Chapter 12: Terra Incognita

"But goodness alone is never enough. A hard, cold wisdom is required for goodness to accomplish good. Goodness without wisdom always accomplishes evil."

~Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

The pale, sassy redhead pulled the brim of her tattered hat further down to shade the skin of her freckled face until it was entirely cast in shadow. It almost hid the scowl which marred the otherwise pretty face.

"Why do I let myself get roped in with you anyway? And why is the whiskey always gone?" The young woman bemoaned, letting the amber bottle fall from her fingers dejectedly.

Paul Maxson smirked at her, earning a harsh glare from the mildly hung over Rose of Sharon Cassidy.

"It had something to do with waving this in your face." He replied, brandishing another bottle so that its contents sloshed around inside.

"Careful with that," Cass snapped, "and that ain't entirely it. Just part of it."

Paul tossed the bottle at her, which Cass deftly scooped from the air with a grunt. Though it was true that the whiskey he had promised her was the sweetener for the deal, the real reason the lovely Whiskey Rose accompanied him and Veronica was the promise of his aid in her revenge against Alice McLafferty and Gloria Van Graff, the leaders of the Crimson Caravan and Silver Rush respectively.

The two had colluded with one another to eliminate competition to the caravan enterprise with typical wasteland violence. Her own slaughtered caravan was but one of many that the ruthless alliance had put down in recent months.

Though the Courier thought that compiling damning evidence against the two conspirators and making sure it ended up in NCR hands was the right way to go, she had a more final and violent solution in mind.

Veronica was unusually silent this trip, the plucky young woman was usually an endless source of banal chatter as they travelled. But lately the young Brotherhood procurer had been distinctly laconic. She had barely muttered three words since they left the Mojave Outpost earlier that day. Despite the amusing distraction offered by Cass's complaints, he remained worried about what could have dampened his companion's innate and inexhaustible optimism.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself to pry in the young woman's troubled mind when the hair rose inexplicably on the back of his neck and a light shiver ran down his spine. He had come to learn, some would say the hard way, to not ignore that particular signal and immediately dropped to his stomach along the highway.

His companions, themselves well-travelled veterans of the Mojave, didn't question his sudden change in stance and immediately dropped down themselves.

To either side of the highway ahead of them loomed the shattered remnants of buildings known to locals as the Nipton Road Pit Stop, barely visible through the haze of dust laden wind howling its way across Ivanpah.

Straining their eyes, the trio could make out the silhouettes of several people huddled in the scant shelter provided by the destitute ruin. Pulling binoculars from his pack, the Courier waited until the wind abated enough to offer some clarity. Peering through the dirty lenses, he made out the ratty armor and threadbare clothes of what could only be members of the Jackal gang. Like the Vipers, the Jackals were once a powerful raider gang before the NCR showed up and crushed them beneath the weight of their conscripted military. Now they huddled in places like this, ambushing the occasional unwary traveler and eking out a subsistence level of existence, a pale shadow of their former strength.

He considered it a mercy, a bullet to the head of a diseased brahmin, to put down the raiders wherever he encountered them. Considering the alternative was to be killed and robbed himself, he was very cavalier in this attitude, with the lone exception of the Viper he had let go at Bonnie Springs.

He fixed Veronica with a determined look and tilted his head in the direction of the Jackals, she nodded her understanding and low crawled off the road and began to angle towards the waiting raiders, keeping the buildings between them to block their line of sight. Cass charged her lever-action shotgun, nodding to the courier to signal her readiness. Like Veronica, she moved off but on the opposite side of the road. Maxson took up the middle, hefting the Survivalist's rifle and shifting its stock into his shoulder.

Hunger gnawed painfully at the young raider's stomach and the damn wind kept blowing grit into every crevice it could find. Donna had said that some travelers were coming down the road, otherwise, the crew would be holed up somewhere else. But then, they'd still be hungry. Since the NCR stopped caravan traffic at the Mojave Outpost, pickings had been very slim. He really hoped that this group was well-provisioned, maybe even a pack Brahmin that they could carve up and roast into steaks. The Jackal closed his eyes wistfully, almost smelling the succulent beef roasting over an open pit. Those thoughts ghosted a small smile on his lips even as he fell, a neat hole bored into the side of his skull and the other side completely missing, flaps of torn skin flapping around the now empty cavity.

The others leapt up as their companion fell, one of them now drenched in the blood and brains of their erstwhile fellow. Hefting a crude sledge, the first of them identified the shooter and charged. His angry roar turned into a surprise yelp as a figure materialized just to his left, his confused expression frozen on his face even as a power fist smashed into his chest cavity and blasted him several feet away.

