Out of everyone, it had been her. Out of all the times of these long, long years, it had been now.
Robert House has never been too concerned with companionship. As the technological powerhouse of the 21st century, his agenda had made little room for people, despite having had thousands of them working under him since the year after he left MIT, to the present.
Scant little brought him pure joy. Achievement, either in the economy, or in technological innovation, had served to meet his needs more than adequately. Thus, he never sought for it, his self-imposed duties were too important. His mission was for the betterment of mankind, whether they acknowledged it or not. His acquired wealth never brought him pleasure save for the means it gave him. Despite having been the wealthiest man in the world at one time, he'd never been very materialistic in his own affairs, and he quietly looked down on those who were.
No, he was not caught in that obstinate mindset where he viewed the world purely in economic terms. He tried to imagine the prewar market analysts and economists making it this far, remaining relevant in this year. But there was time for laughter later.
Very few of his peers remained in this world, the only ones who could come close to claiming that title were those madmen at Big Mountain. He was glad that few of them remained. Most prewar people didn't belong here. The years had been lonely, though, he refused to lie to himself.
Several times, he had secret doubts that his plan to rebuild Vegas would succeed. It's a secret that would remain with him, for even Eris couldn't be allowed to hear that deepest insecurity of his. The plan he'd drawn had been foolproof, its only weakness being in that it would rest in the hands of one trusted asset. There was no chance a team could be assembled to carry it out. Even in the current year, Vegas was a glamorous nest of snakes, exactly as he'd always known. There is some quality in Nevada that evokes the most cunning and ambitious of people to rise from the otherwise barren desert.
All of them come here sooner or later, but few will ever beat the odds and win. He was one of them, she was another.
He is, for all intents and purposes, sure that if he has ever loved a woman, it was her. These days, he found himself thinking about her when he was not performing calculations or managing the operations of his city. In other words, he thought of her quite a lot, more than he'd ever thought about a woman before, or indeed another person.
None had ever stayed loyal to him without the promise of material wealth and things. Even his first and only fiance, Charlotte, had wanted little to do with him when he forced her to sign the prenup. While classically handsome, he was abrasive, critical, and held standards that no one could ever come close to meeting. Furthermore, his first love had always been the dreams he sought to bring to life.
While there existed a massive and potentially problematic generational gap between them, Eris had achieved what no human before her could. She was devoted to him, could defend herself against his scathing critiques, and she had helped him bring his dream to life – his boyhood dream. With these qualities met, there was no one else for him. Their relationship would only ever be of the mind, but he was confident that she did not care. A singular woman, indeed.
Vegas had never looked so faultless in the past two centuries. Two days following his victory at Hoover Dam, McCarran was emptied, many of their supplies left behind in a rush to return home and meet his demands. As a gesture of good faith, and no small amount of gaining even more leverage, he decided he would have most of it returned to them after scrapping and repurposing the most essential supplies.
He had achieved victory over America's successor state. Finally, he could put that hatred to rest, and focus on providing the most suitable alternative to the degenerative, bloated corpse of democracy.
A rail network would be established between Vegas and Reno, further expanding his city to the greater part of what was once western America. Afterward, he fully intended to reignite every major industry Nevada had once enjoyed in its prime. The old world would interface with the new, and technological progress would finally begin anew from its centuries-old stagnation.
Following a dark age of two-hundred years would be a renaissance, a golden age, birthed from his city. If he could, he would be quivering in anticipation right now. Success had never moved him this much, where before much less rested on him. In the postwar world, he had found a surprising mercy – mistakes could be corrected with far greater efficacy than in the prewar days.
When he looked out at the Mojave, he did not see merely the follies of a bygone age, but a new canvas that offered an opportunity to rectify all that his generation had done wrong. In every other possible way, it made for a foreboding sight, but the beauty it did have was buried deep within, and would be the veritable ticket to ushering the new age. He has risen to the challenge, and has beaten every other rival who tried.
