Chapter 1: On the Tram
28th of March, 2289
It has been seven years since the Legion's fated attack on the Hoover Dam, it has been seven years since a courier carved a nation in the desert basin of Nevada, free of NCR or Legion rule.
The war for Hoover ended not in the death of a Legate and general, but in a stern talk, a handshake, and a sigh.
A tribunal was formed, carved from the three houses, those still loyal to the Courier. The hands of the oligarch have kept the water flowing, have kept the doors to the Boneyard open. Peace was achieved with the NCR, however strained it may be - It didn't matter. Not when the caps kept rolling in and the securitron army secured their dominance for the time.
For seven years, this peace was not challenged - The Courier's demands were swift enough, Vegas was to be free. The NCR would be provided water and power as a commercial resource and they are to be leased McCarran as at a fee, the Courier understood that Hoover was not the lynchpin, the be all end all.
There would be more to come, there was no point in arguing over that. The war against the Legion would continue to rage all along Nevada and California, and the now Semi-Autonomous Economic Zone of Vegas was complicit in allowing it to do so. They had no intention of hampering it, the Legion was still… An enemy of the SAEZ. The Legion often didn't see the value in business with the Houses.
So, for seven years, the NCR has languished in a weakened state within the Mojave, focused on their other borders with the Legion, allowing the Mojave to turn into a series of proxy wars between them and the Legion, vying for control while the Houses continue to draft a profit from the scattered bones of mercenaries.
The Brotherhood controls Helios, the Legion watches from the banks of the river, and the NCR feels humiliated as their people begin to growl for food and yearn to stretch again. For seven years, they have waited, for seven years Kimball has held onto a thread, for seven years… The NCR has waited for anything.
Times were… Hectic. That's a good word for it. If you believed some of the reports, the Legion were beginning to mobilize against the Colorado again - Though, again, depending on who you ask, it could be a simple internal strife among a vassal… The NCR was pooling troops in the Outpost, though, reinforcements for McCarran caught and ensnared in a tangled knotted web of red tape - But reinforcements regardless. And, of course, theirs were always those who chafed under the idea of the Brotherhood patrolling Highway 95 and I-15, seven years and the NCR still points fingers at the tribunal trying to draft some kind of connection between the two.
Times were certainly hectic. There was no way to dodge around it, it even seemed to bleed into the Big Horn Saloon.
The dimly lit saloon was a veritable sea of drunken laborers, tourists, grifters, and a single table of soldiers waiting for the next train out of here. The Houses might have taken the dam, but California kept the railroads.
The saloon seemed to barely even notice the newcomer, deafened and dulled by cheers and jeers - The mixture of wonderful winnings and the broken down and defeated kept both crowds from caring about them, both were too busy drowning their own unique mixture of fortune or misery to even spare a moment to the time, let alone another mercenary in the great swimming sea of hired guns that found themselves in the Mojave - Looking to make their fortune one way or another.
Roland. That was his name, and he most certainly was a mercenary - And even though his profession was dime a dozen, he liked to at least imagine he was a little bit more memorable than the others. Something to soothe his nerves.
Roland stood at 5'10, his skin was olive - His exposed forearms bearing almost the same shade of brown as his hair that was cropped close to his head, buzzed down. He was, wholly, unremarkable. He was a man in trousers, steel toe boots, and a blouse with, at least, a steel plate for protection. He wasn't a hardened professional soldier, he was a twenty six year old with an uzi and a need to eat… And his meal ticket was across the room from him, waving.
The mercenary waved back in kind, making his way over as he pushed through the sea of drunks and debtors, sliding into the booth. Inside were three servicemen, one looked barely in their twenties, one mid, and one easily in his thirties. The eldest was sat square against Roland, waving a small hand to the newcomer as they played a hand of caravan, causing the soldier across from them to scoff.
"I'm Staff Sergeant Davis." The man let out. He was clearly in his late thirties, and there was a gruff growl to his voice that he soothed with a sarsaparilla. He was of the older stock, the old Mojave Campaign. A jagged scar on the side of their neck helped aid in imagining Tiedrich in some ambush, surrounded by Jackals, or Khans, or Legion, or anyone else, for that matter.
"Across from me, that's Corporal Tiedrich," The corporal nodded along, smiling as he contemplated his hand of caravan for precisely a single moment before slamming down a card.