Pandemonium broke out as the angry retort of an assault rifle hammered 12.7mm rounds into the confused group, a power fisted dervish laid into them with an almost berserker rage and the thunderous percussive blast of a shotgun smeared their ruin onto the pavement. In moments, the lopsided battle was done and the small band of interlopers littered the side of the road as nothing more than food for the carrion birds.

The trio, with well-practiced expertise, searched the corpses. Admittedly, the haul from the destitute Jackals was rather meager, none of their weapons being worth the name and save for a small handful of caps, carried nothing else of value. Cass grimaced as she wiped some blood away onto a Jackal's shirt, cursing that the raiders hadn't even had any liquor on them. The late afternoon sun showed them no remorse and still hastened to meet its own slumber far to the west while they worked, their efforts evolving from looting to ridding themselves of the cloying gore.

Veronica made a noise of satisfaction as she smashed the meager lock on a crate and discovered a small cache of explosives within. Slipping them into her satchel, she looked up at her companions when a faint electronic song issued from the courier's wrist.

Maxson brushed some bits of bone and blood from his pip-boy when the device chirped at him insistently. It rarely made that particular noise and it always portended trouble when it did. With a sigh as the courier surrendered to his curiosity, he flipped and turned the controls to find a signal coming from the southeast. Still glued to his pip-boy, he began to wander in that general direction.

"Hey dumbass! Novac is that way!" Cass shouted after him, the exasperation in her voice very clear despite the wind's attempt to drown it out.

"Something… this way." He called back, distracted.

Cass rolled her eyes and cursed before seeing to it that her hat was still square on her head before following after the troublemaker. Veronica, just as distracted as the courier, but for an entirely different reason, merely shrugged and followed after the vulgar redhead.

Sunlight had long failed by the time they reached the source of the signal. They were taken aback at the odd contraption before them. A strange device lay on the desert floor, numerous shiny armatures extending out from it at odd angles and an image of an ever-moving eye projected onto the large wall of the Mojave Drive-in. The courier waved them back away from it as he crept closer to where the image was being projected from. He knelt beside the device and reached out for it when he was suddenly bathed in a bright blue light. Cass and Veronica shielded their eyes from the sudden glare and tried to blink away the after-image. Once their vision cleared, they were astonished to find that the courier was gone! In a panic, they rushed forward to the defunct device, calling out for the courier in voices that quickly went from worried to panic.

The Terran camp was a bustle of activity, scores of people smiling as they carried on the work of expanding the compound under the direction of the two Terran engineers. High up on the 3rd level of the command center, Louise monitored the power distribution and material processing from her consoles. She was becoming much more adept at her job under the continuing tutelage of the adjutant and even helped train several of the other new recruits. Louise stood up and looked out the armored windows onto the compound below. Four supply depots hummed with industry as they produced ammunition, food, medicine, even clothing for the camp. The square barracks housed the growing number of marines while a series of modular habitats took form to provide living space for the people coming to call this place home.

The commander noted the local woman taking in the scene of the bustling camp and smiled to himself for a moment before turning his attention back to the tactical plotter. It outlined the basic state of affairs of the camp as well as listed reports from Lt. Weyland, WO Bourgeois, Sgt Petreko and the engineers Luca and Dominic. He tapped the report from the engineers and studied it for perhaps the 20th time, fingers tapping the plexiscreen in consternation.

It showed the survey results from the detailed scan taken over the immediate area. It showed no trace of vespene, and without that strategic resource, they were unable to construct a vehicle factory or a starport. Without vespene, they were landlocked. Without vespene, they were limited to where they could reach with their own two legs. He knuckled his forehead as he reviewed Sharon's own analysis, which at least provided a marginal hope of modifying the local's fusion technology to adapt for Terran use. Still, at least they were more secure here now, with a dozen fully kitted marines and another medic to augment WO Bourgeois. Asher as always was out and about doing whatever it was Spectre's did, though refugees he had brought back from his last excursion was a very welcome and eager addition to their manpower.

Another point of good fortune, Sgt Petreko's patrol had yielded some friends. They had liberated a nearby settlement called Primm from some escaped convicts, that many of them were probably dregs from the purge his own forces had conducted was not lost on him. One of the newest SCV operators, declared trained by a proud Luca, was sent off with a marine to begin construction on a small encampment to act as their forward HQ. At least minerals were not a problem, the area was rich with derelicts that could be harvested for their base components and reconfigured for the Terran's needs. Captain Johnson considered sending further patrols out, perhaps after sending Meyers out to take command of the new outpost at Primm.

