Alaric swirled the brandy in his glass around, sitting in a private corner of Club Zoara in Gomorrah, thinking over the day's events. The meeting with the NCR's chosen mouthpiece had gone rather well all things considered. The Boomers weren't thrilled with having so many outsiders in their homeland, but as a personal favor to him, and for the chance to show up the 'western savages' with their air power, they had allowed it. That those two planes were the only fighters they had, and were in no way qualified for doing anything more complicated or demanding than flying casually was a secret he kept to himself. The patrols along the roads had been outfitted with the first batch of uniforms they had made and work crews carefully positioned along the tour route to look impressive and progressive. It was like some old world amusement park, the carriage ride leading the guests past an array of carefully scripted scenes, in this case showing the Mojave as it would be, but not as it was today.
After that he had led the conversation quite well he thought, the bit about the Brahmin drive would work well, it was not an unreasonable demand considering the NCR's foundation on Brahmin herding, and it might plant the idea that he faced food shortages. In reality, he hoped that with the agricultural knowledge from Big MT the Mojave would become a net exporter of food, but the demand served two purposes. Firstly, it might make the NCR try to exploit a fictional weakness rather than looking for a real one, secondly it gave him a plausible reason to hold off on supplying power from the Dam by making it look like he had it operational, but simply was unwilling to give it. The very real work done on the infrastructure across the region made it clear that they had plenty of power, it was simply from a different source and Alaric felt no need to disabuse the ambassador of his notions, especially when they were useful tools to exploit. That simply left the matter of the Ranger and his cryptic message.
As he watched, a scantily clad waitress handed a drink to the man sitting some distance away at the bar, before pointing to where Alaric sat in explanation, compliments of the house. When the Ranger looked over to him, Alaric raised his glass and tilted his head in invitation. The ranger took the drink, walking over.
"Finding the establishment to your liking?" Alaric asked as he rose from his chair. "I'm quite proud of the place myself." He could have turned running the casino over to someone else, but after cleaning house here he set up a simple watch program with Yes Man and kept it owned under his own name, it was a useful venue and entertaining in its own right, and it let him give free passes away as gifts if he wanted to. It was good to be the boss.
"Nicer than New Reno, which is nice enough." The man said. He was older, but still looked to be built of iron, his face weathered like stone in The Divide. "There someplace we can talk?"
Alaric nodded, unlocking the door into the more private wing of the casino. The Ranger followed behind him, undistracted by the sights and sounds of the area around them, until finally they were up in Alaric's private domain within the casino, someplace he went to relax, stage private celebrations with friends, relax somewhere away from the responsibilities of the Lucky 38, or to enjoy the entertainments Gomorrah itself had to offer. While he didn't much care about what other people thought about him, there were some things best done discreetly if you wanted to maintain respect. It was a classy place, fixed up nicely with a stage, a little bar, smooth jazz music playing over hidden speakers.
"I do hope this is not some convoluted assassination plan." Alaric said with a chuckle, taking a seat at a cocktail table. "Heavens knows I've survived more than a few of those in my day."
"I heard the stories." The Ranger said, sitting opposite of him. "Some reports say you inflicted irreparable damage to the enemy elite through the attrition of units sent to eliminate you."
"One would think that they would get the message after the first ten times their hit squads vanished into the Mojave. But then again I wouldn't believe the stories people tell about me if I hadn't done them myself. Now, I can assure you that this room is very secure, so what can I do for you?"
If the Ranger was uncomfortable being in a classy nightclub while still wearing his casual wasteland clothes, he didn't show it. He stuck out like a sore thumb next to Alaric in his tailored suit in a room out of some glossy prewar magazine. "There are a lot of stories about you circling in the Rangers." The man began after a few moments. "And some are difficult to believe, but we've heard stories like that before. Some people call you the third coming of the Vault Dweller."
Alaric raised a brow in curiosity. "Pardon, who? And not the second coming?"
