I made a horrible mistake. Please don’t shoot!”
“Wilma! Put the damn gun down!” Nick yelled, and with a huff the Caravener agreed, lowering her weapon. Satisfied, Nick turned his attention back to Isabel, who had begun to cry, “We aren’t here to kill you Isabel, but we are here to take you into custody. Do you understand?”
“Yes….I understand,” Isabel sobbed, “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to kill anyone. I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah...help...about that….define ‘help’” MacCready replied with no small hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Nick shot him a glare, and MacCready rolled his eyes in response.
“I believe you,” Nick offered his hand, “What’s done is done. Now you need to focus on making amends. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“Thanks,” Isabel nodded, wiping her tears and nose with the sleeve of her jumpsuit, “I-I really want to try and make things right. I just don’t know how I can do that.”
“Well you can start by….”
A loud alarm suddenly sounded all around them, red lights lit up and klaxons blared through the room,
“Oh no, what?” Isabel suddenly stood up and ran to one of the panels.
“What the fuck is happening?” Captain Martin yelled, trying to be heard over the alarms.
“It's an intruder alert. Someone is inside the facility. Did you bring anyone else with you?” Isabel asked.
“No,” Nick shook his head, “It was just us.”
Isabel quickly clicked a button and a video feed was brought up on the monitor,
“Mutants!” She shouted, shocked at the sight, “They’re coming down the service elevator.” She pointed through the glass windows towards a large open door on the other side of what looked to be a large open area, “I don’t know how they found it! It's okay though I can just shut down…”
The power suddenly cut out, leaving the room in total darkness,
“Uh oh,” Isabel said simply. A few seconds later and the lights returned, but it appeared only the control room they were in was lit up. The rest of the facility appeared to still be in total darkness.
“What the hell was that?” MacCready asked.
“Something’s wrong,” Isabel clutched her head frantically, “The power just got cut and we’re on auxiliary power only now. I don’t understand…” She looked desperately towards Nick. Just as she did so, they all heard a loud screech of metal on metal as something came to a stop.
The elevator…
The sounds of large heavy footsteps followed by the yells and jeers of brainless mutants could be heard streaming towards them,
“Minutemen on me!” Captain Martin yelled, and raced down the hallway to a doorway that led to the area the mutants were coming from, followed swiftly by his men. They each took up posts on either side of the door and behind it, trying to get as many muskets down range as they could. They cranked their Laser Muskets and waited.
MacCready stepped forward to the glass windows as the sounds of the mutants had seemingly died down,
“Fuck,” He muttered, just as the hulking green shapes began to emerge from the darkness beyond what little light the control room was giving off. All of the sudden the shouts began in earnest and a mutant wielding little more than a large board ran towards the open doorway, followed swiftly by three more mutants similarly armed with rusted pipes, sledgehammers, and other random implements-turned-war-clubs.
“OPEN FIRE!” The Captain yelled, and The Minutemen opened up with their muskets, the powerful laser blasts ripping into the mutated abominations and downing three of them. As they fell, muscled mutant hounds raced out from behind and made a beeline for the doorway.
“Fall back!” The Captain yelled, just as the first hound burst through the doorway and tore into one of the Minutemen, before swiftly turning on another. The others began falling back, firing their laser muskets as quickly as they could and finding that the thick hide of the creatures made it difficult to kill them outright.
“Get behind me,” Nick told Isabel as he held up his pipe revolver. Isabel however ignored him, and was furiously typing away at a nearby console, “Come on...come on…” she muttered. Wilma had drawn her own gun and taken up a position behind one of the consoles, beads of sweat poured from her face.
“God-fucking-damnit!” MacCready shouted as he stepped forward and readied his plasma rifle. The sound of the weapon charging up briefly could be heard as static filled the air before he loosed three shots in rapid succession. Blue plasma bolts ripped through the still-living hounds and melted gaping holes in each of them. The remaining Minutemen formed a line beside MaCready and continued firing, killing two more super-mutants as they raced down the hallway with weapons raised.
Things grew quiet as the last of the mutants fell.
“Was that all of them?” Captain Martin asked, looking to no-one in particular to respond.
The sounds of the elevator making its way down again answered his question. Now even more abominable shouts and the howls of mutant hounds could be heard coming from the direction the first wave had just come.
