"A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit." - Proverb of unknown origin

There is no enigma of the reborn West more perplexing than the staying power and success of the entity known as Mr. House. Until the time of the Courier, outsiders saw him as a local despot, significant only by virtue of his immortality. The Second Battle of Hoover Dam marked a sea change in the Mojave, however, and every move of his since has reflected his ascendancy - toward what goal, precisely, no one knows. Yet he does it well.

Everyone, from the NCR to La Ciudad to the fledgling Confederacy in the east, has become a partner to his endeavors. There was no choice. No one has the tools to fight him nor the mercantile independence to ignore him. His terms are fair and they do not refuse him anything, whether materials or artifacts or people; in return, he doles out refined products and information, reserving for himself the technology that makes him untouchable from a military standpoint.

For better or for worse, and for reasons this author still does not fully understand, the known world of today revolves around a single personality enthroned above a tiny island of prosperity and ignorance in the desert. He has made this country small again with his Great Railroad. With a miracle plucked from the past, he has given us back the means to feed ourselves on a grand scale. He has done all of this without using the war machine at his disposal, giving us a century of lasting peace. For the recovery he makes possible, we - the Followers of the Apocalypse - bless him.

In the next breath, we - the cynical, suspicious people we have always been - want to know: what is his end game? What will be the consequences of allowing one architect to shape humanity's future? And, most importantly, what will happen when Mr. House loses interest in his centuries-long experiment?

-Excerpt from A History of New Vegas, vol. II: 2281-2381.

"Vegas bound, Kovich? Better you than me, boyo. I don't get closer to that place than Cottonwood Shipping if I can help it. The bots, the smoke-and-mirrors, the overall weirdness… no thank you. Nah… give me the extra two weeks' travel for the Flagstaff route any day." The man was drunk off the slim profits of his two-Brahmin outfit, red-faced and stupid. Mr. House wouldn't even allow someone like this to work for him, Kovich knew. He reserved that privilege for people who knew how to keep their mouths shut.

The caravan master grunted sourly in reply and tipped his drink back, swallowing the remainder of the whiskey in a single gulp that burned as it went down. The tiny "town" of the Mojave Outpost, where the railroads and wagon-roads converged into a single pair of tracks running parallel to the highway, was almost entirely populated by opportunistic merchants who could charge the sky for food and drink. Not only did the booze cost twice what it should, but it was seasoned by the idle chatter of men like this one, who actually bought into the superstitious bullshit of the old humbug in his tower.

The old man paid his tab and left the bar without a farewell, crossing the road to check in with the guards posted over his Brahmin. Ard Kovich was a self-made success, and he owed that to his own meticulous care. At age 17, back in '61, he'd taken the last pair of oxen from his deceased father's failed farm and used them to trace the well-worn route between the Hub and the Outpost. He'd done that for ten years, investing everything he earned back into his business, sleeping with his stock to guard them and save on inn fees. By the time the main rail-line was finished in late '70, he'd established his reputation as a steady, dependable boss with good discretion and a strong crew. As a younger man, he'd taken the jobs that went beyond civilization, as far east as Denver and as far south as Old Mexico. He'd even seen Canada once, before the savages up north had closed their doors to the NCR's heavy-handed offer of trade. Now, as he approached his sixtieth year at the beginning of a new century, Kovich Enterprises was one of only a half-dozen companies entrusted with delivering raw materials to Vegas in return for the refined products it produced.

The life he'd lived had not been without its costs. There was a young woman in Shady Sands with eyes like his whom he'd only met twice, though he'd sent money to her mother until the child was grown. Kovich could call no town or city home. When he retired - and he would have to retire soon, as his aching bones reminded him every morning - he would be a stranger in whatever community he laid down his load at last, tolerated because of his wealth, but loved by nobody. His shiftless father and long-dead mother would have been disappointed, but Kovich was long past caring about that.

Until he finally sold out, he would execute his contracts with characteristic professionalism - an unexciting, blessedly-boring circuit to and from the NCR's rail-less communities and the Mojave Outpost. On an average run, he would escort ten full cartloads and a string of passenger coaches, carrying the wealthy to see and experience the eccentricities of the city. There was little variation to the routes, or to the loads they carried: iron, fuel, and clay to the factories at the city limits, and electronics, tools, parts, solar cells, and ceramic fixtures on the return trip. He completed twenty-five such trips in an average year. His crew took a quarterly furlough in the Hub, and he rotated them off according to request. Most had been with him for years.

Once a year, he would go beyond the Outpost, accompanying his merchandise and his passengers on the last leg of their pilgrimage. There, in a too-cold, too-clean room that smelled of nothing but the sweat he carried in with him, he would renegotiate the terms of his labor to some pale-faced clerk with soft hands and a polite smile. This wasn't his only obligation in Vegas, but it was the only one he admitted openly.