Still, the courier was due back any day now and together with his companions, they would attempt to treat with the Brotherhood of Steel again. The Commander was still rancorous over the attempted murder of one of his men, but was pragmatic enough to realize that an armed conflict against a foe who nearly matched the Terrans technologically, at least in infantry terms, was not in his people's best interest. Still, Captain Johnson was not convinced that the zealous fanatics could be brought to the peace table, despite the benefit such an arrangement could have for them both. He just couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something terrible was coming. He sincerely hoped that it was simply nerves at being in so foreign an environment and not an omen of the future.

The flames dancing in the braziers cast ominous shadows against the inner surface of the high walled tent. One could almost imagine shadowy armies rising and clashing against one another before being swept away like a wave by another rippling scene of dancing darkness. The scout let his eyes linger on the scene played out with shadow and canvas, his mind conjuring carnal images of brutality. Anything to distract him from the overpowering presence of the feared Legate Lanius. He had let his eyes wander once, settling upon the pleasing shapes of the slaves that attended the Monster of the East, but lust quickly descended into disgust and fear when he realized that their eyes had been ripped from their faces, to keep them from ever beholding their master. He had no desire to be maimed and join their macabre ranks and so wisely kept his eyes off the fierce bronze countenance of Mars.

The elder scout had just finished reporting to the Legate of the newcomers to the Mojave, of their industry and technology. He finished by calculating that it was these people who were responsible for the recent losses of several slaver cohorts. He stayed where he had first knelt after giving his report, sweat pooling as he awaited the word from the Legate.

"Caesar would not permit one such as these to exist, therefore I will not. We will crucify their warriors and retake the Legion's rightful property." The Legate finally rumbled, his voice muffled behind his mask.

"Their weapons are mighty, Legate. Their worship of technology has tendered unto them many advantages." The scout replied, hoping that his words would not be taken as disagreement.

"It does not matter, victory shall be ours, it shall be swift, and it will be honest, purchased with blood." Lanius grunted with conviction.

"Your will, Legate."

"We must strike quickly, before those beneath the banner of the Bear can entwine them with their words and forge a union that will make our task the harder. Centurion, come forth."

A man detached from the shadows, his gold and red armor was pristine and glittered with reflected light from the braziers. His face was stern and cold, his eyes reflecting an almost dispassionate disregard for everyone save the Legate. The scout knew of this centurion by rumor only. Not as brutal as most, he nevertheless had a reputation as an unforgiving martinet and for flawlessly executing the commands of the Legate and Caesar.

"Take your century north, the scouts shall show you the way. Raze their camp, crucify their men, enslave the rest."

Centurion Vorenus slammed his fist to his chest, then threw it straight outward in the Legion salute. He turned without another word and strode from the tent as if purpose lent his limbs unnatural speed.

Slivers of pale moonlight interspersed with shadows cast by thickening cloud cover created the image of ocean waves on the desert floor. Hoping to take advantage of the illusory landscape, bands of Legion war parties left the Legate's camp, each stealing forth to create havoc all along NCR lines. Scouts bearing the insignia of the Bear noted these parties and tried their best to track their movements. The last of the groups to leave moved ponderously as though under a great burden. Over 80 slaves shackled to one another in a long line shuffled forward dejectedly, at least a score of veteran legionaries on horseback keeping watch over their wards. Behind them a Brahmin pulled wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled on squeaky wheels carrying the spoils of war. The NCR watchers, knowing how stretched resources were, decided that it was better to track the movements of the obvious raiding parties. All they could do for the hopeless slaves was to offer muttered prayers.

Preying upon the ignorance of the Bear, the bravado of their 'General Oliver' and knowing how limited their capabilities were, the slaves continued to shuffle forward, projecting the image of beaten men. But beneath their cowls and iron chains, determined faces and armored limbs turned to the north where battle with a technologically superior enemy awaited them. Armor and weapons jangled in the wagons as the fury of the Legion unhurriedly made their way to wage war against the Terrans.

"And we're back. This is Mr. New Vegas, and I feel something magic in the air tonight, and I'm not just talking about gamma radiation. The Black Mountain Radio signal is back after a long absence. Listeners say the new programming is quote: Less for outcasts, and more for weirdos."

Jacky smirked at the radio personality, before hurriedly glancing at the unflinching face of her mentor and blanking her own demeanor. They had stopped with the ominously named Black Mountain rising on the horizon to take stock.

Ashur had proclaimed that Jacky was ready for the next phase of her training, infiltration. Her task was to enter the compound located atop Black Mountain and determine the source of the strange radio transmission.

She was still reticent over utilizing these strange powers that she seemed to possess, let alone come to terms with the new paradigm under her teacher's tutelage. The man had referred to himself as a 'spectre', which was some kind of specialized psionic operative. He would train her, but her moniker would be 'Ghost', as it apparently took unique materials to become a spectre and there simply wasn't any here.