“Got it!” Isabel yelled out excitedly. Just then the lights in the entire area came back on, and the facility road to life as the power was fully restored. The second group of mutants was already halfway to the doorway when suddenly a set of metal security doors to the left of the loading dock opened up, and out strode a massive Sentry Bot that seemed to have been heavily modified,
The robot opened up with two gatling lasers attached to its arms, felling the mutants and their hounds in rapid succession as one after the other fell to its substantial firepower.
When the last mutant had fallen, Isabel turned to the group with a faint smile,
“Uhh...got security back online,” She said quickly, indicating the Tankbot.
“And just in time too,” Nick said with a thankful nod.
Right as the fighting commenced S3-47 pulled out the holotape from the security terminal at the front desk of the facility. The network scan was complete, and he’d gathered what data he’d been able to from it. The program had worked just as Dr. Morales had intended it to. It shut down the facilities defenses and allowed a brief window of time to access its valuable data repositories while the mutants provided a sufficient distraction for his operation.
S3 placed the holotape in a briefcase, reactivated his stealth field, and proceeded out the main entrance.
Once outside the Robco Sales Building and safely hidden in the ruined alleys of East Boston, he sent an encrypted message to Dr. Zimmer,
“Data retrieval complete. ”
Enclave Operative Issac Jabsco - Poseidon Energy Plant
Following the sending of his message, Issac had commenced reading through the mission debriefing documents that had been loaded on his pipboy: a little *light* reading before bed. It’d been some time since he’d reviewed them last, and he wanted to make sure he had a firm understanding of their contents.
He skimmed the first section,
Establish intelligence overview of the political situation of the COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS. Known entities include: the INSTITUTE, the MINUTEMEN, the COMMONWEALTH PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT, and THE GUNNERS. The INSTITUTE is considered a MAJOR security threat to the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. They have the capacity to produce energy weapons, combat robots, and other unknown high-tech capabilities. Additionally, there is unconfirmed intelligence regarding production infiltration robots.
Issac thought back to the Synths he’d encountered down on the lower level, the ones that had killed whatever raider gang had been held up here. They certainly couldn’t pass for humans, but if the stories were to be believed, and he’d heard a number of them on his way to The Commonwealth from passing traders, there were Synths that looked just like humans: down to being able to bleed the same as any man.
He continued, skipping down some paragraphs,
Confirm location and status of VAULT 81. Determine if VAULT has been compromised by external personnel and extent there-of.
He’d heard little to nothing of Vault 81, but the information provided for the Enclave gave its location data. It was a secondary objective, but nonetheless an important one. The Enclave’s interest in acquiring still intact Vaults was one that had been known by nearly everyone in the Capital Wasteland after they’d taken over 101.
Issac continued on down to the final section of the debriefing, skimming down to the phrase that always caught his eye:
It is imperative that OPERATIVE does not permit their capture by the INSTITUTE. In the event of probable capture, place muzzle of side-arm under jaw to ensure the maximum destruction of brain tissue. If unable to access firearms, OPERATIVE has been provided with suicide pill in glass ampule.
He fumbled at the dog-tags around his neck, feeling the tiny glass vial that had been attached to them: a lone pill inside. Enclave High Command was taking no chances when it came to The Institute. Of course, they had no assurance that Issac would actually commit to such a self-sacrificing act should the need require, but Issac thought of it less as a way to keep Enclave secrets secure, he knew little of them anyway, and more as a final insurance for himself. There were many, many fates that could befall him in the wasteland where death was infinitely preferable to the alternative. He’d seen that far too often already in his life.
His review was suddenly interrupted by an incoming reply on his pipboy. Direct from EnclaveNet,
Issac was stunned as hadn’t expected that Sutler, and this could only be an order from him, would send reinforcements so early on into his mission. He’d only just arrived in The Commonwealth, and it was Issac’s expectation that he’d only receive support if and when his objective was complete. That Sutler had given the order for support to be sent now could only mean one thing: he was taking this mission far more seriously than Issac had even previously thought. There was no doubt about it now, Sutler was going to be monitoring this operation closely,
“Just 48 hours…” Issac muttered, “That doesn’t leave much time.”
