Chapter 23: Ugly Business
Frost sat and watched the large green brutes jostle one another around the campfire. While the vast majority of the AEG could be identified as human, there remained a small but significant ghoul minority amongst the ranks. Mostly they were confined with the rest of the 66th, as well as a select few of the Judicial Marshals. There remained, however, a handful of super mutants, specifically under the command of Captain Donald Rathmore. The Captain wasn't available at the moment, but one of his direct subordinates, a mortar "crew" that answered directly to him, was willing to talk.
The super mutant, Frost thought at the risk of exposing his prejudice, seemed to be an intelligent and self-aware sort. The way he observed his surroundings made the barrier between him and a full-fledged human almost nil. Being unable to wear a proper uniform, he had an armband with three chevrons emblazoned upon it while a custom helmet rested on his head. The mutant looked across at Frost, sitting down to look at eye level with the standing man.
"…So, you going to ask me a question, or…" the mutant began.
"Oh, my apologies. Please state your name and rank for the recording," Frost announced.
"…Large Sarge. …Sergeant," the mutant stated, looking around nervously.
"How long have you been with the 66th?" Frost continued.
The mutant scratched his chin. "… I'd say this is about the sixth decade," he admitted.
"And what is your impression of the current relationship between mutants and humans?" Frost continued.
"I am human," the super mutant looked across at Frost, eyes hard and expression stern.
"I mean, just for political purposes, the nomenclature of the situation…" Frost tried to spit out.
"Bwah-ha-ha-hah!" the Large Sarge finally burst out laughing, the other mutants by the campfire joining in despite knowing nothing about what was going on.
"SHUT UP!" Large Sarge screamed, and the mutants abided. "Naw, I'm just fucking with you. Not a lot of people give guys like me the civilized treatment."
"I know, it's a shame," Frost bowed his head.
"I mean, in their defense, I was part of a group that tried to exterminate all human life," Large Sarge shrugged.
"The Unity. I figured a first-generation mutant like yourself would want to avoid that particular subject," Frost said.
"I mean, once you get past the lynch mobs and bounties, it's all just water under the bridge," Large Sarge grinned. "Had a few rough years, but then I met Donny and we worked something out."
"The Captain, what can you tell me about him?" Frost asked.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Large Sarge asked. This time he couldn't go five seconds without breaking down snickering. "Sorry, couldn't help myself," he chuckled.
One of the mutants joined in. Large Sarge scooped up a fistful of dirt the size of a human head and lobbed it at the eavesdropper.
"I wasn't under the impression that the Captain appreciated journalists," Frost admitted.
"Not a fan of media, in general. Never had anything nice to say about the press, before or after the bombs," Large Sarge admitted. "Like most things. Rathmore isn't one rushing to like things or be liked. Wasn't against killing me when he found me, for starters."
"He was going after Unity bounties, as well?" Frost asked.
"Figured he could use the money to get a room at an inn for a while. Course, after we did some talking, we realized that the cave we were in was so irradiated, our own kind were the only things we had to worry about. That gave him the idea to go to Shady Sands and lobby for the creation of the 66th."
"The Biological and Nuclear Assault Battalion," Frost nodded.
"Ghouls are squishy but hardy bastards, and well, look at me," Large Sarge playfully flexed. "Besides, someone has to keep the dumbass second gennies pointed at the right direction.
"YOU MEAN!" a second-generation mutant called from the campfire.
"AND YOU'RE STUPID AND UGLY!" Large Sarge screamed back. "STOP BUTTING IN!"
"So, the 66th is an amalgamation of ghouls as well as both generations of super mutants, then?" Frost asked.
"Yeah, and get this?" Large Sarge leaned in as he pointed to his armband. "You know how ghouls can never go above captain in rank? Well, as a first-generation super mutant, this is as high as I will ever go in the NCR," he explained, pointing to his chevrons. "And the second-gennies can forget about advancing in rank altogether, although that's probably for the best."
"All of them are privates?" Frost asked.
"Well, I don't expect them to up and salute me anytime soon," Large Sarge smirked. "But they follow orders well enough."
"And, uh, are any of them available for security?" Frost began to ask.