After Kovich had assured himself that the Brahmin were safe, well-watered and well-fed in their pen, and that the men on guard were alert and sober, he walked through the long, narrow barracks, noting with satisfaction that most of the remaining crew had preceded him to the bunks. He didn't demand a strict curfew, but he seldom had problems with rowdiness or overindulgence on the road. Those that were the sort to raise hell at pit stops didn't last more than one trip with him.

He sneered at the man - a mere boy, in Kovich's book - asleep on the bunk at the end of the row, a few feet from the door which led to his private cabin. Not just another well-heeled tourist, bound for the Strip, this one. Not a green hireling either. (As if he'd hire a snot-nosed college boy who'd never done an honest day's work in his life!)

No, Daniel Mueller was a tribute. Another morsel for whatever appetites Mr. House needed to satisfy. Sometimes they were men. More often they were women. They were all between twenty and twenty-five, all well-educated. Mr. House preferred orphans raised by the Followers, and the NCR reimbursed the Followers handsomely for the annual sacrifice of one of their members. One way or another, every year, Mr. House would receive a human being as a condition of his long-ago treaty with the NCR. Slavery was not normally tolerated in the civilized world, but Danny Mueller was just the latest exception in a long line of victims, stretching back longer than living memory.

Kovich had spent ten years conducting these youths to their fate, a task he had inherited from another old caravan master, the last of the legendary Cassidy line. He didn't like the arrangement. It never got any easier to look them in the eye. Shame and disgust kept his head turning when they looked for sympathy, information, or mercy. Kovich held the key to the shackles that kept them from bolting, and always posted a guard to prevent them from seeking a more drastic way out. He had never considered letting one of them go or declining the work. The pay was too good, the political cost of refusal too high. Besides, someone had to do it.

Kovich had allotted himself three more years to retirement, and nothing and no-one - not some unlucky lamb-to-slaughter, not the soft NCR officials who'd given him the contract, and not even spooky old Mr. House himself - would keep him from a chance to rest his feet at last.

"Mr. House wants you, Mr. Mueller. Of all of the… er, 'applications'… that we sent in, yours was the one that caught his eye. I'm sorry." The middle-aged woman behind the desk spoke these words slowly and carefully, eyes on his face as if gauging his reaction.

Daniel - Danny to his few friends - had expected this news when he was called into the administrative office. Had expected it, in fact, ever since he'd learned that the rotation was coming to his quadrant of the Follower's holdings in the Core. He had no luck. Had never had any luck.

His parents had died when he was a young child, caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs. They were among the last victims of a bloody street-war that had ravaged the streets of Angeles for years. Fueled by public outrage, using the pale little orphan as a poster boy, the incumbent mayor had used military force to crush both sides. Not long after, Danny had been given to the Followers to raise. The Followers grew their numbers with their schools, educating all in the basics, and accepting the best - or the wealthiest - into their residential and advanced programs.

Danny wasn't the brightest - merely average - but the sum of money he'd inherited from his parents, held in trust by the mayor, had been enough to grease the palm of the local school administrator. Until he was eighteen, he was guaranteed a place to live, food to eat, and the chance to learn a vocation. After that, he had an easy route into the university and the lodging available there. It was a sometimes bleak existence - he had a dozen teachers, some kind and others less so, but no parent - but he lived to adulthood. Not every parentless child in the NCR could say the same.

The woman, whose name he had learned and instantly forgotten, seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Danny nodded. If someone had to go, why shouldn't it be him? No one would miss him, except perhaps the newly-opened power plant in Dayglow that had accepted his apprenticeship. Even there, he would be replaced almost immediately. The next most qualified candidate - likely one of his former cohorts in the competitive energy specialty - would be secretly happy to learn about Mr. House's selection. A job was a job.

The woman behind the counter wasn't unsympathetic. She caught his eye, pressed him harder. "Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Mueller? A child with anyone? Any dependents at all? A stray dog you feed?" When he shook his head at every question, she pressed him impatiently. "I'm trying to help you, young man. You've been one of ours for fifteen years. Give me a reason and I can make this pass to someone else."

He stared at her, quoting a part of the Follower's informal motto as if its application should have been obvious. "'If not me, then who?' I'd feel guilty knowing someone else had to take my place."

There was grim approval on her face when she stamped the document and filed it away somewhere. "He doesn't eat them, you know," she told him with the hushed air of someone imparting a great confidence. "He's not some fairy-tale ogre. It's not as bad as they say. Don't be afraid."

"Not being afraid" was easier said than done. He'd discovered this truth in the weeks of waiting since that meeting and the days of travel that had brought him ever closer to Vegas. He sorely regretted his pale, pathetic moment of nobility now that he'd had a chance to weigh that principle against the uncertainty which lay ahead. He clung to the woman's promise that he was not going to his death, but facing a life sentence was horror enough. At twenty-two, he'd scarcely begun to live, always played things too safe. Had never gotten up the courage to take risks. Had never even been on a date, being too shy to ask. Now he'd never have the chance.