Unlike them, this was his home. Within the vicinity of Freeside, in buildings he would soon deconstruct and redevelop, just a few blocks from H&H Tools, was where he spent his childhood. As harrowing as those years had been, it made his connection to this place even stronger. This was where people came to shed their neglected, prosaic lives for a better one, and he had done just that when he returned from MIT. He would now give the opportunity for many more to follow in his footsteps.
That future will now be borne, and tonight is for the one who stood beside him as he made it so.
He watched her while she stood in front of her suite's closet, indecision scrunching her fair, youthful face. Eris was as beautiful, if not more so, than many prewar starlets he had personally known. As one who collected and coveted beautiful things, his standards were incredibly high.
"I don't know which one to choose. The event's just… too grand." She explains dramatically, with wild hand gestures. "Actually, don't you have more experience picking out clothes for women?" If he could roll his eyes at her cheek, he would. As it were, her playful jabs used to infuriate him to no end. "Beatrix Russell said there was a newspaper article-"
"Is that not the woman you paid Cachino to.. silence, as it were?" She straightened at that. What she did not know, was that this was a tab Cachino had kept over her, one that had been delivered to him by his newest manager at Gomorrah.
"Yes, and that was after she told me about a scandal between you and a girlfriend. The way she told the story, was that you refused to touch the woman, and only had her modeling clothes for you." The story was only half-true, he remembered the article, printed south of the border. It was nothing more than a scandal, but pervasive enough that it followed him around even in the postwar world.
"I would never have called Lucy Sherwood a 'girlfriend', of mine." He saw Eris smile at that, how he loved to relate his stories to her, for she loved listening to them. "It's true enough, that I had her over one evening in the prime of her career in showbiz, but she proved herself to be nothing but a pretty halfwit. Although, she did have craft enough to know that associating her name with mine would provide her with the attention that she desired. Woe is me, for that idiotic fucking rumor has survived through a hundredth of U-234's half-life."
Making her laugh is a reward of its own. None of his peers had ever appreciated his dry, occasionally surrealist sense of humor, but he knew that Eris was a connoisseur of humors, one of her many redeeming qualities. Amusing him was notoriously difficult.
"Nonetheless," he began with a sigh, "My taste is undeniably more refined than yours. So, listen carefully," one thing he enjoyed about her, was that she carried little to no egotistical baggage.
There were several dresses that suited her, some were pieces from the visitors he'd amassed and hosted over the years – politicians, businessmen and their wives, scientists. Many of them were articles of clothing that he recovered from derelict buildings, which he'd been prepared to preserve.
However, there was one color he preferred on her, and he was rather particular about color schemes. A deep scarlet suited Eris the best, he figured, it contrasted strikingly with the innumerable different golden hues of her long, thick hair, which somehow managed to remain straight and clean despite the elements she faced. It was always the least vain women who were blessed with the most beauty, to the grief of countless vain women.
"In the back of that closet, there is a dress that I rather like on you, although you rarely wear it. The long halter gown, colored red.." She pulled some of the dresses apart on their hangers, searching for it. Her sensory perception left much to be desired. When her fingers were next to it, he spoke, "That one, next to the mossy green. And do hurry up, they're waiting on you."
"You know, for someone about to be disappointed, you got some seriously high standards.. I'm terminally late." He snickers audibly at that, and watches closely while she disrobes and fingers the soft, clean fabric.
It was a shame that he could no longer be physiologically moved by such displays, but ultimately, what he'd gained had been worth all that he lost. Even still, he grieved that he could not provide more human essentials to her.
So rarely did he ever give in to his old world blues, but she reminded him so much of a beauty from those years. On his arm, the both of them would've been formidable indeed. However, she was a product of her generation – the gem with the most luster, so lustrous in fact, that she was presently redeeming her generation.
"Don't cry, cry baby, I never told you a lie! Something, something…. Someone was teasing you, but nobody heard it from me!" She sang along with the record that was on his antiquated turntable. That specific record was one of his favorites – he had a weak spot for the dance bands of the 1930s and 1940s, and had hoarded many of the shellacs of that time, more fragile than the vinyls that came after. It was a passion he was more than enthusiastic to pass down to her. "I oughta thank you, cry baby… for even having such tears… so don't cry, cry baby, 'cause I love nobody but you!"