"Second already happened." The Ranger explained simply. "The Vault Dweller came from a place called Vault 13, saved the town that grew into the NCR, fought The Master and his mutant army, saved the wasteland. Second was the Chosen One, a tribal warrior and grandson of the Vault Dweller. Fought the Enclave, drove them from the west, helped the NCR grow, and saved the wasteland." He explained simply. "Both men changed the course of history, fought entire armies and won, fixed a lot of problems. Now you come along, this isn't the first time we've seen reports of people with miraculous abilities doing things that should be impossible. Not the first time, probably not the last."
Alaric was curious and more than a little surprised. He tried to study as much history as he could, but there was just so much and records were often spotty. "You seem to know a lot about this, is this common knowledge back in the NCR?"
The Ranger made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand. "The Chosen One is well known, he was a friend to President Tandi during the twilight years of her life, helped the NCR expand peacefully by befriending towns, making alliances, and saved the whole thing from the Enclave's plans. The Vault Dweller is less well known, he walked the wastes back when the wasteland was young, the world was a much more brutal and chaotic place back then. No flags, no nations, no order, just raiders and gangs and little towns trying to survive. Most in the NCR don't know him, but the Rangers, we remember."
Alaric was fascinated, and said nothing, simply listening intently. The gravely tone, the weight the man gave these words, it was like crouching around the campfire and listening to a tribe's storyteller recount the old legends.
"The Vault dweller didn't walk alone, like the Chosen One, like you, he made friends, found allies. One of them was a Desert Ranger, by the name of Tycho, one of the first. That man was my great grandfather, so my name is Tycho as well. What they did together, the way they shaped the world, that memory has been kept alive in my family, and by the Rangers. Well, some of them at least."
Tycho made a little tic with the corner of his mouth, not quite a grimace. "Together they helped make a more orderly wasteland, helped the Followers of the Apocalypse to grow and thrive, freed the Boneyard from oppression, saved Necropolis from strife, removed cults and crime families plaguing the wasteland. Not far from here either, just west, surprised he never walked to here, not that far. Or maybe he did, nobody knows. The Rangers grew in number and strength after The Master's defeat, we worked to keep the wasteland orderly and safe rather than letting it slip into decline again, spread east and dug our heels in. My family had always been in old Nevada, the Mojave, north of here, moving about. For one hundred years we kept the peace, then the Legion came."
He shook his head. "We couldn't keep them at bay, too many of them, too determined. Kill them and they just keep coming. The NCR came from the west, caught us in the middle, so we signed up when they offered. Traded our independence for their strength, so they could defend the territory we couldn't alone. Worked at first, Hanlon beat them when they came for Hoover, sent them scurrying." He sighed deeply. "Then, then the trouble started. Oliver came, sent us all down to Baja to chase ghost stories so he could play war hero. Then planned to get the lot of us killed looking like idiots so he could look better."
Tycho gave him a long, hard look. "Then you come, pull the rug out from under Oliver so fast his damn hat barely stays on, sent him packing in shame. And we get pulled back with him, back to the NCR to keep their borders secure. We signed a treaty with them, our service in exchange for their protection of the Mojave and greater Nevada. We did that because there was nobody else here who could stand up to the Legion, or any other threat that came along of that magnitude. And there wasn't any one person who could turn back that tide, not this time. But they failed, couldn't stop the Legion, couldn't stop you, and now we're pulled back from our homeland and maybe even used for invading it when the time comes."
Alaric interrupted. "Invasion?" He asked simply.
Tycho shrugged. "Moore talks, people hear, not sure if she realizes sometimes. She wants you dead, the Boomers, Kings, Followers, everyone who supports you, wants them all to hang in the street. Says only way to make sure you're never a threat is to burn the city to the ground, said she'd do it if she had the chance. Moore's not one of us, she's NCR Ranger to the bone, never walked Nevada when the fires hadn't died yet. To her this is foreign soil, enemy territory, threat to be removed. This is our home, we wants to protect it, not plant the NCR flag on a pile of bodies. Right now Moore's held in check, dog on a leash, but Kimball wants the Mojave bad, wants to look good, if McKinley can't get a win with his silver tongue he'll set loose the hounds. We don't want that."
"Who is 'we'?" Alaric asked, having an idea and feeling they were close to the final point of all this.
