Luis Gizmo scratched his belly as he walked slowly, panting heavily, through the Strip. It was very different from Junktown. There were many bright, gaudy casinos, and hookers danced luridly in the street. It was like his little criminal den writ large.
Two of his guards had preceded him, stepping to either side of the door of the Lucky 38 to let him in, secretly wishing he would move faster. A small procession of men followed behind him. Gizmo's small, piggy eyes leered at the large metal machine that stood by the door, wondering why anyone would give it a smiling hillbilly face. He kept silent.
"Welcome, Luis," said the robot in a well-synthesized drawl. "The Courier is expecting you."
He nodded, smiling briefly, and walked into the poorly lit casino. Sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, there was a tan, pockmarked man of indeterminate age, next to two older gentlemen, playing a card game. The three of them were unarmed and rather calm, considering how much muscle Gizmo had moved into the casino. He observed their game, and couldn't recognize the rules, knowing only that it wasn't poker or blackjack.
"Hello," said the tan man.
"You must be the Courier?" he said, in a deep, gruff voice cultivated by years of cigar smoking.
"Yes," he replied calmly, in a mild Hispanic accent. "Mr. Gizmo, I assume?"
"Yep. Good to meet you." He extended a large hand, and the Courier shook it, grasping his thick, calloused fingers with his own.
"As you know," began the Courier. "The leaders of one of the Strip families have been killed."
"How awful," said the larger man, trying not to sound too deliberately sarcastic.
"The two most important members, Nero and Sal, were murdered in their own office a few months ago," the Courier lamented as he remembered with no real sadness the splatters of Omerta brain on the wall from Cachino's double barreled shotgun. "And their next in line, Cachino, was stabbed by a hooker."
Gizmo felt a mild twinge of nervousness at hearing how treacherous the place was.
"That's… unfortunate. Guess these robots aren't all that good at their jobs, eh? I got good men who'll never let that happen."
"This didn't happen because my Securitrons were inept. Both of these attacks happened from the inside. You better hope your good men are loyal."
"Hey, don't worry about it," he said, throwing up his arms. "My guys have always been my friends."
The Courier nodded, and then walked over to a cabinet, withdrew an old white box with yellowed corners, and opened it up. Six fat, dusty, very old cigars fell out. He offered one to Gizmo, who picked one up. After examining it to make sure it didn't crumble into powder, he had a guard light it, and then inhaled about a fourth of it. He closed his eyes, and then breathed out the hot, mellow smoke.
"This ain't bad," he said. "So tell me, wassup with this place? I hear you got some boss you never see. Sure seems like everyone answers to you."
"My boss is a visionary," said the Courier, putting the cigars away. "The other families on the Strip owe a lot to me."
"I see. Not really my business. So if I'm taking over for these O-mer-tas, is there some specific way you want me to run things?"
"The Omertas were sleazebags. You went to the Gomorrah for the whores and the booze. They were also dangerous as hell. You cheated them or pissed them off, they hunted you down and killed you."
"I know deadbeats. They won't be a problem."
"It gets worse. They killed innocents. They also tried to take over the Strip. It wouldn't have worked, but these men were sharks. I would avoid making the same mistakes that they made."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"You're from NCR, correct?"
"Yep. I own a casino in Junktown. Been there since my great-grandfather choked to death on iguana kebabs."
"So you're mostly dealing in gambling?"
"We also got a boxing place and we run a little Jet. Business ain't been real good since the cure got spread around 30 years ago, though. Got worse when NCR really started putting their boot up our asses."
"Is that why you want the Gomorrah?"
"Pretty much. The NCR's got these laws against gambling and drug use. They also have lots of men, and now they're all coming home. Since they lost the war, and Kimble and his dickhead General are political pariahs, the new guys are focusing on their fuckin' moral crusade against all the "bad influences of the underworld"."
"The Strip will be a different experience for you. People who come here-they're high-rollers. Securitrons make sure that anyone who comes here has at least two grand in caps on them. Also, you'll get lots more traffic. Your revenue here will make your old place in Junktown look like nothing."
"I like this. I like where this is going," said Gizmo, rubbing his hands together.