He immediately activated the nearby Gutsys standing guard with a simple voice command,
“Begin maintenance protocol immediately, get this place cleaned up.”
As the Gusty bots sprung into action, Issac laid back down on his bedroll, he’d grab a few hours of much needed sleep and then would be ready to start his own preparations.
-----------
As the 48 hours came to an end, Issac waited atop the roof of the building expectantly, watching the skies for any sign or sound of the promised support. As he did so, he took stock of what he’d done to prepare for their arrival.
The Gutsy bots had managed to clear away most of the offending debris from the majority of the plant’s office and plant floor spaces. While they lacked the tailored programming of a Misty Handy, the Gutsy units were still efficient enough at completing such tasks and continuously rotated among themselves between performing guard duties and cleaning the plant. Issac, meanwhile, had completed his own personal preparations. He’d been monitoring the local radio chatter as requested, and most of what he’d heard concerned ‘The Minutemen’ who appeared to have an encampment of some sort in the nearby town of Quincy, a short distance north from the energy plant. All his notes on what he’d heard had been compiled and would be given to whoever the CO of the support contingent was. Along with that, he’d placed the remains of the destroyed Synths inside one of the office rooms in the plant for potential observation. Finally Issac had also managed to repair the plant’s auxiliary power generator, the completion of which he was quite proud of himself for. The building now had limited power, and thus some essential operational systems were restored.
That all done there was little enough time left to do anything but wait. Wait until he could hear the sounds of rotary blades ripping through the air which, before long, he did. Issac rushed down to the plant’s parking lot as the vertibird drew closer and closer, and before long finally extended it’s landing gear and touched down in the center of the vacant lot. Issac stood sharply at attention near the entrance.
The commanding officer that exited the bird was none other than Colonel Granite. It was all Issac could do to contain his surprise, the Colonel was one of the highest ranking members of The Enclave currently and a close friend of the Supreme Commander: that much at least Issac knew. He’d no inkling whatsoever that the Colonel would be the one to arrive here however.
As Granite approached, Issac remained firmly at attention, and raised his hand in the usual salute style of the Americorps, with his palm facing forward,
“Colonel, sir, welcome to The Commonwealth.”
OOC: Report that will be provided to Granite:
Radio Transmissions Report Field Operative ORION Enclave Americorp
Field Report:
...Numerous mentions of 'Commonwealth Provisional Government’ made in multiple transmissions, along with ‘Minutemen’, no mentions made yet of ‘Institute’ or associated personnel. Radio transmission for presumed military operations follow a standard broadcast protocol, and appear to be encoded. A separate radio frequency seems to regularly broadcast with information pertinent to the safety of Commonwealth residents, including what appears to be calls for assistance and aid from ‘Minutemen’ forces (see Addendum A.)
Other noteworthy radio broadcasts in the area include a station out of ‘Diamond City’ run by a mentioned Travis Miles. Broadcast format appears to be standard news reports and local happenings, accompanied by music….,
Addendum A.
(Broadcast Begins at Approximately 0600 hours)
[Voice of woman heard over radio, along with sounds of gunfire]
“Hello! Hello? Are there any Minutemen listening to this!? Our Caravan has been ambushed! [Inaudible] attack! We need help! Please!”
[Voice of a man responds after a short pause]
“Caravan, this is the Castle. Where are you? Over.”
“[Inaudible]...hold up in a house. Don’t think we can keep them off much longer. Please hurry!”
“Roger. I’m contacting Colonel Garvey, his detachment is closest to your position..[inaudible]..if you can and...[inaudible].”
[No further transmission from either source recorded. Approximately one minute after transmission ends, a red flare incendiary was visible in the sky five miles due north west of Poseidon Energy. Within several minutes a second flare is seen coming from the location of Quincy. No further activity observed.]
The axe finally broke through the barricade, the glare of flashlights immediately following through the opening. They didn't reveal much beyond old bones.
"Nothing." the voice rang out, the combined task force relaxing. A Frumentarius kicked a skeleton, ancient parts of which turned to dust. The search of Denver's ruin's had been fruitless thus far, and leadership was getting angry.
