CHAPTER 21
You Got Bugs.
Using a combination of pre-War technology- radio and communication systems that were wired to old broadcast satellites left in orbit above Earth by the United States military allowed seamless reports and information to pass fluently throughout the Enclave's territory.
For the few army facilities that still remained in relatively decent working order- daily operations left little difference to be distinguished between the U.S. Army of old and the newer Enclave- thus, Adams Air Force Base, was still very much a hub of activity in post-apocalyptic North America.
While, no- there weren't hundreds of aircraft flying around, and there most certainly weren't thousands of personnel about on the grounds, with staff cars and trucks- the activity that Adams hosted rivaled that of the Citadel in the ruins of the Pentagon for the Brotherhood.
The hangars- while ruined- had been covered with makeshift repairs over their roofs and walls- the circuitry and electrical wires that riddled the insulation of the buildings had been augmented, repaired in sections and rebuilt over.
Years of work had been put into the old Air Force facility to ensure it was running properly- or, at least adequately enough to suit Enclave needs. For while the base acted as refueling depot, repair shop, part-time manufacturer, and stowage for the Enclave Air Force- many of its buildings towards the former housing sectors were owned by the Enclave scientific bureaus.
Experiments were being carried out in the fringes of the base's interior- there was a small fleet of Vertibirds of varying type landed here, there was the M-100 Mobile Base, and currently that supported the president himself- an entire detachment of the 5th Ground Division was housed here too.
The activities of the 5th, the status and orders of the aircraft and their staffs- down to the roots of the Enclave's research into its technological and biological future- were all under scrutinizing eye of Laslar, Eden, and the Headquarters teams of said units.
Painfully- while all these branches answered to him, and were in his observation- because of the twisting snake of politicking in the Enclave's heads of state- all were under orders to accept commands only confirmed in joint agreement between all power brokers.
-Which basically meant, since, Eden was as he was- that if any of his lower officers disagreed with his word, nothing could be done on their part to enact on their divergence of opinion.
The insanity of it all was- that the Enclave had varying degrees of radicalism, ideology, culture of going about the reconstruction of a new country- and every single man and woman in the order had sworn to serve the same thing they nearly gripped each other's throats over.
"There is trepidation, in our comrades' hunches in the West Coast," Eden recited. "There are rumors that the Legion is attacking the New California Republic once more- movement of varying factions are heading north of Nevada for the Divide- a great concern -and to make the matters worse, Mutants, and Elder Mannesk's Brotherhood of Steel are squeezing control of Virginia from us. A full laundry list."
Hanging from a foldable rectangular port in the holo-table's main command room- the blue-tinged, static-laced computer monitor that literally acted as Eden's face and head- turned in expression-mimicking cocks each time the amplifiers droned out his mechanical voice.
A holographic display of North America and former Canada was a ghostly film over a large, rectangular table's top- sported from the beam of a pulsating projector light in the table's center.
Leaned over the table's rim by his armored knuckles was Laslar Sedunn- and the Superintendent felt his skin crawling the more and more he listened to the president go on. It was noticeable enough that some tight-ass from the West Coast- a voice just to enforce some Field Commander named Jameson Tolk and his opinion- had asked if he wasn't well.
Even how this representative had worded it-'If he wasn't well'- Jesus, that was the kind of talk you got from the pampered fucks up in the penthouse offices in Area-51 and the Capital Rig. Nasty shit.
It had something to do with Laslar always being in the field- he was a soldier first, officer second- and while that didn't exactly spell a lot out that his coworkers could agree on- Laslar could firmly hold confidence that nothing would be done to disrupt it.
-After all, where the hell was the big smoke going to get another elite-class, ruthless, and effective warlord like himself? Would a prospector throw away his only pickaxe into the sea? It was foolish to assume any threat really existed of such challenge.
"I realize that, in this trying time of challenges- we have lost many brave members of our ground and air servicemen branches holding back the tides of uncivilized scavengers that gather in our brief stumbling- but this butting of heads will not solve anything,"
He just has no conception of when to stop talking, and start DOING, Laslar mentally growled. Grounding fleets of airships... In preparation of what? If it's caution- than the Enclave was finished the second he dumped his brain in the Capital Rig's mainframe.
"Recently, concerns have been raised to the lacking of deployment of our air fleet- and this is one of the reasons I have summoned you all here, to elaborate on each other's opinions and discuss any possibilities of alternative action."
This should be good...