This is what a condemned man must feel like on the way to the gallows, Danny thought. Every rocky outcrop, every clump of sagebrush between the Outpost and the glittering city ahead seemed the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He was handcuffed to his seat, a discreet distance from the paying passengers, but at least he'd been given a spot by a window. Even this pleasure was spoiled, however, by the sight of the mile markers slowly counting down from sixty. He'd meet his fate when the numbers ran out.

A city boy all his life, Danny had admired the relatively wild regions of southeastern California they'd traveled through to reach the Mojave. The closer they got to Vegas, however, the tamer the land became. For miles on either side of the Goodsprings waystation, there was cultivated land as far as the eye could see. Neat rows of hardy plants, signs of a complex irrigation system, and well-built dwellings for the farmers and their families lined the road, which itself was smoother and broader than most in the NCR.

On through the mining community of Primm they rolled, past the geometric lines of its quarters and facilities. It was just after noon and stifling inside the carriage even with the windows open, but Danny saw children running and playing in the hard-baked schoolyard all the same. To his jaded eye, their strong, well-fed bodies were just as much propaganda as the gleaming equipment and buildings around them - a sign that Mr. House was able and willing to care for everybody in his holdings. No one went hungry here. There were no water beggars, or so the rumors said. Danny wasn't fooled, however. He didn't have to look far to see the dark side of this utopia: the chain on his wrist was proof enough of that.

"Real pretty, isn't it?" a gruff voice from his elbow spoke up.

Danny jumped. He'd almost forgotten Kovich was there. The old man had treated him with palpable contempt ever since he'd retrieved him from the train the evening before, and had spoken to him only out of necessity. Now he wanted to make small talk?

One work-hardened hand lifted, then dropped uncomfortably back into his lap. He seemed ill-at-ease and far too big for the cushioned seat. "I'm not used to being here on the inside," he said by way of explanation. "Al'ays prefer to be one of the ones on top, gentling the Brahmin along. But tradition - and caution - says I stay here. Eyes on you all the way. We've lost 'em in the past. Thirty, forty years ago, one of 'em - a girl that time, I think it was - broke the window somehow and cut her fool throat. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Ignoring the question, Danny turned back to the view. He'd rather make an impromptu study of architecture than let this man salve his conscience with talk. Just ahead, an aqueduct spanned the road, its concrete pillars fading out in the direction of the distant lake. He admired the simple functionality of the structure, almost unchanged for thousands of years.

Not waiting for an answer, his jailor rumbled on, softly, for his ear only. "You can't compare what he's built here to the NCR. The stupid, sheeplike people who live here don't know anything that he doesn't want them to know. He's not just a dictator to them, he's a god, temples and all."

"And sacrifices," Danny added, finding his tongue unexpectedly sharp despite his fear. "Not to mention willing sacerdotes like yourself. How many of us have you delivered to his doorstep?"

Anger. Shame. Disgust. All of these took a turn on Kovich's weathered face before he spat out his reply. "You're the tenth. Don't blame me, boy. Your own people sold you like a fatted calf for the market, just like they've done with scores of others since the Treaty. Your precious Followers did this, the same ones who pretend to love their fellow man. How does it feel?"

He didn't answer, but in truth, it felt rotten. All the old arguments about necessary evils and the greater good - satisfying in the abstract, but less so when it was his future at stake - rang hollow now. He knew that the work of his people depended on bargains like this, struck long ago, but he questioned their necessity with particular fervor now.

All too soon, they reached the outer limits of New Vegas. The rail line split off from the road when they hit the factory district and ended well short of the walls in a massive depot bigger than many settlements. Danny wished he could stay here for a while with the other commodities, which large machines were laying out out in neat stacks and pyramids under the sun, but he had to continue on. Paying no heed to his preferences, the road and its pleasure-seekers continued straight up to the gate and into the city.

"Use'ta be a passenger car on that train," Kovich commented, tracking his gaze. "Trip took about forty-five minutes from the Outpost to here. People didn't like it. They come here to gawk, and they don't want to pay out the nose to get here too fast. The carriages make 'em feel like they're getting their money's worth."

Danny identified with this sentiment, though not for the same reason, but he didn't say anything. He shifted his feet and his heels bumped against his one, small suitcase, containing such personal items as he'd been permitted to pack: a few clothes, a picture of his parents, and a letter he was writing, as well as a book about the history of New Vegas, written by - who else? - a Followers scholar, and given to him by a sympathetic former professor. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read it yet; curiosity had taken a backseat to dread in recent weeks.