Large Sarge stopped himself from laughing. "Security for what?"
"I'm looking for some personal security," Frost admitted.
"And you want to hire one of those assholes?" Large Sarge asked, incredulously.
By now, another second gen mutant had arrived at the fire, this one carrying a rifle in the air as a hapless 1st Recon scout chased after him. The mutant then started a game of tossing the rifle between his brethren, the rifle bouncing between them as its owner tried to snatch it out of the air. The distress on her face was palpable as the mutants began laughing.
"Ah, well," Large Sarge sighed as he began cracking his neck. "A little discipline goes a long way with those idiots." As he was about to get up, a ghoul immediately brushed past Frost, a wooden bat resting on his shoulder. As one of the mutants began holding the rifle just out of range of the scout, another recognized the approaching ghoul and immediately bolted. The others didn't recognize the ghoul until it was too late.
Captain Rathmore swung at the jaw of the mutant holding the rifle, bringing the beast to his knees. The rest of the pack was assailed by an unrelenting torrent of mahogany and verbal abuse. After making his position clear, the super mutant gingerly surrendered the rifle to his CO, who glared at all of them. "…Border patrol, the lot of you."
"Yes, boss," the mutants all nodded as they made their retreat. Rathmore held the rifle in his hands as he turned to glance at the scout. He held out the weapon, but just before the girl could thank him and take the gun, he dropped it in the dirt, just on top of his feet.
"How the fuck did you lose your weapon, soldier?" he growled.
"I- I left my rifle outside the latrine. One of them snatched it while I was coming back!" the private gulped.
"You left your weapon unattended? We lose better soldiers for better reasons. Is it loaded?" Rathmore persisted.
"No! Of course not!" the private fished out her magazine.
"Some sense, at least," Rathmore sniffed. "…The super mutants are vulnerable on their temples and jawlines, in addition to the solar plexus. Next time they do pull something like this, slam a blow against one of those areas, and that'll learn em."
"Right, sir" the private saluted.
Rathmore kicked up the rifle to his hands and returned it to its owner. "Here's your weapon. Do not let it happen again," the captain growled.
"Yes, s-s-sir" the private gulped as she clutched her rifle to her chest.
"Now s-s-shut up and get back to your post," Rathmore growled as the soldier retreated.
Frost and Large Sarge approached Rathmore as he drew out a cigar. "Did you have to make fun of the stutter, boss?" Large Sarge complained.
"You want me to start coddling these brats?" Rathmore spat as he puffed on his cigar.
"She qualified for 1st Recon and volunteered to join this expedition. I think she's past the boot camp hospitality," Large Sarge shook his head. Rathmore grumbled but didn't argue, taking a drag. One of the things that was very common amongst the ghouls of the 66th were that they were more often than not committed smokers. After all, when the whole body becomes a tumor, what point did lung cancer have?
"Captain Rathmore!" Frost announced, reaching out his hand. Rathmore stared at it, nursing his cigar as Large Sarge made a gesture encouraging Frost to change his mind. Frost took the hint, smiling sheepishly as Rathmore puffed away.
"You with NCR Bullshit, right?" Rathmore began, not even looking at the documentarian.
"I'm with the Broadcasting Service, yes," Frost admitted, already having anticipated the pejorative of his company, the NCRBS, being brought up.
"So, how many dumbass questions do you have? I'll give you…" Rathmore took a moment to stare at his imaginary watch. "Two minutes."
"OK, name and rank," Frost got out quickly.
"You already know, shit-for-brains."
"How long have you been with the NCR military?" Frost continued, unabated.
"About sixty years."
"Why did you found the 66th Battalion?"
"It was a better use of my time than talking to buzzards like you."
"How long have you worked with super mutants?"
"Since I figured it was easier than trying to kill them all like the rest of you smoothskins tried."
"Is it true that you turned down a direct NCR order to invade and secure the Divide?"
Rathmore balked. Large Sarge's eyes widened as he took a few steps back. Frost felt the air begin to turn as Rathmore took out his cigar, crushed it in his hand, and finally turned to look him in the eyes. "…Well, aren't you so fucking clever?"
"I have friends in the archives," Frost continued, undeterred. "I saw evidence of the proposal, and your response."