"And that one there is Specialist Hudson." The youngest seemed to almost squeak as they popped in their chair at the mention of their name, eyes darting between the game, to Davis, and then to Roland.
"Yes," They muttered, eyes moving between Davis and Roland like a rabbit pinned down, "I'm the one you're here to escort. Technically."
Davis sighed, taking another sip of his drink as he pondered his cards before muttering out "Technically." as they pawed out their last play.
"Right… I only got a small glimpse of what's supposed to be going on. I know it's some message? What's with marching it across the hills like this, why not… Radio? Anything?"
The Sergeant laughed, casting a glance to the merc. "Well, for starters, we don't have a landline stretching from here to Shady Sands - And we can't exactly put it in the post… So we're the next things." He gripped a submachine gun laying against his leg by the barrel rocking it around with his palm. "Two Raiders and you."
"Raiders? I… I think I've heard about you lot -"
"Cavalry." Tiedrich spat out, playing a jack. "Don't, don't get us confused with the other raiders, we're NCR Raiders. You Californian, right?"
"Reno, actually."
"Close enough, state, territory, let 'em fight out in the senate. Me and the sergeant, yeah, we're Raiders, big 'ol scary cavalry in the big 'ol scary 'assault uniforms'." Tiedrich held a smile, watching Roland.
Roland had heard of them, yes. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the frontier heard about them - The "Raider Revolt" it was called, a unit of them in '86 tried to burn down the Hall of Congress and had a standoff with MPs. Six men were hanged for that and it was always worded that the Raiders were scattered to the wind afterwards. They were cavalry deployed out in Arizona during the war - Liberating towns, burning Legion outposts, real cowboys. Freedom fighters. And now they're on…
Mail duty?
The merc bit his tongue, he knew better than to ask the men in charge of his pay what a disgraced military unit is doing on a job like this. Despite the profession, he quite liked being able to eat, but there wasn't any way around the fact that this whole ordeal felt… Strange. Roland's mind was flooding with wondering just a thousand questions about this entire job and there was hardly any way for him to hope to be able to stop that tide.
"Right… So we're, what? Taking a message straight from the top to Kimball's doorstep? What even is it?"
The soldiers all paused, looking between each other before their eyes settled two to one on Davis and he relented. Sighing, he let out "Brotherhood. Or well, that's what I know about it, and you didn't hear that from me. It's… A Knight was captured and whatever they found is with us."
"Really? Brotherhood getting clumsy enough to get snagged up like that?"
"This one was." Tiedrich snorted, "Guess they were important, too, 'cus we're carrying the whole nine yards. Package is holotape recordings, signed statement from the Major at base, signed confession, whole nine yards - Fuck, I'm surprised they didn't want a nasal and blood sample along with it. And it's all physical, too. I don't know if they want it on record or to frame it - But our orders are clear."
Roland nodded, "Brotherhood's been getting uppity, well, the whole damn place is… Not too surprised you're all interested in this."
"And you're not?" Tiedrich practically spat out, "Hell, I'd like to know damn every thought they're having - Any peace they offer is a sham and we all know that. If they could rake the desert for every loose bolt, they would, damned whatever happens to us."
The table paused for a moment, all looking between each other before Davis snapped his fingers, causing Hudson to jump a little as his head swiveled between the two Raiders, landing on Davis. The two held a single silent look before something clicked in the soldier's mind and he let out a quiet little mouse-like sound as a hand fished in his breast pocket, pulling out a wad of folded tickets as he handed them to the sergeant.
Davis thumbed them apart, handing off two tickets to each man.
"Alright," Davis let out after a quick swig of his drink. "We're going to be making two stops - Should say Boulder to the Hub and the Hub to Shady Sands. The train'll start boarding in, oh, twenty minutes? We'll only be in the Hub for about an hour, and after that, we'll be passing up through Old Fresno. We'll have a week stay in Shady Sands, but you'll be paid on delivery - Can leave on the next train if you want."
The sergeant stroked his chin for a moment, mulling over numbers in his head before he gave a half smile. "All in all, should be a 12 hour trip, all willing."
"That all sounds perfectly fine to me." Roland returned the smile. "I haven't been to Shady Sands in a while, might get myself a nice steak while I'm there."
"That's the way to think - Just, we'll be passing by the Divide on the way, it'll be boiling about now, so get the ice cold drinks you want now."