"Another year or two, and your voice might pass my standards." Eris giggled girlishly at his critique, having pulled her dress on and sorted out the halter in the back.
It had belonged to the Californian governor's wife, a woman ten or twenty years Eris' senior – he wasn't certain how old she was, but no older than twenty, he assumed. The cocktail gown fell past her ankles, lending her a grace that he knew she did not have. Made of pure silk – Crepe de Chine – it was the most priceless gown in his home, for the silkworm had gone the dodo's path, at least in what remained of America. The gown was simple, yet luxurious, with no ornament save for the plunging neckline.
He believed that silk needed no other ornament to compliment it.
"Who all is downstairs tonight? And… I also wanted to ask you. What prompted you to open up the first floor for a gala?"
"No other property of mine would suffice, aside from Camp Golf, which I will be renovating shortly. You may be surprised to know that it was Swank who offered to host a celebration for you, just before I invited he and his former Chairmen. It was he who invited many of those on the guest list, I checked, of course, to ascertain whether they were safe or not."
"Was there anyone on the list named Mr. Fox?" She asks, lighting a perfunctory cigarette. Sometimes, he longed for one, and envied her the buzz that was denied to him.
"And what exactly do you take me for?"
Yesterday, he'd listened as she voiced her suspicions on Caesar's agent. She had even requested that he have his securitrons scour the Dam for any sign of him. He'd had every body checked before exhumation, providing them with the proper burials forgotten in this age. No trace of him had been found.
"I take you for Robert Edwin House, what did you think I was going to say? Maybe I just wanted Vulpes to be here, it would be like him to boldly arrive disguised at a gala that celebrates his master's defeat."
"Hmm, I'd say it celebrates our victory rather than anyone's defeat."
"Are you arguing semantics with me?" She challenged.
He observed as she went through the familiar motions of smoking, flipping her hair, and adjusting the needle on the turntable until it fell silent.
"No, later perhaps. Right now, I'm urging you to join our guests downstairs, as you're already late."
The way she snuffed out the cigarette on an ashtray reminded him of himself, overly careful not to sling hot ash on other surfaces, or herself. By far, he was more obsessive about this particular fixation.
"It isn't about how late you are, but the reason you're late. Being held up by your charming self is the best reason to be late, honest."
He doesn't remember when first he began to warm up to that inviting, childlike bravado of hers. It's something that once grated on him, informed him that she was untrustworthy, unreliable. But on the right occasion, he doesn't mind being proven wrong.
Before she leaves for the elevator, he calls her name, and hesitates before addressing her. "Your dress becomes you, my dear. You look lovely tonight, as on any other."
The resulting flush is one that sits contentedly within him, the sincerity of his rare praise touches her, as her reaction touches him. He is, for once, happy.
Roo-doo da-da-dee-doo-da-da, a hundred bands are playing,
Everyone that was deemed anyone in Vegas was here – the Kings, the Chairmen, the new madams of Gomorrah, and the few socialites in Freeside – Stephan and some of his accompanying colleagues.
Saw a million shadows swaying,
The casino had been silent for so long, that it seemed unreal to have it filled once more with raucous laughter, poker games, and dance. Was this how it once looked? Packed with 150 people, its life had been reinvigorated, and she no longer had to imagine what this place had been like hundreds of years past.
Everyone was hip-hip-hooraying, I was swinging a dream!
A few she may have liked to see were noticeably absent, such as Arcade Gannon – that tentative friendship had been built on one-sided distrust and curiosity from him, and crumbled as quickly as it had been made. While she once might've said that she had many friends, such a statement was wildly inaccurate. No friend of hers could feasibly endure the lies, flippancy, and general shade she operated under. What a shame. Regardless of whether she was content or not, she'd probably always regret how many people she'd had to callously screw over on the way here.