"Have you ever seen them again?" he asked after a long pause. "Any of the other tributes, I mean - walking around Vegas or working for Mr. House or anything?"

Kovich grunted, looking away. "No, I haven't. He's got a few humans on retainer, I know that, but I don't see them much. At least for the usual cargo."

Danny's heart sank as one last hope departed. He spoke once more, trying to show a calm that he didn't feel. To his ears, it came out whining and petulant. "I don't know why I'm here. My life was always... ordinary. I never did anything to deserve this." Contemptuous or merely bored, Kovich didn't respond.

The carriages rolled past the residential quarter and into the colorful markets that bordered the old train station. The hawkers advertised genuine New Vegas goods, from cloth to food to small electronics. The air inside the vehicle was alive and happy with the conversations of the tourists, who gripped passports and wallets as they prepared to alight.

"You and I will wait until the holiday-goers are gone about their business," Kovich muttered. "So as to avoid any unpleasantness."

"Wouldn't want them to have their day spoiled by a flagrant act of injustice," Danny shot back, but quietly. Kovich intimidated him, more than a little, and he didn't actually want to be dragged kicking and screaming through the streets. As long as he kept his composure, he could pretend that he was there by invitation.

He pulled his suitcase out with the hand that wasn't chained and gripped the handle tightly. The worn metal was slippery in his sweat-soaked palm and he didn't want to lose it. There wasn't much in there, but it was all he had from his old life. Kovich waited until the last of the chattering women had filed off before he took a key from around his neck and unlocked it. Rubbing his wrist where the metal loop had chafed it, Danny followed the caravan master out into the sun-drenched afternoon.

Dazzled by the light, feet moving sluggishly after sitting for so long, Danny tripped over one of the steps and almost fell headlong to the pavement below. Kovich reached out a meaty hand and grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him before letting him go. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Danny studied his surroundings. The tourists were already bustling around the stalls and a pair of robots - the same sort that had opened the gates of the city to them - stood a respectful distance away. There was no one else in the immediate vicinity. He felt invisible, an unperson already. He wondered how much the average NCR citizen knew or cared about their government's treaty with Mr. House. He wondered who would react if he started screaming for help.

Kovich misinterpreted his train of thought. "I'm not going to chain you, boy. I know you can probably outrun me, but I'm warning you not to. There's no unsanctioned way in or out of this city. Either I take you to Mr. House or one of those machines drags you in. Choose dignity, and this will go easier for you."

"I'm not going to run, old man," he said firmly. "I'm just taking in the sights."

Kovich snorted and turned away, gesturing roughly for him to follow. And follow Danny did, but at his own pace, allowing the caravan master to get well ahead of him. He could read the man's impatience in his posture, but didn't care. He might have a timetable he was worrying about, might want to catch the next carriage back to the Outpost, but this time belonged to him alone, Danny decided. He'd see what he wanted to see.

There was plenty to see, even when Kovich led him off the touristy thoroughfare and down a more subdued market street which had fewer bright colors and more necessities. Here the locals went about their business, buying and selling vegetables, fruit, meat, and sturdy clothing. Odd among these essentials was a single peddlar, a woman in her forties, hawking talismans, statues, and small portraits, each bearing a familiar face rendered with exquisite detail. Alone on this street, she had an undeniably non-local customer.

"Mr. House?" a shrill-voiced matron called out. Danny remembered her vaguely as a passenger from his carriage, all in green with a hat as large as an umbrella on her head. She'd been a loud conversationalist on the journey as well, though he had barely noticed. "They're all of Mr. House? I wanted something for my daughter. Something authentically Vegas, but pretty, you know? "

"If Madame prefers, Madame can go back to the main street," the seller told her politely through the clenched teeth of her smile. "My brother has a shop there. He sells many lovely things, including some of my own work. I create these for the faithful and the respectfully curious." Not for the likes of you, read the clear subtext, and Danny stopped to listen to the exchange, interested in spite of his own troubles.

A look of puzzled greed came into the tourist's eyes. "How much for this one?" she asked, pointing to the very smallest pendant. The seller quoted an exorbitant price in NCR dollars, at which point the woman flounced away without another word, back toward the Vegas she wanted and expected. Danny lingered, ignoring Kovich's impatient call from the end of the street..

"Your painting - particularly in it its small scale - shows a high level of skill," he remarked to the woman. "Maybe you can explain something to me. Who is Mr. House to you?"

The cold, diplomatic face she'd worn for the other customer dropped away when she saw Danny. She stepped out from behind her wares, leaning forward to kiss his cheek and clasping his hand in both of hers. Either she hadn't heard his question, or this extraordinary response was her answer.

"It's you. You're the new one. You're going to him. And you came to my stall. What luck!"

"Luck?" Danny echoed, dazed by her warmth. "How is that luck?"

