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+++ South-Texan Expedition Report No.16, Date: Sept 1 2101 +++
Lieutenant Hope Weiss, serial no. 1141
I've sent Sgt. Sterling and a detachment to investigate a disturbance in the local area.
Our scouts have reported the presence of a large group of raiders attacking a tribal settlement in the canyon. Sterling, unfortunately, couldn't get there in time to put a stop to the raid. The sergeant attacked a raider outpost in a narrow canyon pass, hoping to set up an ambush against the slaver caravan that would undoubtedly pass through that particular route.
While I do understand that protocol dictates that the expedition must not intervene with events that do not concern the Dominion unless absolutely necessary, I'm confident that this falls within the parameters.
Sgt. Sterling was successful in his ambush, and was able to save the tribals imprisoned in the caravan. No survivors were found among the raiders.
Adhering to Command's recent orders about getting to know the state of affairs of the land, I've taken the liberty of questioning the leaders of these tribals in person, offering in exchange for their knowledge with food, supplies and shelter.
I learned that this land is known as the Corpse Coast, a fitting moniker given the current situation the locals are experiencing on a daily basis. According to them, the entire Texan Gulf Coast is filled with slavers and raider warbands. There's not a single safezone from the raiders for miles around. I've ascertained the accuracy of this report, cross-referencing with our scouts' findings to confirm the validity of their statement.
There is, however, some semblance of order among locals of the Coast. They are divided into three distinct factions; The Scarbrand Badlanders, the Cult of the Reshapened, and the Lexxers.
The Badlanders, according to our sources, are the most numerous and aggressive of the three factions. We've been having our share of exchange in fire with them for the last couple of days. They were also the ones responsible for the attack on the tribal settlement. I'm suspending any future attempts of venturing outside Outpost Seven until further notice, and will devote our resources to bolster our defenses.
We haven't encountered any of the Cult of the Reshapened, but until we do, we'll assume hostilities.
The Lexxers, as I'm told, are the main trading faction in the region. They deal in slaves, drugs, prostitution and guns. Some of the tribals that have been taken in the raid by the Badlanders have been sent to their main base of operations to be sold in the market. I am currently being asked by their families to make some kind of intervention or attempt at rescuing their loved ones.
Still can't decide what to do about that, I made no promises as the Dominion is not obligated to pursue ill-conceived plots rescue missions.
I've included several POI's in the file attached to this report. Overall, this expedition proves to be promising.
+++END+++
The High Marshal put his pip-boy to sleep mode and sat back against the leather seat to relax. His personal transporter, a heavily modified armored car, drove out of Elysion and into the desert, heading for Camp Forge.
The Cerberian Guard accompanied him on his journey to the Dominion's military training facility, embarking on their Centaur Mk. II's to protect the convoy. These Centaurs had 57 mm autocannons as their main guns, surpassing the Mk. I's that had twin 20 mm cannons, had better armor and better engines. The Dominion spared no expense in ensuring the safety of its leader.
Camp Forge was a new training facility located five kilometers from Elysion, across a stretch of dust and sand that wasteland critters frequented in spite of the efforts of the road patrols to keep the region safe. It had been constructed under the wishes of the High Marshal, seeing the need for an expansion in their military development programs. When completed the camp had shower buildings, latrines, wooden tent frames, an outdoor theater, firing ranges, water storage tanks and water treatment plant.
Unlike the White Bastion in Elysion, Camp Forge was not shielded from the harsh environment of the outside world, and Stern preferred it stay that way. The new recruits had to get used to harsh conditions, especially in the desert. Implementing some strict changes in their training programs, and policies, the Dominion military hoped to see improvements in recruit performance as well as their instructors, hoping to limit the detrimental effects that could rob promising candidates of their potential.
The High Marshal was coming in to deliver a speech to encourage the recruits as they were about to embark on a long and hard journey to become soldiers of the Dominion, as well as promote a long overdue idea that would help unite them, as citizens from all walks of life.
"We're here, sir." The driver told him as he pulled over to a stop.
"Thank you, driver." Stern said as he exited the car.
The assembly area, or better known as the muster field, was filled with Rook recruits by the hundreds. Their boots stepped upon freshly trimmed grass as they stood at ease, so relaxed as they waited until the High Marshal walked up to the stage to address them. Stern didn't wait for the instructors to announce his arrival for him, he immediately stood up to the mic and called out to the would-be-soldiers.
"Attention, recruits."
A faint rustle reached his ears as the recruits stood at full attention. All eyes were on him, everyone else was standing rigid like stone statues, just the way he liked it.
"Some of you haven't seen me in person before, and have only known me by my title." Stern said, keeping his voice relaxed as though he were speaking to someone in a quiet room. "I am High Marshal Roman Stern, supreme leader of the people of the Dominion and all those that seek refuge under its flag. That wasn't what people called me before. I've led the Dominion out of Vault 115 all those years ago, and they knew me by a different name. Back then, I was just Colonel Roman Stern of the United States Army."
He took a moment to look out at the young faces of the men and women called to serve in his army. Most of them were citizens of the Dominion, and some were not. Ever since he passed the legislation pertaining to the granting of citizenship to wastelanders, the amount of recruits surged overnight. Part of the deal was that citizenship could be granted to an individual and their immediate family should they serve in the Dominion Army for a required amount of years. "I can imagine you all feel the same way. You've come from different backgrounds, different walks of life. Some of you were born within the walls of Elysion, some without."