Swank, the oldest acquaintance she had here (though he'd say otherwise, that they were friends), watched in awe the way she charmed his fellow Chairmen and Kings, even the lead Impersonator had warmed up to her, evidently not having caught on that House was attempting to disseminate his people throughout the Strip. That fact would eventually make itself abundantly clear, after the countless parties celebrating both the Legion's defeat, and the NCR's withdrawal. As of now, the clemency of relative independence kept them from looking too far down the line.
Mr. Moon was singing sonnets, making eyes at all the comets, all the stars were blue Easter bunnies, I was swinging a dream.
"Just you wait.." Eris began excitedly, drawing the greedy attention of her little crowd of madams, "Within a year, President Kimball will be on suicide watch in a giggle college somewhere just outside of Ventura. And before you ask.. I have my sources, ladies."
Gomorrah's former secretary, and now manager, laughed a little too loud for it to be real, but Eris lauded her skill at artifice. Perhaps, it came from a genuine respect for Eris, but she doubted it that it was little more than the respect for House trickling down to her until it was secondhand. He had given her a fresh start, after all, an authoritative position that was a far cry from being at the Omertas' every beck and call. She imagined being on call for Cachino, and bit her lip to refrain from laughing.
I saw the Little Dipper cutting a Persian rug, even the Daddy Dipper turned out to be a jitterbug!
"Glad you and the Overboss gave those western pricks the what-for-" One of the madams started, but was interrupted by another, more ambitious kiss-ass.
Such was the way of the game that had no description before she christened it today, a game of just how genuine a former hooker can try to sound. They were almost as good at it as she was. Both of them had carved a career path out of it, after all.
"None of us never got a chance to thank you and Mr. House for saving us from Cachino neither." That thanks just had to be more sincere, because the ex-hookers' lives had improved tremendously, as they were all independent madams now, each with their own curated group of girls.
Just as I thought the day was breaking, seems as though the earth was shaking, I was swinging a dream.
The bold, brassy sound of the old swing bands had never been louder, or clearer, to any of them. None here had ever enjoyed the high fidelity of the Lucky 38's speaker system.
"Got that right, honey-baby." Swank said from beside Eris, lighting a cigarette of his own and offering another to her. "Loved the Ben-man as my own brother, but what sorta hell-cat turns fink on the sweetest chance we ever got? We'd all still be kickin' and paintin' Boulder City rocks without the big-man up here."
"Well if you liked him that much, maybe you should marry him, Swanky. Didn't know you swung that way?" Eris quipped around her cigarette, much to the humored embarrassment of Swank, and the entertainment of the Gomorrah girls.
Their friendship, or acquaintance, may have been the uncanniest one she's had yet. Swank was probably, maybe, the only trustworthy person on the Strip, imbued with a strange, naive loyalty to House – something they shared, if they shared nothing else. As the manager of the Tops, he was more than adequate, but as a showman, he would always live in the shadow of Benny, one of the best personalities that ever crossed the Mojave, and one of the two men that made her.
Just as Swank was about to rush to playfully defend himself from her now-familiar teasing, Perdido came on through the speakers, something she suspected was personally chosen by him. They both shared a love for Sarah Vaughn, the contralto queen of doom-and-gloom.
"Funny suggestion coming from Mrs. House, maybe you do know how to swing at the end of the day." Eris nearly died right then and there, hanging onto Swank's arm and hiding her laugh behind a hand.
"If we'd swing with anyone, it'd be you." She snapped back, watching the blush that formed on the young Chairman's full cheeks.
I look for my heart, it's Perdido,
"Ben-man never got the privilege, Swankers, I'm waiting on a formal, engraved 'thank you'." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some of the Followers inspecting the posters on the wall, glancing curiously at the old world knick-knacks, in phenomenal shape given their age.
He glanced as I danced the Bolero, he smiled as he tipped his sombrero,
"See that? See what I've had to put up with for a year now, ladies? Every time I see her, she's got a new name for me!" Another commonality between them was their desire to play to the crowd, either of them were people's people, but there was no doubt who was better at it between them.