"The old Desert Rangers, ones who were here before the NCR came and claimed the Mojave. We sided with them because there was nobody else here to fight for the people, now that's changed, you're here now. Last people we gave our loyalty to had us shipped to the other end of the world for politics, barely came back in time to fight the Legion again just to be thrown out by someone else. We want out, NCR broke their treaty with us when they cut and run from the Mojave and let the Legion rape and burn to satisfy Oliver's ego. The old Nevada Rangers are getting itchy and looking to come home."
Tycho gave Alaric another evaluating stare. "I'm here to see if they're welcome back."
Alaric interlaced his fingers, thinking carefully at the situation before him. A sizable fraction of the NCR's elite force, especially one as beloved and heavily publicized as the Rangers defecting could seriously increase tensions. At the same time perhaps the NCR's people seeing their heroes defect could make them rethink whether he was really the bad guy here. "They will not be turned away, if they come." He began slowly. "But I must advise caution. If you all just up and leave at once, especially while these negotiations are taking place, it could be very bad for relations. I want peace with the NCR, I don't like them overmuch but I don't hate them, I'd like to be a good neighbor to them. If you can get your people out a bit at a time without raising havoc, especially once things calm down a bit, that would be ideal."
"And what would you have us do?" Tycho asked simply. "Join your army?"
He considered it. "Probably not, that ended badly if you're any indication. No, I need a police force, people to walk the wastes, patrol the roads, keep the peace and enforce laws beyond the town borders. Think you're qualified?" He asked sardonically.
Tycho grinned slightly. "Four generations of my family history says yes, it's the kind of work we used to do, that shouldn't be a problem. I'll try to keep this quiet for as long as I can, don't want Moore getting the excuse she needs to start chopping heads."
"That would be much appreciated… now I think you should go, it wouldn't do for a loyal NCR soldier and the evil overlord of the Mojave to be seen vanishing and reappearing at the same time. See yourself out? I have some thinking to do."
Tycho nodded. "I'll be in touch." He said, leaving a notebook on the table. "Some details, to consider." He said before he stood to leave.
"One question," Alaric asked . "why so eager to come back and work for me? How do you know I'm not as bad as the NCR was for you?"
"Like I said." The Ranger explained as he left. "Third coming of the Vault Dweller. Call it superstition, but we know when the winds are changing. First time he came he helped the NCR start off, second time he made it stable and safe, maybe this time you'll help them learn their lessons before they destroy themselves. You don't look like the man from my father's stories, but I looked you in the eye and recognized you. Maybe it's just the tribal in me, but it's what I feel." Then he turned and walked out the door.
Alaric leaned back in his chair once he was alone, blowing out a tired breath, thinking of all the implications that faced him now. He'd have to play this close to the chest, take things slowly and carefully so as not to enrage the NCR, get a system in place to prepare for the turnover. But this could work well to his favor, he needed a police force and now one was offering to come and sign on free of charge. But Tycho's words had affected him more than he wanted to let on.
Alaric was a man without a past, he didn't even know his birth name, he'd taken the name 'Alaric' from an old book, 'Reynolds' from a nametag on the inside of a coat he'd worn in the wasteland. He didn't know his history, his past, it was a struggle to try to understand the world sometimes. When he'd been dug out of that grave he'd had some simple clothes, no identification, and one personal item that always baffled him. He reached slowly into his dress jacket and pulled it out, looking at the old metal canteen thoughtfully. It was dented and scratched from long years of wear and tear, but the blue and yellow paint still clearly showed the number '13' on the outer surface.
"Third coming eh?" He asked the empty room.
XXXXX
McKinley glanced down at his notes, hoping he was right on these figures. He was back with Alaric Reynolds, discussing the future of their relationship, and it had all been rather one sided. Every option McKinley offered had been stonewalled, every accusation or potential problem had been offhandedly dismissed. His opponent had to be lying by this point, nobody was this good, no situation was this secure or flawless and McKinley had enough experience as a diplomat to know when someone was putting up a smokescreen. He couldn't be sure exactly what the man sitting across from him was hiding but he knew it was something, perhaps some major weakness or some impending threat he didn't want to let on about. Whatever the case McKinley's job was to get the NCR an advantage out of this FUBAR situation one way or another.