"I believe before we proceed- a few basic bits of what we know, should be on the table for us all to consider before speaking- Superintendent Seduun, if you will? Your thoughts on our setup and plan?"
God... FUCK, him. Fuck him and everything he stands for. -That was awfully contradictory- seeing as, well, Laslar was where he was- but he was too angry to really care.
"We need to divert the VB-01's for transport duty, and we need to use them as supply trains," He whipped out instantly- not even raising his bare head from its bow to the holo-table. "Deploy infantry at high-value targets with gunship AND overhead support- bypass Brotherhood movements and Mutant movements, let them kill each other. Keep a defensive perimeter around the air base and nothing else. Divert forces to assist in securing Area-51- divert the air units in Area-51 for support against the Brotherhood. Plain and simple."
In his full garb, Laslar stood two heads taller than every single man and woman who stood gathered in a small crowd around the holo-table- and, looking up with a narrowing of eyes at Eden- he now saw that all of them were divided between looking to him, or looking to the president.
Eden in his unreadable countenance- made a humming sound of consideration through the amplifiers in the computer unit.
"Anything else to add, Superintendent?"
"Yes. Our entire military strategy is wrong. Follow these procedures, and maybe we can finally redirect enough resources to keep the research departments in proper order, and we can continue to raise our population- seeing as numbers are in decline."
"Now just, if I MAY add," There was an officer to Eden's left flank- wearing the standard uniform with a drab-colored cap over his brown haired head- he was an older fellow, wrinkled- he had chiseled, and thin eyes. "-Your points beforehand are agreeable, Superintendent- but you tread thin ice with bringing up our breeding stock."
"I do now?"
"With all respect in its due, Superintendent, you aren't Enclave blood."
"-Which meant something in the age you passed from to here. We need to start thinking more expansively- to begin plugging in the varying outlets we've been able to reach with our spanning holdings... Mr...?"
"Graham Lohok," The older man gritted his teeth. "I don't appreciate such commentary."
"What? About your age?"
"Aye, Mr. Seduun."
"It's just a factor," Laslar shrugged honestly. "We have three scientific divisions that are not Enclave born- 'Client' -divisions, and they've served us well. May I remind you of the potential effect of outsiders? That one team helped us to improve our techniques on the White House's 'Bio-Weapon'- project we had taken up. They debunked the Type-III Headset."
"That project hasn't seen any results in a decade!"
"Because in our infinite wisdom, we keep siphoning the fucking funding to mothballing our airforce. And why are we doing that in a war-time situation? Does somebody know? Because I've not a damn clue."
"Please, Mr. Seduun, we'd like to refrain from becoming emotional over it."
"This entire thing has been based on nothing BUT emotion," Laslar stated. "The president says- 'Go'- and the lot of you walk off any cliffs or into any trenches in the direction he points."
"-Here is what I do NOT, understand, president Eden, sir," Another officer from the rear of the ranks shouted. "This man continues to butt-heads with your authority! And you allow him to do it! An outsider!"
"Now-now, CHILDREN," Eden chided. "Positions of our station require great group consensus- and sometimes radical experiences put our same perspectives in different eye-glasses, is all. Besides, the Superintendent is our most successful military officer- Mr. Seduun won us much in the West and Midwest."
I swear that this man- no- THING, is two faced.
"All I'm putting out there, is that mothballing the airforce will be decreasing upkeep that will no longer matter once there is nothing left to maintain. We need the weapons NOW, not later. There are Super Mutants active all over Maryland and in the city of D.C., the Brotherhood Chapter here is constricting our travel radius, and there are rampant movements of all kinds of armed militants around every single holding of ours- perhaps, not counting bases in Nevada." Laslar pointed at the East Coast on the holo-map put between all of them on the table. "If we can dominate the East, the West won't last long."
"Where do we acquire the manpower?" Eden asked.
"Did I say this would be quick? This is healing a scabbed wound. We maintain defensive with high-priority offensive strikes, we utilize our entire airforce- we replenish the losses after we establish a superiority position over all others."
"And how would we mimic this tactic you are envisioning all at once?"
"You've heard what I've said, and I didn't rant on about it for longer than a few minutes. It's simple- it's so simple I explained it in seconds. If there is anything I learned in Texas, it's that small problems get bigger with age- and that small advantages, become huge advantages.
Ask the Brotherhood- after all, they're divided by Chapter because of over-thinking in their ranks."