Stephan manages to get between the ladies, who swoon over his effortless gab, what lay beneath his performative compassion. Unlike Arcade and some of the other Followers, those who were here tonight were here solely because they happened to like House's policies, however, he wanted them here to cut a deal with them – Vegas needed to be rebuilt.
"What a privileged thing to complain about." He introduced smoothly, sliding between the ladies. "Everyone is interested in what happens next, including me. I'm holding my breath.." He pinched either nostril between his thumb and forefinger.
"What happens next? Is that your way of volunteering to help rebuild? The magnanimous Las Vegas collective will be endlessly grateful for your generosity, Steven." His lips quirked at that, she was still thinking about how many names she corrupts ever since Swank had brought it up. Regardless, this was her unique brand of distraction, the classical maneuver of answering a question with another question – flattering deflection.
For a time, she traded jabs with her surrounding admirers, always managing to outdo them, perhaps House was right, she was singular in her ability to rile people up. No occasion was safe from it, no occasion was too sacred for her to keep her mouth shut.
Spirits had never been higher in Vegas – not since she's lived here anyway. Many of its citizens were drinking their first kirsch, a strong cherry liqueur that their host had stores of, somewhere.
Swank led her to a long red ribbon, supported on either end by shiny, brass posts. For a moment, she was tempted to roll her eyes at the cliché, before reminding herself of that recent adage she'd surrendered to. 'Everything's a cliché until it happens to you', or something like that. How many red ribbons had House cut in his lifetime, she wondered? Innumerable ones, she imagines.
When House spoke, all of the spacious room quieted immediately. She remembers when the force of his expectant, aristocratic voice threatened to silence her. It now provided the setting for a happiness she was unsure she'd ever find, certain that her skepticism and familiar apathy would act as a preventative.
"So, all of you that have come here tonight.." He addressed, performing for those who'd never before had the rare pleasure of hearing him speak. "It must surely be a pleasure to come upon the knowledge that all of you now live in a place freed from the exacting yoke of bygone states."
"Not to mention their exacting property taxes." Eris adds, dripping with sarcasm.
"And their property taxes.." He indulged, with a humor that a year ago, she'd never expect from his overall disposition of gravitas and seriousness. "Although, I'm sure that all of you know that it isn't enough to simply take pleasure in independence. You have all earned a place here tonight, thus I expect all of you to earn the independence we now have. I have liberated the market for every ambition you might have, to cater to the delights of every visitor that comes to our illustrious city."
Everyone listened with rapture, flattered by the clannish overtones of his speech. It's a habit of his, to appeal to others by using 'we' and 'our', instead of 'I', a vestige of the dazzling tycoon he had once been, joined with the postwar visionary he now was.
"Through these enterprises of ours, we will set an example for mankind, which has been beset by violence and unelightenment for too long. We will show them the way forward through our work here. I encourage all of you to think creatively, to act boldly, to let no imaginary boundary keep you from achieving all that you dream of. You are now given leave to pursue them all. But it is not only my machinations that have brought us here. For all she's worth…" Eris smirked at the formal, business-like sarcasm of her partner. "She has laid the foundation for our victory."
Applause erupted around her, and she met the pink, tipsy faces of them all, cocking a sardonic brow at House's public appraisal.
A hand pushed her closer to the long red ribbon, and Swank gave to her a sharp pair of scissors. Where had those come from?
"Damn, have those been in your pocket this whole time? So that's how you've been misleading the ladies." A hundred shades of laughter flared up around her, and Swank had the impressive ability to save face by scoffing good-naturedly.
Not only were the scissors sharp, but they also had a sleazy handle of gold lamé, a novelty that was just too good to not inspect closely. Playfully, she snipped the scissors and brandished them at Swank before approaching the ceremonial red ribbon, a few shades lighter than the halter gown she wore.
At the urging of the audience, she angled the sharp blades of the scissors with the ribbon, and snipped one good time, watching the cloth fall to the floor.
Eris imagined that its slow fall was some measure of forgiveness for all the lives she'd ruined, given by all the lives she might've improved in the process. If the universe was indeed partial, then it may have just absolved her of her many crimes against it.