"Never mind, dear." She turned and plucked one of her talismans from its display and pressed it into his palm. "Take this with my blessing. And remember me - Kirsten Golding - to Mr. House when you go before him." She smiled beatifically, speaking quickly now, as if there wasn't much time. "He chose my uncle for his service, many years ago. Damon. If he's still alive, tell him his brother is gone, but his niece never stopped missing him. Will you do that?"

That's when Danny felt Kovich's heavy hand fall on his shoulder and wheel him around, but he tried to shout his question as he was dragged away. "Wait! You didn't see him again? What happened? Where did he go?" But it was no use. She didn't answer, but only watched him leave with that same, peaceful expression on her face.

Kovich wouldn't let go of his upper arm, but dragged him mercilessly onward. "I'm not supposed to let you talk to the locals," he growled. Looking down at the talisman that still lay in Danny's palm, he struck it down with careless violence, sending the trinket into the gutter. "Rank superstition. I'll not deliver you with any mark of it on your person."

"Maybe next time," Danny began, trying not to let his rising anger make him do something foolish, "you should drug your prisoner and stuff them in a crate. Then you could avoid the inconvenience of getting your hands dirty with an actual person."

To his surprise, the old man laughed merrily at the image. "Were it up to me…! However, it goes against the terms of the contract. He wants you to walk in as freely as possible under the circumstances. No idea why. Don't care."

Danny craned his neck, still trying to catch a last glimpse of the woman. He didn't want to talk to Kovich anymore, but he was only one who could tell him more. "She said… she told me that her uncle was taken too. She acted like it was some kind of honor. But she hasn't seen him since! Why would they venerate Mr. House?"

"Because he keeps them stupid and happy," the other grunted. "Because Mr House is this city and it suits him to style himself as a god. You've read your old stories. Gods require propitiation. These people are happy to pay whatever it costs." He grinned unpleasantly, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. "Do you feel better knowing that it's not just the Followers he harvests from?"

If anything, Danny was more afraid now than he had been before. Angrier too. It was one thing for Mr. House to take willing victims - if indeed Kirsten Golding's uncle had been willing - but quite another for him to grab people who had nothing to do with his cult. The woman's words rang in his mind. "'If he's still alive,' she said. Does he keep them forever, then?" he asked, half to himself. Kovich surprised him by answering, for once not unkindly.

"As soon as you go through the last set of doors, boy, you'll know more about it than I ever will. Here's our first checkpoint." Kovich flashed a document at the robots guarding the gate, and, after they'd conferred internally for a moment, communicating with some central intelligence, they moved to let them past.

This gate opened onto a wide, curvaceous street with more robots - robots of every size and shape - along with miscellaneous vehicles parked alongside nondescript buildings. There were, however, no humans that Danny could see, and he began to tremble. Was this to be his fate? A short, unhappy life surrounded by machines? "Have you ever seen any people here?" he whispered to his companion.

"Shut up, boy." Kovich strode forward to small gate leading off the main thoroughfare, where yet another pair of robots stood guard. Addressing the machines - or perhaps the gate itself - he called out loudly. "I'm Ard Kovich and I've got your delivery here. Let's be done with this."

As if he'd spoken the magic words, the gate opened, but only a crack. Out slipped a young woman, perhaps a year or two older than Danny himself, petite but decidedly self-assured, dressed in loose-fitting clothing of an indiscriminate gray color and a broad hat that protected her face from the sun.

Danny could tell that Kovich was startled, but trying not to show it. His voice became oily and grudgingly deferential. "This one's a little ornery. You sure you can handle him, Miss...

"Don't concern yourself on my account, Master Kovich. I'll take him from here," the woman said coolly. "You'll receive your payment at the station on your way out."

It was a dismissal and he took it as such. "'Til next year, miss," he said, tipping the brim of his hat.

She said nothing, but laid a slender hand on Danny's sleeve, guiding him through the barrier. He was relieved to be quit of Kovich's company - and to find another person here - and it didn't occur to him to resist.

When Kovich was out of earshot, he couldn't restrain himself any longer. "You're human! And I don't know you. I knew every tribute from the last five years, at least by sight. You're not one of them. But you can't be much older than I am..."

She gave him a tolerant smile, but didn't explain. "Follow me, Mr. Mueller."

"You know my name?" he said, before realizing how stupid that sounded.

She blinked at him, as if to say, Of course. "I read your profile. I was drawn to your story. That's one reason I volunteered to meet you."

They passed more gates and more securitrons, moving ever closer to the the tallest tower, the monolith at the center.

"Are you a prisoner here as well?" he asked her as the bots closed yet another set of doors behind them.

This provoked a surprised laugh, a response that stung, though she seemed not to notice. "No."

"Are you a local?"