Jacky was shaken from her reverie by the not-so-gentle psionic nudge from Ashur, who had sent her a strong admonishment to be more alert. Jerking upright from the jolt, Jacky looked around and stretched out with her senses, limbering her psionic muscle as it were.

She soon realized the reason for Ashur's warning, as she felt gibbering voices whispering from the dark. They were inconstant, gibbering voices that spoke of madness and damaged minds. The only sensation from them she could read with any clarity was the overwhelming instinct to hunt and kill. Lowering her visor, she peered in the direction of the sensations and saw them, a pack of feral ghouls ambling towards their position, occasionally pausing to sniff the air or scratch at the ground aimlessly. Though the duo hadn't been spotted yet, unless they cloaked, the ghouls would be sure to catch their scent before too long.

Looking to her teacher for guidance, Ashur merely fixed her with a blank expression before gesturing towards her AGR-14 rifle.

The weapon was a beauty, its slim lines and light weight marking it as a vastly different sort of weapon than most any found in the wasteland. She ran her fingers along its pristine contours as she examined her weapon, releasing the magazine to inspect the rounds before gently sliding it back into place. Sliding the charging handle back in a single graceful movement, she lowered herself into the prone position and eyed her targets through the weapon's scope.

The rifle wasn't silenced, though it took several moments after the first ghoul fell dead before the sound of the shot echoed to the rest of the pack. With a spine tingling raspy growl, the rest of them charged towards the two operatives, their clawed fingers raking the air in eager anticipation.

She lined up the next shot, a little trickier now that the targets were moving so sporadically and sent another ghoul spinning into the dirt with the impact. Rising to a kneeling position as the ghouls got ever closer, she fired off another shot just as the ghouls reached them, the hapless creature losing its footing and sliding into her with its limbs flailing. She danced away from the scrambling ghoul and sent another shot down at it to silence it for good.

Sudden pain blossomed in her side as her breath was driven from her lungs. A ghoul had raked its claws along her side as it dove at her, her body unconsciously twisting to avoid most of the blow. She drew her knife from its sheath along her thigh and drove it into the base of the skull of that ghoul before he/she/it could recover, slamming into place and pulling it out in time to meet the next target.

She lunged low, swiping the blade horizontally ahead of her, it's razor edge opening the creature's throat and spraying her with arterial red. She turned her momentum into a spin, reversing her hold on the knife and using the last of her inertia to drive the blade into the sternum of the last ghoul. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the last ghoul scrambled weakly at her back as it fell, pulling the knife free with a fierce yank.

Crouching and turning to examine her surroundings, she couldn't help the noticeable lack of Ashur in her field of vision as well as any further targets. The spectre revealed himself with a crackle as his cloak disengaged, showing the mildly disinterested man sitting atop a boulder not far from the action. Jacky huffed as she wiped the ghoul's blood from her face and joined him, her anger dissipating at his approving nod and brotherly clap on the back.

"Nicely done. Compose yourself. It's time for your next test."

Jacky wanted to scream at him, 'test? that was a test?', but she kept her mouth closed tightly as she simply nodded. She could swear that he shook with amusement at her broadcasted feelings of frustration, which of course only increased her desire to punch the imagined smirk off his face. Before she could fully imagine the satisfying crunch of his face under her fist, he turned and loped off towards the base of the mountain, leaving her to catch up.

They headed for Black Mountain, Ashur expressing curiosity about the radio transmission they had listened to earlier. He was sure that the voices coming across the airwaves shared the same source, a deeply disturbed individual going by the name, Tabitha. The curiosity was tinged with an altruistic edge, as the speaker very clearly advocated violence against 'humans' as if the speaker was not one herself. A mystery that he intended for her to solve.

He was being held down by cold metal restraints as a cooing female voice calmly explained how he was being vivisected. He jolted up with a scream, his hands frantically brushing off the imagined, grasping metal claws. Confusion warred with the sharp pain which crisscrossed his body. Feeling oddly exposed, he looked down and found himself wearing something like a thin sheet secured in the back with a few ties. It reminded him of, what were they called? Surgery gowns? Something like that? Why was he in one? As he continued to examine his body, his alarm spiked as he found scars on his chest, puffy scar tissue meeting his fingers along his back and yet more on his head. What the hell? Finally looking around to survey his surroundings, he discovered that he was in a tower of some kind overlooking a vast crater wreathed in the darkness of midnight. Technological wonders glittered at him like the twinkling eyes of a succubus. A hazy blue force field restrained him from falling off the edge of the tower into madness, the mesmerizing vista tantalizing him, welcoming him… to the Big MT.