Of course, fruitless was a comparative term. Thousands of crates of medicine, preserved foods, munitions, electronics and other valuables had been secured, but that was not what the Governor wanted and that was who could order their deaths with a lazy flick of his fingers. What he described was… well, to some of the men present with more tribal backgrounds it was all but incomprehensible, but the more learned warriors knew they'd know it when they saw it.
The most veteran of the Frumentarii did a few taps on his Pip-boy before giving the squad a rest, and then an order to continue. There were occasionally ghouls in these basements and sub-basements, but the few that were about were… well, the only way to describe them would be to call them mangled. It was as if something had ate their flesh, but wasn’t sufficiently famished to finish them off. A rather pathetic display was even now before the warriors as a legless torso made an admittedly fervent effort in crawling towards them. The poor thing was put out of its misery with a gladius to the skull, before the men continued.
They were getting tired both in the moment and of their greater work. It was repetitive to say the least, and yet it yielded no results that would bring them glory or at the very least save their hides. Decanus Cyril suggested the governor be informed that all the buildings were searched and his quarry was not found, but in unison the Frumentarii shot the idea down. Though in any hypothetical punishment by decimation they had a fair chance of survival owing to their favourable view by the Emperor, it was still not absolute guarantee their heads would escape wrath of the Lord.
No, they had to do this and they had to do it well. It was a harsh life down here, the main thing that they packed being water and munitions, with the abundant appearance of wandering dogs feeding them.
Another basement was entered, and flashlights were turned on. Once again they went through all the rooms they found, marking down any with something valuable in them with a pink chalk X to make it clear to following parties of Scouts they should look within for things further marked within.
“Hold.” Everyone looked to the Frumentarius who whispered, doing his bidding. He motioned for all to follow him into a room previously cleared that they closed the door to. Flashlights were turned off such that eyes could acclimatize to the dark, and soon peering through the missing doorknob all could see what the man had heard.
It was a cyberdog which was a sight not particularly rare but not common either in Denver. But it looked odd. The steel was fresh, no scars upon it and it was also so wet its fur gleamed in the gloom. The gait of the beast was odd, a limp that with every step seemed to right itself. Similarly the animal had odd spasms that happened every half second at the start of its journey through the vision of the Legionnaires, but by the end they all but stopped.
Eventually the door was opened, and looking down the soldiers could see that the thing had left a trail of an odd slime behind itself.
Cusses of confusion rang out, and slowly the trail was followed to its origins. They went deeper into a sub-basement, and then a sub-sub-basement, where they found a blast door. It was battered, a great hole preventing the blast door from being effective in its purpose. The slime-trail had continued here, and now it was illuminated by a blue light from the other side. The squad wasted no time in finding out what the hell they stumbled upon, and a combination of pickaxe, mattock, chainsaw and blowtorch swiftly dismantled the rusty barrier.
The Decanus grinned, bright lights of the place lighting up his bandana’d face so well one could see his expression behind the mask. They had found what they came for.
General James Hsu – Shady Sands – Presidential Manor Briefing Room
The briefing room was probably, General Hsu reflected, a mirror of the state of the affairs of the New Californian Republic. The elite sitting in plush fancy chairs, gorging themselves on snacks, the décor full of wear and tear, a few paintings that looked rebellious in their lean, a growing mould in the corner, a threat to the room that seemingly no one cared about.
Was he the last sane man in the Republic?
It was times like this that the thought of retirement appealed to him, though he doubted there was any room to be farmed. Just retirement in a small apartment, teaching maybe as a spare time thing to keep his mind sharp? Perhaps that was another thing wrong with his country, a lack of motivation beyond a comfortable retirement. Apparently, the birth rate was slowing and already there was talk of a possible increase in social security taxes to pay for a hypothetical pension-heavy economy. Hsu didn’t know much about economics, well, peacetime economics that was.
Oh, he wasn’t mad enough to think that all the NCR needed was a good war, or some political revolution. The system worked, it just needed tweaking. Small scale redistribution, a focus less on the farms, let them collectivise, update the agriculture, and get people into the cities and into the factories, strengthen the industrialisation process. A little bit and piece from each political party raging across the electoral registers, that would be his manifesto. But he wasn’t a politician, he was just an old soldier, getting ready to fade away, as some pre-war general had said or something.
“Presidential Salute! Ten-hut!”