Rathmore began to chuckle as Large Sarge's eyes darted nervously between them. "…You know about my reputation, I gather?"
"And what would that be?" Frost asked.
"The Bear's janitor. Cleaning up the messes no one else wants to do. That kind of shit, right?" Rathmore's lip curled upwards.
"That's a common conception, yes," Frost nodded.
"…I'm just a shepherd. I'm the last, best hope for ghouls and super mutants in the service. The rest of the country was willing to write them off, but I insisted that there was some value to them, even if that value was traipsing through miles of irradiated muck and sludge to outflank some bastards," Rathmore continued.
"So, the rumored operations in the northeast…" Frost tried to begin.
"Exaggerations. You really think we skewer babies on our guns? Do you have any idea how long it takes to clean that shit off?" Rathmore asked, rhetorically.
"…And, well, Capt. Wallace did also mention something about attrition rates…"
"And your time is up," Rathmore announced as he made an about-face away from the reporter. "Large Sarge, you may escort our guest away from the premises."
"Beat it," Large Sarge roughly shoved away the documentarian.
"But I-" Frost tried to respond until Large Sarge began to crack his knuckles. Gulping, he accepted defeat and made his departure.
After he retreated, Large Sarge turned to his CO. "…Well?" he asked.
"Mitchell's gone," Rathmore said, blankly.
Large Sarge muttered under his breath. "You should have told me, I'd have handled it."
"You know the arrangement. My responsibility," Rathmore stated. "He'd been getting worse, but I thought we had a few extra months. You always hope the young ones won't buckle, but I guess a century is long enough for most," Rathmore sniffed.
"…The rest of the guys know?" Large Sarge asked.
"They'll figure it out before too long. That's the wonderful thing about open secrets. I'll have to debrief Gorobets, though," Rathmore sighed.
"…Sorry, boss," Large Sarge finally said.
"Why? What good is that from you?" Rathmore looked to his only real friend. "I knew what I was getting into from day one. Ghouls trade one death for three, so it's best to not drag it out further than you have to."
"…Thinking your number three is coming soon?" Large Sarge asked.
"It'll be here before too long," Rathmore said as he tipped his cap past his eyes. "Quit loitering, we got to inspect the men. Got any trivia questions?"
Frost kicked some dirt as he made his way back to his tent. And the interview had been going so well, too. He had roughly a handful of good quotes, but as he had yet to completely repair his recording equipment since the junkyard incident, he had to figure out how to close the gaps. The clout Andrea had gotten him was starting to dry up, seeing as now it was only reminding the rest of the troops how long it had been since they had any action of their own. All in all, things just weren't going his way.
"Hey!" a sharp voice called out. Frost stopped to see a woman in an olive-drabbed uniform, this time fully dressed, approaching him. He fought back a gulp, as this was the first time he'd seen Lt. Baxter since he came to in the tent, and her last impression of him had been him staring at her impressive and generous figu- snap out of it, Frost he shook his head.
Baxter came to a stop in front of him, arms crossing her chest as she glared down at the shorter man. Frost straightened his posture, braced himself, and began to speak. "…I would like to apo-"
"I hear through the grapevine you're looking for a bodyguard?" Baxter interrupted.
"Ah, well, since the junkyard incident, I've been meaning to find someone…" Frost tried to explain.
"My unit is self-sustaining. It can run on its own, with or without me giving commands. So, I'm free to handle my own duties," she smiled. "A handful of little tricks I learned from my time as a specialist."
"That's… wonderful to hear," Frost admitted, not knowing what else to say.
"So, how about I cut you a deal. I watch your back from this day forward until the mission's completion, and in exchange, the 5th Heavy Armor gets shown in a more favorable light?"
"That doesn't sound very ethical," Frost frowned.
"Well, then, I guess you'll have to keep looking for a bodyguard," Baxter shrugged. "I did also hear a rumor that War Chief Tandi was looking to have an audience with you, though. Not for a discussion, though, I think she wishes to cut off and consume your testicles for luck or something," Baxter said as she turned to hide her smile.