"To be frank, let's cut the crap." He said as he leaned in, looking up from his notes to the overlord across the table. "I know you're bluffing about how secure your economy is. Vegas is a tourist trap, always has been, and you're not paying for all this military buildup and infrastructure renewal out of pocket. The casinos here on the Strip are your biggest source of income and there aren't any tourists coming from us, and certainly none from the Legion. Your economy is in a holding pattern without trade and outside visitors and it isn't going to go anywhere until we reach an agreement. An agreement that is never going to be reached if you continue stonewalling the Republic and playing high and mighty in your tower. Sir." He finished, figuring after a while that the only way to cut through the defenses of self-assured bullshit Alaric generated around himself was to be as blunt as possible.
The man's response was admirably restrained. "You have to understand, a strong front is needed for the people to feel secure." He explained, as if this was all still on his script. "But I have always understood that a healthy relationship with the NCR is needed for this nation to thrive. Your people visiting the Strip has been a major boon to the region, I wouldn't see that end. And there is a lot that we can both gain by a strong trade relationship. So if you need some concession, then I'd like to hear what it is."
McKinley restrained himself as well. He'd come to gain a new respect for his opponent over the last week or so that he had been here. The man was flawless in his delivery, so restrained and composed that he left you questioning his every little tic. Were you seeing the cracks in his mask, or was it planted to get a reaction he desired? The man was a fine actor who knew his part well, and seemed to have contingencies for his contingencies, and the rare ability to say anything and everything with absolute conviction. The man could say that the city's power came from purple fairies running in hamster wheels and it would seem that he believed it with all his heart and soul. That kind of man was difficult to read, and thus difficult to trust. He was sure that at least some of what he had seen on his visit to the Mojave was an act, but it was almost impossible to tell what was and was not on the script because it was all presented with such straight faced sincerity.
After a pause to consider and give his next statement more weight, McKinley shuffled his notes a little before speaking with the air of one who is finally being totally honest after an hour of double talk. "Listen, I know you're very proud of your army and that little stunt at Nellis was certainly impressive. But you can't stand against something as big as the NCR. Moore's out for blood and if she gets what she wants this whole region is going to end up smoking. I don't want that, I know you don't want that, but it's what's going to happen if you keep acting like you are now. I know we're not welcome here, but we are here, and that's not going to change. The people back west aren't just going to shrug and walk away from something as important as this, and they're not going to back down because you demand it."
He pushed a note across the table with a plan of trade tariffs written up on it, as well as some bullet points for a treaty regarding their shared border. "It's a rough sketch of what needs to happen, but it's a start. Give me something to work with, something to placate the president and the folks back on the Big Circle. The Bear isn't known to back down from a fight, if that's what it looks like they'll get here then they'll come in swinging. Your only hope, and you know it, is to be friendly, to be more help than harm. I don't want another war, I don't want to see people get killed when there's no reason, so give me something to work with. Because I can guarantee you right now that if you send me back with what I've got today, Kimball will give Moore her marching orders."
"I'll turn the Mojave into a deathtrap. She has to know that." Alaric said, his voice dark and almost frighteningly restrained. As he sat there reclining in his perfect suit, his face a mask of absolute calm, he seemed almost demonic.
"Do you think she cares?" McKinley knew from his reports that Alaric disdained Moore from when they worked together for a short time, it was quite possible that the friction between them had been a deciding factor in the man going his own way. If McKinley could play on his dislike of that woman and present himself as the likable, reasonable alternative, then it could be his best shot at getting some worthwhile concessions from him. "She'll have carte blanche to wage war against a hated enemy, public support behind the campaign like Oliver never had, and now that you've bound the Mojave together into one people she'll be able to justify her campaign to subjugate the populace. All under your banner will share the same punishment, and I don't think she'll let the threat of one bomber dissuade her from marching troops right up to Hoover itself."