"You could say that." Seeing his look of confusion, she clarified, "I was born into Mr. House's employ. That's true for most of the people you'll meet here."

Without giving himself time to process this information, Danny went on, trying to make this feel like a normal conversation. "What's your name?"

She hushed him, stopping in a plaza at the innermost level. In front of the steps leading to the tower, Danny saw a large statue, erected in bronze. It began as a true-to-life representation of a man's face, tilted upward to the sky, then became increasingly abstract as it radiated outward, ending with the suggestion of wings spreading over his back. The figure's trunk and legs were invisible, buried in dark craggy stone.

"We could have taken a tunnel shortcut from the entrance - virtually everything we do is underground - but he likes this to be the first thing our newest residents see." She left no doubt as to who 'he' was.

"What is it?" Danny asked, since she seemed to be waiting for him to comment.

"It was the last work commissioned from an artist named Michael Angelo, who lived on the Strip over a century ago. It depicts the Courier, but Mr. House always called him 'Daedalus.' It's one of those little jokes he enjoys."

Danny considered this for a moment. He understood that reference, or thought he did. "Daedalus," he began hesitantly, "that's not a happy story, right?" He'd had a course in literature - more than one, in fact - but fiction had never been something he was particularly passionate about. Still, you couldn't get through a Followers education without being thoroughly steeped in the things that they considered important collective knowledge. Mythology had always been one of those things, replete as it was with cautionary tales and symbols.

She smiled. "Robert House was… he is a fundamentally optimistic personality. He considers it both a cautionary tale and an inspiration."

Robert. The way she threw the name around made him sound like a favorite uncle, or a wise old friend, instead of the inhuman dictator he was to the rest of the world. "Have you met him?" he asked.

"Of course. He was my first teacher."

Before he could respond, she had moved on, and he followed. "Can I talk to him?" He had never thought of the ruler of Vegas as a person, subject to his own likes and dislikes. Subject, perhaps, to persuasion. Maybe a lifetime of imprisonment wasn't inevitable.

"Oh, sure. He always wants to talk to the new ones in the control room on their first day. After that, you can visit him whenever you like. Most people don't, though, at least not after their first year or two. We are the inheritors. We call the shots now. He embraces it. Laughs it off as 'planned obsolescence.' Longstanding affection aside, you are potentially more important to us than Mr. House."

She gave him a moment to process this, then turned to him, smiling warmly. "I'm Lila Avenatti. Are you ready to meet your host?"

When Danny stepped into Mr. House's chamber, a corner of a penthouse high above the city below, he didn't know what to expect. Blank white walls, the hum of terminals, a disembodied voice - all of these would have seemed appropriate. Instead, crossing the threshold brought him into a sort of cozy den, complete with a crackling fire in the fireplace (all artificial, of course), rich, plush carpet, and warm colors on every wall. The only ornamentation that seemed not to fit - which seemed cheap and tawdry by comparison - was a row of snowglobes above the hearth, their glassy domes spotless of dust.

The feminine-sounding robot that had greeted him led him toward one of the two red-upholstered chairs that were centered in the room around a beautifully-carved chessboard. "Would you like anything to drink, sir? We have a wide variety of drinks, both alcoholic and otherwise."

Danny found that his throat was dry and gritty from the road. "Just water, please. Cold, if you have it." It was cool inside this room - almost uncomfortably so - but he still felt hot and flustered from the journey and the never-ceasing surprises that kept coming.

"Of course. Mr. House will be with you shortly."

Danny didn't see any screens on which his host might manifest himself, but he supposed anything was possible. Perhaps he would commandeer a 'bot. Perhaps he would content himself with audio. The only thing that he was reasonably sure of was that Mr. House had long since left his body behind. He could only wait.

He sipped the water, his distracted thoughts taking a dark turn. He wondered who would try to stop him - and how fast - if he tried to plunge the ornamental letter opener on the desk into his neck. Not that he had any inclination to do any such thing. Despite Kovich's horror story, Danny found that fear only made him cling even harder to life. Meeting Lila had done little to pull back the curtain, but he no longer expected instant execution.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," a rich, avuncular voice announced from the opposite wall. There was no door there - until there was, solid and wooden and richly carved. It opened and a tall, thin figure stepped forth. Danny took in the dark hair, the mustache, and the pre-war leisure suit - it was Mr. House alright. But in the flesh? No.

"A hologram?" he guessed automatically, then slapped a hand over his mouth lest the facsimile take offense.

"Right you are, young man, right you are. Or close enough. The emitters in this room give me the semblance of corporeality. Have a seat. You didn't have to rise on my account."

Danny realized that he was, in fact, standing, holding his glass in front of him like a shield, and he sat down again, feeling abashed.