Frost didn't want to believe her, but despite his best efforts he couldn't see Tandi outright refuting that possibility. As he grappled with his dilemma, he failed to realize Lt. Baxter constantly peeking over her shoulder and holding back a laugh. The truth was that Kim Baxter had been an admirer of Tim Frost's work within the emerging documentary newsreels in NCR theatres. It was something she felt that if her military career had not taken off, she would've liked to have been a part of it.
"…Well, all work is built on the foundation of compromise," Frost eventually reconciled. "I suppose it won't kill my credibility if I spent so much time on you- WITH YOU!" he hastily corrected.
"…If you want, you can move your things by the maintenance tents," Baxter did not act as if she had heard the slip. "Some of the technicians will be more than happy to show you around. Plus, I have some free time this afternoon, so if you want an interview, you only have to ask," she concluded.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Frost beamed.
"Please, call me Kim," she smiled back. "Oh, and one last thing."
"Yes, Kim?" Frost asked.
"My base operates on a strict "look, but don't touch" policy. I figure it should go without saying that the rule applies to me, as well," Lt. Baxter told the journalist.
"Kim, I have been meaning to apologize for that," Frost quickly tried to say.
"I mean, at least without permission," Kim winked as she strolled away, leaving Frost confused, intimidated, and a little curious about just what kind of situation he had found himself in.
Dinero had to take a moment to prop himself against a rock, his eyes blinded by the sunlight blazing off the sand and dust. He had found a spigot earlier in the morning, and thanks to the few mouthfuls of muddy water he was able to gulp down, he was in the perfect condition to continue his march into the west of the wastes. Marcy, little trooper that she was, was resolute in her drive to keep one foot in front of the other. Still, their rumbling stomachs were the only sound they could hear over their breathing and the wind.
"I'm thinking… maybe we should find a house or something," Dinero suggested, even as he felt the moisture leave his mouth. "…Maybe we should just move during the night. Freezing has got to be better than this," he hacked out. Marcy came to a stop, lifting her head up as she sniffed the air.
"Marc, if we stop now, I don't think we're going to start ever again," Dinero wheezed, trying to usher the girl further ahead. Marcy then broke out into a run. "Marc, what the hell?!" Dinero sobbed out as he tried to push his body after her.
Upon passing over a hill, Dinero looked down to see what he believed to have been what had gotten Marcy all riled up. A dead mole rat was currently being fought over by a pack of wild dogs. The sight of the shredded viscera that was most assuredly covered in dog saliva was currently enough to make Dinero's mouth water if that was something it could still do. Then he realized Marcy was bounding down to the pack of animals.
The last thing the pack expected to deal with today was a twelve-year-old girl suddenly butting into their business, snarling and growling with the best of them. In response, the animals crowded around the girl and began to negotiate. WE KILL, WE KEEP, they all growled in unison.
My friend and I are starving. We only request the kidneys, which should keep us sustained for the next few hours, Marcy replied.
Little girl become food. Old man become food. The dogs countered.
Please, just share your meal and I will not destroy you.
The dogs began snarling and snapping at the girl. Dinero had only just arrived down to her when she made her move. In all their minds' eyes, they saw a giant, black wolf with horns. The beast stamped its feet and howled in the air as the dogs recognized that the animal was the greatest beast they had ever come to face with. Yelping and whimpering, the dogs scattered away as Marcy fell to her knees, wiping her nose. Dinero could have sworn he had also seen something, but at the moment was content to pass it off as a heatstroke hallucination.
"Marcy, never do something like that again!" Dinero hacked out, furious but relieved. "I swear, if you keep up stuff like this, you will be the death of me!"
Marcy ignored him, collecting herself and looking upon the eviscerated mole-rat. Holding her breath, she dove face-first into the corpse.
"MARC!" Dinero called out, stunned and horrified by her actions. As she dug into the meat, Dinero could only watch as Marcy pulled out what he presumed to be a raw kidney. Removing herself from the dead animal, Marcy went up to Dinero and held out her offering to him.
"…I mean, I know I shouldn't complain about how the sausage is made," Dinero began. "But this is just sick."