Eden made another humming sound- and someone in the room was tapping their fingers on the rim of the holo-table- but Laslar had his gaze locked to Eden's screen, thus he didn't root out the culprit.
The president activated something on the holo-table's panel with a small, electronic bleeping. The map of America and Canada flittered away- and in its place was a translucent, blue, representation of the Type-III Headset ring that Laslar had mentioned before- part of the old project he had temporarily held charge over.
It was a thing from his past, he squinted at Eden when it was brought up.
"What's that for?" He asked.
"If you think, that you can change the direction of the Enclave so easily, as just one man," Eden suggested. "Perhaps you can start... Smaller?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The old Bio-Weapon research project- all it did was prove the Type-III did not work on the subjects in the way we wanted. Find me a solution, find US, a solution- the extra soldiers would surely make your goal easier."
"...Always scrounging, buying time, Eden."
"Pardon?"
"God damn you."
"Anyone else, Laslar, would be held accountable for such words."
"But it's me, and where the hell are you going to find another ME?"
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"That conceded, self-absorbed, power-hungry FUCK!"
BM
"-I would be better off staging a coup'! Risking civil war- the Enclave will be driven to the dirt under that machine's word! Damn it! God-FUCKING damn it!"
BM-BM
"-NOW, I've been tasked. He uses deployments to delay my word, to delay what I'm saying, because what I'm saying makes sense!"
"What you're saying, challenges Eden's leadership. You think Eden will give up office over YOU? I don't think a day goes by where Eden doesn't regret having you brought to the rig years ago."
"Well FUCK him!"
One of the many stowage lockers in the quarters barracks now had three sizable dents put in the gritty surface as Laslar vented his rage on the door- his bare fists, not even bruised- leaving knuckle-shaped marks.
The jumpsuit over Lalsar's form was practically glistening with how much he was sweating- his face was red, and his brows thinned, compressing over his eyes. Every now and again he'd sneer at the air- and he'd been pacing in the barracks chamber for several minutes now.
Sergeant Luft was seated on his cot- fiddling with an old, wooden cigar box that he kept his favorite smokes in- he ran his thumb over the top, brass lock on the bottom chin of the box as he spoke with his leader.
Laslar stepped over to the containment pod that had his armor hung inside of it- a glass receptacle capped with silver with a drab-colored rear wall inside that was laden with suspension cables and pylons to keep the parts of the Power Armor frame from shifting.
Glancing through his reflection in the glass- Laslar and his chiseled features, his pale white skin, his muscular body that appeared to have slabs of lead or titanium wrapped over bones to simulate his strength- they were not what he looked to, to view himself.
He locked gaze with the green lenses of his helmet- and the more and more he stared at it, the more and more he felt like he had removed his real face, his identity- and was letting it hang inside the pod overnight.
"This is a disaster. The Enclave is going to crumble."
"It's amazing how much you care," Luft shrugged- his darker skin contrasting against the pure white sheets of the cot he sat on. "The entire staff was wrong about you."
"From when?"
"From the beginning."
"How so?"
"Multiple ways. Some detrimental, some beneficial."
"If the Enclave goes, we ALL go."
"That's true."
"...Eden wants me to restart a project,"
"I heard."
"-It's the Bio-Weapon one. The one they dug up out of the vaults in the White House."
"Deathclaw experiments?"
"Deathclaw creation."
"You were head of that project."
"I was. Eden's putting me in a prime directive. He's giving me full access to the 7th Division."
"But they're in New England."
"That's where they're sending me."
"What's in New England?"
"The 7th claims an old test subject, of mine, is still loose and free, and that it's killed some of their guys."
"...Is this a person?"
"Heh," Laslar sighed. "KIND of."
"Why hasn't this been a priority before?"
"It was a side project," Laslar snorted, turning from the containment pod. "When she broke out I couldn't imagine the little shit surviving more than a day. Turns out I was wrong- turns out, the Science Divisions have had elements of the 7th chasing her for years."
"How many years are we talking about?"
"God knows- close to a decade. They haven't gotten this close before. No one was killed, before."
"So now it's your problem?"
"Eden, made it my problem."
"Sir, not for nothing, but this could work out more favorably towards yourself. Eden grabbed the hook, but the Science Division hung it there. Help them solve that issue, and, who knows... The Science Division may hold some kind of strange kinship."
"OR, they could use the results to turn over to Eden."
"...Or that, yes."
"The Enclave's a crapshoot, and it wasn't always a crapshoot."