Mr. House took the seat opposite him and smiled proudly, long fingers steepled in front of him. "I bet you're wondering why you're here. This year's greeter, dear girl that she is, has a flair for the dramatic. It would suit her personality to preserve the mystery for as long as possible. I bet she didn't even tell you the significance of my statue."

He cleared his throat. A lecture in art appreciation wasn't what he had expected from this interview. "Uh, yes, she did actually. The Courier. Daedalus. It's nice," he finished lamely.

"He was her great-great-grandfather." Mr. House picked up a tumbler of amber liquid that had appeared at his elbow and sipped it, studying Danny's reaction.

Danny had never thought of the mythical Courier as a family man or a father or indeed anything but a legend responsible for turning the tide in the Mojave. He had faded into history after the second Battle of Hoover Dam, choosing obscurity over honor and position and citizenship in the NCR. Everyone had thought him a maverick. An independent. Despite this reputation, he'd apparently been a faithful servant to Mr. House, for all that the history books had left that fact out.

"He stayed here after he secured Vegas for you?"

"He traveled for a few years, but he came back, full of stories about the continent, which was then relatively untamed. He and his friends and children were the first of my faithful." Switching tacks rapidly, he indicated the game laid out in front of them. "Do you play, Mr. Mueller?"

"A little," he said reluctantly. He didn't particularly want to clash wits with a machine. He fumbled for some excuse. "It looks like you're already in the middle of a match."

Mr. House shook his head and began to reset the pieces. Danny did a double-take. Unless he was mistaken, unless the gameboard itself was a hologram too, Mr. House was physically moving the pieces. "I don't think we will finish it, unfortunately. The young lady I was playing with - a former Follower like yourself - has not been to see me for the better part of six months. You might know her by name: Celeste Bennett. Still," he went on, "if she does come back, I can recreate the game from memory."

Danny did know the name, though they'd never met. She had been last year's tribute. He hadn't dared to ask Lila about her, fearing to hear his own fate from her lips. "She's still here?" he blurted out.

"They all are, Mr. Mueller. They and their children and grandchildren. Very few choose to leave after they've done their obligatory year." He looked up with a wistful smile. "Soon, you'll be free to go meet her - and the others. But I would be much obliged if you'd talk with a lonely old man for a few minutes. Maybe then you'll be on your way to understanding. You may begin. Ask whatever question you wish." He pushed a cream-colored pawn out two spaces. "It's your move."

Danny grasped his right-hand bishop blindly - it was solid wood, and as real as the chair he was sitting on - and realized he had no legal opening move with that. Instead, he grabbed the knight beside it and jumped onto the board. He had no strategy. Didn't care about the game. He did have questions, though, and Mr. House's surprising display of vulnerability gave him the courage to ask them.

"Why?" he spat out.

Patient and calm, Mr. House answered back. "Why what? I have an idea what you mean, but it might help you to spell it out."

"Why did you do things this way?" Why pretend to be a god, why foster ignorance? So many questions raced through his mind. "Why do you kidnap us? You'd have no shortage of volunteers if it were known that you weren't, well… eating the people that come this way. The Followers, by and large, are a curious lot." Weeks of fear turned to fury, and he forgot who he was speaking to. "I thought I was coming here to die. We all did. Why treat us like this?"

The long, angular face across the table crumpled into an expression of deep regret, though this didn't stop him from taking his turn, moving the queen diagonally from her place. "Secrecy is of the highest importance to our endeavor," he began slowly. "I did not want to let it be known why I wanted educated men and women. I did try to whisper suggestions into the ears of the high-ranked Followers in the know - the ones I trust - about how to make my summons less terrible. However, I'm afraid rumor and fear were stronger by far than my subtle efforts."

Danny jumped a second knight out, a part of him liking the symmetry this created despite his consternation. "Why choose me?"

Mr. House drew his bishop out before answering. "You have no family or dependents. Your area of study fills a gap in my retinue. Your genetic makeup is clear of undesirable alleles." He coughed politely. "You will lose on my next turn unless you act intelligently."

Ignoring the jibe about the game, Danny burst out, "How the fuck do you know about my genes? I don't know about my genes. No one does." As far as he knew, even the most well-equipped medical facilities relied on guesswork, probability, and family history to draw conclusions about genetic diseases. Everyone knew it was theoretically possible to unravel the secrets of a drop of blood, but the technology just wasn't there.

"The Followers turn in a DNA sample with each prospective profile, as I've asked them to from the very beginning. We have the means to run those tests here. It's one of the many perks of belonging to my outfit. Here, at least, it's still the twenty-first century… and beyond it, in some respects."

Mr. House's smug satisfaction made his blood boil. Danny angrily jabbed a pawn out one space in front of his king, blocking the looming checkmate. He didn't much care about the game, but he didn't want to lose too quickly either. "That's incredibly invasive. You tested us without our knowledge. And they… my people… helped you to do that. In fact, they've worked with you every step of the way. Why?"