Marcy then tore into the organ herself, demonstrating to Dinero that out in the wasteland, things like prudishness and etiquette were luxuries. Raw meat was a reality of survival, and one was more than lucky when they had in their possession raw mole rat kidneys, which she had learned the hard way did not need to be cooked to be edible. Or, as she thought to herself, quit being a pussy and eat the kidney, Dinero.
Dinero gingerly took the organ from his charge, bringing it to his face as the odor assaulted his nostrils. He winced, looked down at Marcy for encouragement, and then began to nibble. Satisfied that Dinero had learned his lesson, Marcy dove back inside the carcass to look for the other. Before long, both were sitting and eating their selected kidneys.
Before long both had left, fulfilled even though their stomachs barely agreed to it. As the hours passed, some gunmen passed across the road, viewing the corpse of the mole rat (those that bothered) with disgust if it passed their threshold for interest. The Pelt-Brutes were more receptive of the meat, though when they discovered the kidneys were missing their reaction instigated a brawl amongst themselves that only came to a halt when Vulpes intervened. Neither he, Nemesio, nor the rest of the Ministerio paid the rotting carcass any mind, and the group continued its trek north.
Danny Blanco was impatiently tapping his foot on the ground as Lionel fidgeted as he usually did, alternating between pushups and squats. Of course, there were a dozen other things the owner and operator of the Thorn would rather be doing, but right now he had to aid and entertain two of the most important people and their plus one in Vegas for the good of the show. At least to him, it wasn't hard to convince the Governor of his idea, but for some reason he found himself batting away questions from the senator's plus one.
"Don't you think upending the existence of a living creature for entertainment is barbaric?" Andrea whats-her-face asked him, pleading to find the humanity not to use a genetic weapon to make a profit.
"Ma'am, I'm legally obligated to use animals in a limited capacity for business purposes," Danny shot back.
"It's animal cruelty! As civilized people, we should hold ourselves to a higher standard for how we treat those who share the planet with us!"
"You sound like one of those WACCo's," Danny snickered.
"Why yes, I am a member of the Wastelanders Against Creature Cruelty. I'm so thrilled you mentioned it!" Andrea said, glad that Danny had walked right into her trap and taking pleasure in the detestation etching onto his face.
"Wow, your girl-toy is really hammering away at Blanco," Lars muttered as Ziyi joined him against the wall. "I thought you'd back her up on this, though?"
Ziyi tittered as she covered her mouth. "This is just for publicity for her socials back home. She doesn't care for deathclaws any more than I do, but saying she opposed the match will do wonders for her career, regardless of whether or not it goes through."
Lars looked at the actress as she continued her spiel. "That's pretty cynical," he admitted.
"That's celebrity politics, baby," Ziyi added.
"You well acquainted with that notion?" Lars asked.
"Shit, Lars, I'm just trying to get her into bed," Ziyi grinned.
The two continued to half-listen to the argument as they stared into the desert. In truth, this had turned into something of a working vacation for Ziyi, who had been making nonstop calls to Shi-Frisco while Lars… had been in a bit of a funk. By now, he'd usually be waking up half-drunk next to whatever cute tourist he hit up the night before. Lately, though, his worry over the expedition was beginning to cloud his judgment. He had actually sat through some meetings with Arcade at the Vegas City Council, things he hadn't done since founding the Judicial Marshals years ago. Despite being a ceremonial title, it was almost like he was taking his position as Governor seriously. The thought mortified him.
"…Shady Sands just assembled a task group," Ziyi finally spoke up. Lars turned to look at the senator. "I didn't think you were that into military matters?" he replied.
"I still read the briefings. Five battalions, an air wing of vertibirds, and a combined armor regiment fresh out of Sierra. Assembled just as the Wild Khans started pushing into Redding."
"Taking the fight to guys that've been outmaneuvering you guys since the fight started. Risky," Lars said.
"Well, Sierra HQ has been drawing up plans of their own. Maybe this time it'll actually work," Ziyi tried to chuckle. It was mirthless, though, as if Redding fell, the Wild Khans could threaten Shi-Frisco. She would have to return, even if there was nothing realistically she could do to stymie the invasion. After all, she wouldn't want to be a constituent to a city that was under attack while their government representative was currently humoring an actress in the hopes of taking her back to her room tonight. The political precedent would be devastating, not to mention she knew her city deserved better of her.