"You prolonged the old age of prosperity," Luft mused. "But all big, heavy, and bloated things must hit the ground someday."
"...I suppose my aerial operation is to be canceled."
"You're worried about civil war only NOW? Your plan before would've outright evoked it."
"Going against Eden's orders?"
"Going against Eden's orders, AND using Capital Rig assets to land in the Citadel," The Sergeant raised a brow. "What were you thinking?"
"For the Enclave, and for myself. We tell no one. Those plans never happened. They were never plans."
"Uh-huh."
"...This'll be interesting, anyway, I suppose... I haven't been to Boston in years."
"Mm."
"So now, I need to wrangle a bull to get my sword," Laslar turned around, and punched the locker door for a fourth time- BM -"-What. The. FUCK!"
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In the daylight, Sanford was able to walk around the exterior of the town with a bit more comfort to his step, now holding the fully loaded SMG, with spare ammunition available from his belt and his rucksack.
The town was still hauntingly silent- and, it seemed apparent that he and the Deathclaw had gone around killing so many of the roaches, that their numbers this time around were starting to thin.
So that's what Sanford did to preoccupy himself for a few hours- he'd go from house to house, and he'd step on, squash, smash, rip-in-two, every single Radroach in the buildings with his gauntlets and boots. Now, as he was thoroughly coated in insect guts on his heels and fingers- the Deathclaw followed him around and usually resorted to watching the slaughter, as she could not fit in most of the structures Sanford entered.
"Do we really have time for this?" She muttered to him at one instance- and she said it low, because Gerald had taken it upon himself to start walking around and helping him kill roaches for the sake of it. "We have our own priority, monsieur'."
"What priority is that?" Sanford asked with an obviousness of dumbness. "Finding Hancock? I thought you hated Hancock."
"I... DO," She snarled. "But I know his demise would be intolerable for you."
"I guess you really do plan on sticking around," He smiled at her under the helmet. "That's freaking awesome."
"...Mm."
"Look, Han's either gone already, or he's looking for us in turn- and if I know Han', he's headed for our home, the old gas station, remember?"
"...Mm."
"I'll help these folk out- it's what me and Han' do when we come across it. You'll get used to it."
"If you insist, monsieur'."
"Yep."
"-Hey, uh... Sanford?" Gerald interrupted from a few feet away, behind them. "You ever have problems with the Minutemen?"
"Who? Those militia folk?"
"Yeah, man."
"They don't like freelancers unless they OWN the freelancers. Me and Han' have had scuffles, but... No shooting or nothin'."
"That's good."
"Why?"
"The settlers are under their protection contracts- recent stuff, from what I've heard."
"They know about this roach problem?"
"So they've said," Gerald shrugged, toting his SMG two-handed across his gut. "Bigger problems I guess..."
"If the Minutemen do show up," Sanford talked to the Deathclaw now. "You need to hide. Head for the outskirts of town, I'll find you."
"...I don't like that idea," She frowned. "Those militia runts have shot at me before, who says they won't shoot at you if they find out I'm with you?"
"Then I'll deal with it," Sanford reasoned. "They'll be less inclined to shoot a guy in Power Armor who puts his weapons away, and tries to talk to them- in the stead of, well... YOU."
"Touching."
"Sorry, but it's the truth. The Minutemen are tight asses. Anything they don't have tabs on, makes them edgy- democratic control freaks, what a combo."
"Do you think they'll arrive, Sanford?"
"I... I actually hope they don't. It couldn't be that ironic, right? They show up on the random day we do TOO, I mean... That's the crap you read in bad fantasy books..."
"...Speaking of books, you still have the ones we found?"
"Uhm... YES, yes I do," He mused in revelation- leaning down to check under the flap of the rucksack. "You want one?"
"The Greek one."
"Alright, one Mythology tome coming up..."
"-HEY!" Gerald chimed in- watching with wide eyes as Sanford pulled out the tan-colored, worn, and aged book whose cover had whittled away. "That's from Fred's old library! You took his books too?"
"I didn't know they were Fred's," Sanford shrugged. "Do you... Want it back?"
"No-no! I was just... It's funny... Ironic, eh? Yeah if you want 'em, take 'em, it's not like I have time or he can even process the English language on paper anymore... Old books, man."
"I'll take them home, give them a brand new shelf. But first- you wanna' read this one." He handed the book to the Deathclaw- who, watched his outstretched gauntlet, and then raised her palms to twiddle her fingers- and their nails -at him.