"Simple. They believe in me. In my vision."

Confusion and disgust made him blunt. "Just like those people down there believe in you?"

Mr. House took one of Danny's knights, placing the piece to the side with a gentle tap. "No. The Followers' faith runs along quite different lines. They know I'm nothing special, and certainly nothing mystical, but they had to choose, a long time ago, between participation and exclusion in the grand project of humanity's future. They chose the former."

"The Followers are rational. Why would they join hands with a charlatan like you?" Danny was thinking of the jewelry seller's wide-eyed faith. "You've taken advantage of those people out there. They've built an empire for you. How would they feel to know you're nothing but a scheming, manipulative computer program?"

Mr. House studied the board - for appearance's sake, Danny suspected, as he was sure Mr. House knew his next move already. "Contrary to appearances, I'm still a human being, albeit one who's outlived his body by centuries. I've provided for the prosperity of generations upon generations. I have immediate access to the collective wisdom of thousands of years of civilization. Why shouldn't the Followers help me? Why shouldn't my people revere me?" He made his play and sat back, arms crossed over his chest. "Worship is as valuable as resource as food or water. My people are fed, educated, and cared for. They are safe. Their faith doesn't hurt them in the slightest. It does make my small nation strong."

Without looking at the board, Danny moved a piece blindly - and probably illegally, based on the way Mr. House frowned - thinking furiously. "To what end, then? What's all this for?"

Another catlike smile, this one broader. "Now you've asked the right question. It's for everything, my boy! The future! The greatest human project of all time! Join with me, and you can serve the salvation of humanity.

"I won't tell you everything at once. Not until you've been here longer. What I will tell you, however, is that my plans are such that of the hundreds of people I've recruited against their will, less than one percent have chosen to leave after their year. Yes, I see your skepticism, boy. Whatever you think, there is a choice. An expectation of secrecy, but no other compulsion."

Mr. House began to reset the pieces. "You've lost interest in our game. That's fine. Another time. It's time for you to meet the other 'prisoners,' as you think of them - they and their descendents are waiting to meet you." He stood up. "Maria will show you to the elevator. Goodbye, Mr. Mueller. It's a pleasure to have met you. I hope that our next conversation will be more productive."

After leaving Mr. House, Danny was struck by a dizzying sense of unreality that hung over his head as the female robot shuffled him back toward the elevator. Having never been on a working elevator before today, he didn't noticed that he'd missed the ground floor stop until it had come and gone.

"Um, hello? Mr. House? Anybody? Where am I going?" He suspected that he was being spied on through a camera in the dark-tinted bulb set into the ceiling, but there was no answer. Part of him wanted to take a defensive posture in the corner of the tiny, descending room and weep at the absurdity of it all. He realized that he had nothing, not even his suitcase, which Lila had taken with her when she left him upstairs. She hadn't seemed the sort to play a dirty trick on him, but she was, he reminded himself, a willing participant in this operation.

When the elevator finally came to a stop, not with a clatter or a clang, but silently, Danny straightened from where he'd been leaning on the wall and prepared himself to face what came next. He'd seen and heard too much for one day, had been too afraid for too long, and he hoped only that someone would show him to a cell, so long as it had a bed. When the doors slid open, he stumbled forward into a well-lit room, surprised but sullen. No more wonders for him. Just leave me alone.

More's the pity - there was a crowd waiting for him down there, a large circle of curious faces, showing too many teeth. It took all of Danny's self-control not to duck back into the elevator and ride it back up again. Instead, he stepped forward and waited with downcast eyes for someone to explain the mystery. He no longer expected the blow to fall at any moment, but he was tired of feeling like he was being subtly mocked.

A short, but powerfully-built man with wild black hair stepped forward. "So, what did you think of the big man upstairs?"

The first rule of not antagonizing the members of a cult, Danny decided on the spot, was to avoid insulting their beliefs. "He's very… um… idealistic, isn't he?" This was met with suppressed laughter all around and he froze, confused.

"That's one word for it," the speaker said agreeably. "Don't let him turn you off. We have solid science and a workable plan on our side - his gift to us at the beginning - and we haven't let his drift toward eccentricity change that." He stuck out a work-callused hand. "Charles Corum. Welcome. There's a lot to tell you, but right now you need some rest. I'll show you to your room. You'll have safety, privacy, and, when you're ready, answers."

His room was clean and spare and, once he had locked the door behind him, it gave him the feeling (if not the reality) of security. There was a tiny, private bathroom, with - wonder of wonders - a shower. As for furnishings, found a bed, a nightstand, a bureau, a chair, and a desk with a light meal laid out on it, but he only had eyes for the first of these. Though the digital clock on his wall told him it was still early evening, he didn't care. In less than half an hour, he was asleep.