McKinley's heart almost stopped beating as he watched the man sitting there, a shadow falling across him as he considered everything before him, doing the math. Whatever trump cards this army of his had to play, he had to understand that the sheer size of the NCR gave it the advantage, they could overrun him with numbers just like they had the Brotherhood. He couldn't win, put up a hell of a fight to be sure, but even a deathclaw could die by small cuts. With great slowness, the man reached out and picked up the little note.
"Favorable tariffs, legal protection for NCR citizens, cheap power once my demands are met." He summarized. "Assurances of no territory acquisition to the west, no military or paramilitary units over the border without express permission. No hassling of trade caravans across the border, no confiscation of goods not ruled unlawful in either territory, no exporting of unlawful goods into NCR territory or conducting trade through said territory without the permission of local authorities." He looked up from the notes. "Excepting the tariffs of course, I expect equal consideration as far as the borders go, no military units patrolling into my territory, no running caravans across my border without consent, clear?"
"Absolutely equitable." McKinley assured him, knowing he'd finally scored what they really needed. "And your requirement for the beef shipment will be met absolutely, I have assurances from my government."
"You do, already?" He asked with a bit of surprise.
"They're calling it humanitarian aid." McKinley responded dismissively. It was clever in his mind, it painted the NCR as the powerful neighbor giving aid to the poor starving people of the Mojave out of the goodness of their hearts, and made Reynolds' regime implicit in their theoretical starvation the NCR needed to save them from. The implication was not lost on him it seemed.
"Call it what you like, but I expect it here in full before major trade talks start up. And we'll need to check for disease in the herd of course."
Was he trying to buy time for something? Had the quick delivery unnerved him somehow? Impossible to say, the man was so controlled, so restrained in his emotional displays. At least they had gotten a start, show a little respect for his authority and he seemed to lap it up. For now at least the NCR would be in the favorable position, milking trade and tourism to the Mojave once relations cooled down a bit.
"Drink?" His host asked, making him look up from his notes again.
"Thank you." He said with a nod, watching the overlord of Vegas walk to the drink table and pour two glasses of something brownish. He had always prided himself on the way he could read people, pay attention to their body language, and Alaric was an interesting case. It was the way he moved, subtle body language, how he walked as if compensating for the holster on his hip or a backpack he didn't wear. But it was also his build, it had taken a while for McKinley to notice exactly what it was, but he'd been on edge around the man for a while at first.
It was his proportions, the limbs, the way he walked, the build of his body. It was all perfect, exactly balanced. Muscle enough to be very strong, but not enough to impact flexibility or agility. Tall enough for it to be an advantage, but not quite tall enough it would make him stand out or cause problems. A face that rode the line between handsome and beautiful, like it tried to be both but didn't want to lose either depending on how its owner wanted to be seen at that moment. Every aspect about his form was the best it could possibly be without impacting the function of something else, and all that coupled with a mind that seemed brilliant enough to make total use of it. To see him move was like watching the Vitruvian Man step off of the page, it was as if a mathematician had tried to design the perfect example of the human male by formulating equations for every physical parameter and then finding the values that made them all equal out. And it all stopped just short of being disturbing, you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it with years of experience to notice it, how he was ever so slightly better at everything than your instincts told you he should be.
There was a design in his body, it was artificial if you looked close enough, most telling was the scars, or total lack of them. He knew that the man before him had been shot twice in the head and left for dead, and then had spent months fighting through things no living being should have survived. Grievous injuries, close calls, exploring blighted places no sane man should ever venture to, and yet his skin was unblemished. He knew there were rumors about possible surgical alterations being made at a clinic run by the Followers, he'd have to look into that more in the future.
"Something troubling you?" Alaric asked as he took the drink, nursing it for the moment.
"No, simply considering the implications of all this. There's going to be one hell of a dustup when all this gets worked out back home."
"Perhaps, perhaps." They sat together for a long moment, looking to their drinks, two men who might have been friends if their worlds didn't set them against each other, each trying to pry apart the other's lies as they hid behind their own. "To possibilities." Alaric said after a moment, raising his glass.
"To the future." McKinley responded, sealing the negotiations with the clink of glasses.
===Author's Note===
It doesn't seem there will be war. With the NCR. Today.
Tomorrow? Who the hell knows.
Reviews appreciated.