Sanford's smile started to fade, and he looked down at her claws, and sighed.
"Oops."
"...I didn't even think of it." She huffed. "I'm so stupid."
"Nah, honest mistake- hey, Gerald, I'm gonna' join my friend here for a walk, you feel alright checking the last few buildings?"
"Yep, I'm good. Only done this a thousand times, man..."
"Are we making a dent? We've killed at least a thousand of them."
"They all come back after a few days whenever me and Fred clear HALF the place, I'll give ya' this- you're quick, man."
"Thanks."
"See ya', brother."
Gerald went off course from the street they had been on- and Sanford gestured for a porch nearby, similar to the one on Fred's apparent house that they had taken the books from.
The Deathclaw grunted as she bent down and sat on the stairs with a creak of wood- adjusting her long legs to get somewhat comfortable. Sanford leant on one of the two beams that supported the overhang on either side of the stairs' top- the whole house creaked from the weight on just the one spot.
Glancing nervously- he sighed at his jumpiness.
"I seem to have a habit of smashing everything I touch now, with this thing..." He patted the breastplate with his free gauntlet- giving off tiny, metal pings.
"I'm sure it's fine, monsieur'."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Why are we here this time?"
"I'll help you turn the pages and open the book," He said with a grin. "I'll be your- 'Personal Page-Turner'- ha!"
"You don't... HAVE, to..."
"I didn't have to do a lot of shit that I wound up doing," He shrugged. "Doing the right thing keeps my humanity. My coping mechanism, I guess."
"That's very modest of you, but, really... It's a bit... Much."
"...Do I look like I care?" He chuckled. "Let's go, c'mon."
He put down the SMG, took the book back out of the rucksack, and carefully flipped the cover open to the first page- the metal tabs on the tips of his fingers sliding against the paper noisily with each flip.
He held it- pinching both sides of the book, and she carefully reached upwards and cupped the spine in her open claw- musing at how small the tome looked in her large, scaly, reptilian hand.
She bent her head down more, squinting, and laid her eyes on the first words she had seen, in years and years of time. It was just big enough for her enhanced eyesight to decipher- but she still felt swimmy, a bit lightheaded trying to configure the paragraphs she saw.
It was an OLD book- this was more than 200 years old. It had faded prints of oil paintings in it to go along with the words- the cover page and glossary had a depiction of a photograph, showing a stone statue of a man with goat legs from the hip down.
She raised a brow, and snorted at it.
"...What's with THAT, monsieur'?" She nodded.
"I think that's called a Satyr," Sanford squinted too, leaning past her one shoulder. "Greeks came up with some weird stuff."
"...Mm..."
"...Do, uh... Do you need help...?"
"...With...?"
"...With... Reading... It?" -He expected a slap, or a cuff on the dome- maybe just a snort. But she just blinked up at him, shook her head, and bent back down to read.
Leaning back from it- Sanford supported himself on the column beam behind him and sighed- closing his eyes as he faced the street ahead.
The three of them hadn't cleared the entire town- it was pretty big, from what Gerald had told them, and by what they had seen. The settlers that lived nearby had a makeshift camp and lodging set up in some old apartment complex nearby- it was close enough that you could see the building in detail not even a mile away on the northern outskirts of the development.
The town was built nearby a railroad station and unloading yard to the west- and then to the east was the old farmlands, and that was where he and the Deathclaw had come from.
Two-hundred years had erased so much of the structuring that people had made on the East Coast- because it was already in disrepair to begin with, and people were moving away, and old farms and plantations started to become a thing again.
Terrible what man had done to this world. Terrible.
Thousands of years humanity had spent building itself up to technological Godhood- all for what? To blow themselves the hell up. Something was wrong with his species- for all the good people that existed, something was just so wrong- and the scary part was, it was part of man's nature.
Sanford thought about it like that sometimes- a philosophical rant in his own head. He played with his tongue between his molars and exhaled.
"Page." She muttered behind him. "Please."
"Mmhmm."
He bent down- took the book, flipped to the first page and went wide-eyed at the huge introduction paragraph inside, and laid it back in her open palm.
The Deathclaw receded away shyly and kept on reading.
It was probably a blow to her pride- needing help to operate a BOOK. He didn't blame her for being so evasive of prolonging each page-turn exchange.
"Page."
"That was fast... You skimming?"
"PAGE."
"Alright-alright."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"...So, uh... What'chya' reading about-?"
"...Page."
"...Yep..."
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