"The guy they got in charge of it. Or lady. Is it Pappas?" Lars asked.
Ziyi shook her head. "Guy had a weird name. Colonel Bitter-Root. I didn't think tribals could be officers."
Lars thought for a moment. As the memory slowly returned to him, a small smile came across his face. "Clever bastards. Who better to fight the Khans than one of their own," he chuckled.
"You know him?" Ziyi asked.
"He was one of the 1st Recon boys I worked with at McCarren. I remember he had a bit of a stick up his ass, and the fact that he was a Great Khan from Bitter Springs turned NCR sniper stood out to me. That guy hates the Khans, and more importantly understands them. Sounds like California finally put the right man in the right job," Lars grinned.
"Thank goodness for small miracles," Ziyi smiled.
The argument had continued, even as Lionel quit his fidgeting and loudly demanded why the prostitute was still screaming. Having unwittingly directed the ire of Andrea towards himself, Mr. Blanco took his merciful reprieve to finally confirm the oncoming package.
The makeshift skid was being pulled by four sentry-bots while being handled by one of the hunters in the front while another poked his head out from the side of the contraption. Tied down in the middle, laying on its stomach while muzzled and tranquilized, was the deathclaw.
"You boys have too much trouble?" Blanco asked as the skiff came to a halt in front of him.
"Naw, this one here ain't too much for the bots to handle. Got a heck of a hide on him, though, you fixin on keepin him after the thing?" Festus asked as Cletus jumped off the side. The deathclaw had awoken but remained in that hazy subconscious state between the land of the living and the sleeping. His glazed-over eyes watched as the chirping meat bickered amongst themselves.
"Man, these things look uglier the closer you get to them. Just another reason to keep your distance, huh, Ziyi?" a voice called out from the void.
That name released a torrent of sobriety across the deathclaw's mind, his eyes beginning to sharpen as his vision and hearing started to return. The smells were the first he could really register, it was the unrelenting stench of humans that surrounded him. He struggled against his bonds, even trying to flex his jaw to no avail. Then he felt someone climb onto the skiff. As he fantasized about breaking loose and rending apart all these apes, the woman who entered his vision seemed just as surprised as he was.
"…Johnny?" she whispered.
The lizard ceased his struggling. His yellow eye glared back at the woman, whose face remained a mask of neutrality other than surprise. Another human quickly climbed onto the skiff and took her from Johnny's line of sight.
"Ziyi, what the fuck?!" Lars hissed.
Ziyi was in a state of shock that remained even as the gates to the Thorn opened and the skiff was taken inside. Blanco thanked the brothers and invited them inside to finalize their payments, while Lionel wondered why the girl was so offended by him calling her a prostitute, as logically it would indicate that he'd be happy to see her. He followed after his promoter, the gates closing behind him, leaving a fuming Andrea, a confused Lars, and a stunned to the point of comatose Ziyi.
"Can you believe the nerve of that asshole?!" Andrea shrieked. "Just because that show pony is up to his neck in cheap poon he thinks I'm on that level?! Like there aren't better things I could be doing with my time than talking to that dense motherfucker?! Shit, I need a drink!" she stormed past the two on her way to return to Vegas.
"But… deathclaw…" Ziyi muttered.
"WHO GIVES A SHIT?!" Andrea roared as Lars chased after her, leaving Ziyi to grapple with a past she had never learned to come to peace with.
Excerpt from the Judicial Marshal Basic Training Guide and Manual
New California Republic: These guys are our best/only friends. A good portion of you guys came from there at some point or another. We routinely run joint exercises with the NCR Rangers. They pretty much like us and we pretty much like them. In the event of an invasion, they are obligated to stand with us thanks to the defensive pact our governments recently signed. In exchange, we basically make sure they have a working economy. We have a good thing going between us. Don't screw it up -Deputy Chief Natalie Boone
The Bear still hungers. It still feels in its dreams that Vegas is its to take by right. Is sick of blood, won't use open warfare. Will use honey, sweet words and hollow promises. So long as it lives and wants, Vegas will remain a prize it cannot forget, nor will ever truly surrender -Ulysses