The soldier on the door, called the words, saluted, causing the soldiers in the room to rise to their feet and salute, the politicians in the room just standing and trying to look dignified. In walked the President, taking a seat at the head of the table, waving them to be as they were. Hsu waited until Winters had sat, before taking his own seat. The President glanced over the briefing papers in his hands, before looking up at him.
“General Hsu, an overview please, only one major agenda today, the Colorado border?”
“Yes Mister President, but we’ll get the usual stuff out of the way first if that’s alright sir?”
“Yes, yes.”
Winters murmured the words, leaning back in his chair, his eyes peering over his spectacles, glancing half at the room and half at his papers as Hsu started the briefing proper.
“Oregon Territorial Command reports no news, other than a request for some spare airplane parts to allow an overflight over Seattle, see what the status of the city is, whether there’s any major raider movement in the city that could spill over towards the border.”
“Granted, Baja want the same?”
“No sir, just to rotate in some rangers in place of heavy troopers, I concur with Colonel Dhatri, with the influx of settlers, and following on from our last slash and burn operations in the south, dissident elements are now confined to light infantry forces. Rangers can respond faster, and we need speed over armour for light infantry tactics.”
“Approved. Reno next?”
“Yessir. Nothing new there, I believe that we should use our ranger elements in Reno for the swap with Baja, show the border tribes, and any 80s, a flying of the flag. A show of force, maybe even authorise a single bombing strike against some unlucky raiders, something for the papers as well?”
Winters nodded, Hsu was always careful, the last general, Oliver, had always been a political animal, but he tried to avoid it where he could. But even he knew that the military had to cooperate a little with the administration to get them to agree to some actions. If the two converged, all the better for them both. Clearing his throat, James glanced down at his final piece of the brief, before speaking.
“Now. Colorado.”
The mood changed, from lazy disinterest, to a wary watchfulness. The Legion was always a worrisome point for everyone. They could count on House and his tin-cans to guard much of their flank against the Legion, but the river was always worrying for them.
“I’d like to engage the engineering corps in fortifying the border. The current network is, adequate, but in need of updating. And as we wind down in northern Baja later this year, I’d like permission to move those units onto the border, keeps them near to Baja if needs be, and helps shore up the line against infiltration attempts.”
“Infiltration attempts, I thought the border was secure against attack?”
Hsu nodded.
“It is, but at night, we’ve received word of back and forth crossings by single individuals. Whether legion spies, or just smugglers, we think the latter, we don’t know, better safe than sorry.”
President Winters pursed his lips, before looking at the rest of the room.
“That will be all for today for the rest of you. Could Hsu and I have the room please?”
A few frowns at that, but the politicians and soldiers stood, left the room, leaving the President and the General alone. Winters set down his briefing file, looking at Hsu over his spectacles, who set down his own briefing file.
“Everything is fine with the border, really?”
Hsu gave a sigh.
“The border’s secure, but it’s static. We haven’t changed it in years, and the legion has changed since then. We need to repair some watch posts, build some new ones, look at considering a minefield or two, clear some debris to enable clear fields of fire in one zone. Nothing major, but not a minor job either, and some outriders to catch any border-crossers are needed, likely just smugglers, but if, just if they aren’t, we need to be sure.”
The President looks away, idly taps his fingers on the faded desk before them, half-heartedly polished, a veneer of dust and sheen.
“Election’s coming up, I don’t think I’ll win it. You voting Hsu?”
Hsu frowns, speaks truthfully, if a little slowly, not sure where the President planned to go with this sudden tangent.
“I don’t vote sir; at least I don’t plan too yet, not till I’m not employed by the government anymore.”
Winter smiles tiredly, amused by Hsu’s admission, but not enough to laugh.
“Well, if you change your mind on it, think of voting for me please?”
Hsu nodded after a moment of thought. Winter sighed.
“If I could just convince the rest of undecided, I could at least scrape re-election. Still, so long as its Moore and not one of the others. You’ll get your engineers, if anything, at least it might win me some construction union support for ordering some new equipment for the army. Though god knows what the Legion think they’re up to nowadays. More bothered with Mexico, aren’t they? Well I don’t think we have any plans in Central America, do we? That’s the last thing we’d need, ending up on a collision course with the legion there.”