"But you always give half of that to us. We allow you to operate here, safe from the oppressive boots of the NCR or the depredations of lawless raiders. And we give you the cream of the gambling crop, no riffraff. So you owe a lot to us as well."
"I have no problem with this whatsoever."
"Good. Send over a few dozen of your men if you want. I'll tell the remaining Omertas that there will be a change in management. Be nice to them; most of them will be your problem now."
"Make a tourniquet, like I showed you."
The large, mohawked Khan looked sternly at the well-mannered man in the clean white scrubs.
"Here, let me do it."
Gannon moved toward him. Regis pulled his arm away, then quickly tried to wrap the gauze around his wound himself, with his other hand. He made a clumsy triple knot, then stared at Gannon again.
"Well, that looks like it'll work."
"I didn't think Nightstalkers would have made it this far north, that quickly," said Regis.
"They're apex predators. They go wherever they want."
"Thanks for the help," he said reluctantly as he walked off to the fields. A younger, blonde woman called to him.
"Arcade! Papa Khan wants to talk to you."
Gannon packed his medical equipment into his bag and headed across the broad, open plains to the large, two-level yurt in the center of the settlement. There were several armed Khan guards on all sides of it. Two of them who guarded the door recognized him, and let him in.
There was a ring of scarred, older men sitting around a large, square wooden table. Their submachine guns were still in their holsters, and they all had at least one knife hanging somewhere. Here and there, there were white-clothed followers advising the Khans.
One man with a thick beard, who sat on a chair made of Brahmin bone, looked up and saw him. He motioned for him to come over and sit.
"You're Mr. Gannon, right?"
"Yes, we briefly met in Red Rock Canyon." He sat on the fur-lined chair next to the Khan leader.
"Tell me about your friend, the Courier."
Couldn't he go five minutes without having to think about him?
"He was a barrel of enigmas. Maybe chamber pot is a better way to describe him. Maybe I'm just a little mad about what he did, after everything we've been through."
"Why did he betray you?"
"He didn't exactly BETRAY me… he just made it seem like HE was going to take over. He kept telling me these bold little plans to remove corruption and reduce taxes and give everyone a say, and etcetera. I should have known he was a liar, like anyone who calls himself a statesman. Then I find out he does it for that ghost in the Lucky 38."
"It doesn't sound like there's anything you could do to stop them."
"The thing is, he never talked about House. On occasion, he would go into his big personal penthouse, and he wouldn't let anyone follow. Apparently they communicated often. None of us ever knew about the extent of their partnership."
The older man took a large bite of his roasted mole rat-leg, flecks of greasy meat falling into his beard. He drank deeply from his clay water-cup.
"I don't think it's that big a deal," he said, eyeing the doctor. "The last four years have taught me that grudges don't help anyone, they just drive you into making stupid decisions."
"I don't have a grudge. I have a legitimate reason to hate the Courier."
"Look. If the Courier didn't do what he did, New Vegas would probably be under Legion control. And they would have no use for you, you know. You'd probably be crucified."
"I have nightmares where Caesar makes me his personal physician, and the idiot blathers about his pseudo-intellectual crap all day, and the only way out is suicide. I'd much rather be crucified."
"Okay. I don't know what that's all about…" he stood up. "Anyway, we-and Benny-basically tried to kill him. In return, he revealed the Legion's plan to use us as cannon fodder, and then as slaves. So we left, instead of dying against the robots."
"He only did it to get you out of the way. He used you, like he used us."
"He got us to leave that shithole in Red Rock Canyon and come here. You don't know it, but we were stagnating there. We had to trade chems with those fuckhead Fiends to survive. That's no way for the Great Khans to grow and prosper as a people. It was a long journey, and we'll miss the Mojave, but this was the best thing to ever happen to us."
Gannon stood up and faced the larger man.
"Those were unintended consequences. WE, the Followers, are the ones who labored-for practically free-to help your clan survive out here. We taught you how to plant and raise crops, and how to pave roads. The hard work. If it wasn't for us…"
Papa Khan looked at him, not blinking or moving at all.
"You don't think we could survive on our own?"
"I-no, that's now what I meant."
The Khan leader sat down, then said nonchalantly, "let it go, man." Gannon breathed out silently.