"Here, you are neither. You are training to become Rooks." He continued after a long pause, "The fighting arm of the Dominion, its sword and its shield- the bastion that holds against the horrors of the Wasteland." His words were met with a swell of pride in the eyes of many in the gathered youths, bringing a smile to the face of the High Marshal.
"Thirty years ago, not long before the bombs swept the slate of civilization clean, America held the strongest army the world had ever seen." He pointed to a trio of metal statues erected behind him at the stage of the muster fields. Statues of an infantryman, a naval serviceman and an airman, together standing forever at ease and immortalized in shining iron. "They held names such as; Infantry, Rangers, Special Forces, Marines, Armor, Navy and Navy Seals, Air Force. They were masters of all forms of war. These statues stand at ease because they know they've served, and that another will take their place. Now, it's your turn."
For the next thirteen weeks, the recruits would walk where they've gone. They will bleed, they will sweat, and they will weep. But when they've finished, they'll honor the memory of those who've gone before. "Make them proud, recruits. Good luck."
"Hooah, yes sir!" A drill sergeant roared, turning heel to face the recruits. At his command, they marched out of the muster fields to begin a long day of training. High Marshal Stern left not long after, feeling a little unwell as he stumbled out of sight.
"Sir, are you alright?" One of the Cerberian guardsmen asked as he helped steady the old man.
"Fine. Just fine." He said weakly, "Just help me get to the car."
The guardsmen did as he asked and carried him back to the convoy, "If I may say so, sir, that was a mighty fine speech you made up there. A good script."
"There was no script, soldier." Stern wheezed, reaching out to shut the car door behind him. "That was all off the top of my head."
Black Tom peered through the old spyglass at the unknown base flying the black standard with a silver eagle on it.
Word about the new arrivals had spread across the Corpse, reaching the Lexxers. After confirming for himself that they possessed quite the large amount of promising goods, the barons sent him to check if they were willing to become trade partners with the Lexxers. And so, the trader loaded up with the best they could offer on his truck, ranging from basic necessities to two of the best looking comfort-slaves the Pleasure Square and the Flesh Market had to offer as well as a collection of the finest weapons crafted in the Gunmaker's Deck.
Badlander corpses hung from old telephone poles along the road up to the base, causing great concern on the trader's part.
"That doesn't look so comforting, boss." One of the Lexxer crewmen said to Black Tom.
"Relax, that doesn't mean a thing to us. Stupid Badlanders probably went and attacked them first without trying to see what they're all about." The trader replied, dumping his cigarette and squashing it under his boot. "That's where we come in."
The trading party drove slowly towards the base, and when they got within view of the perimeter wall, Black Tom stuck his white handkerchief out to signal their peaceful intentions. A group of those black-armored soldiers standing by at a checkpoint in the road stopped the truck and pointed their guns at the Lexxers.
"Step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air. No sudden movements, or we will be forced to shoot." One of them announced.
"Easy now, partner." Black Tom said, doing as the man demanded. "We saw you arrive a couple o' days ago. We're just looking to trade."
"Oh is that right?" Another soldier said, dragging Black Tom's crew off the truck and forcing them to kneel on the ground with their hands behind their head. "Then you won't mind if we inspect your cargo first, would you?"
"Not at all, just please don't steal the merchandise." The trader said, totally accustomed to the rough treatment. "It's tough, but a man's gotta make a living in the Corpse after all."
The women shrank back in their portable cages as the truck's compartment was opened, and the sight of the comfort-slaves took the soldiers by surprise. They wore skimpy animal-skin bikinis, one Nordic blonde and a Eurasian with jet-black hair. The soldiers inspecting the truck turned to their friends who were questioning the traders, faces all grim and contorted with disgust. "Fucking degenerates!"
"What's up, Kells?" The soldier in front of Black Tom inquired.
Kells snarled, "Slave traders, Wayn. Waste them."
"Copy that."
Black Tom's eyes widened, and he scrambled to get to his feet. The butt of the soldier's rifle slammed hard against the bridge of his nose, breaking it with a resounding crack. The trader fell backwards and hit his head against the ancient asphalt road.
Dazed, he twisted his body about to crawl away. The loud hammer of guns blasting at his fellow traders reached his ears, followed by the heavy sound of bodies falling to the ground next to him. A hard boot stomped against his arm, fracturing the bone to splinters. Black Tom shrieked in agony, and kept screaming as the soldiers yanked him to his feet.
"What are you waiting for, man? Kill that motherfucker!" Kells said.
"Not this one, the boss lady might wanna squeeze some useful intel before putting a cap in him."
"Agh, I ain't telling you shit!" The old cowboy spat at Wayn, preparing to detonate the bomb vest under his coat. He was stopped when the others grabbed his unbroken hand as it reached for the detonator.
"Yup, that's what they all say." The soldier said as he reared his head and butted Black Tom square in the face, finally knocking him out. He dropped the limp body of the trader to the ground and fished for his cuffs. "Come on, get those girls out of their cages."
Private Kells and the others did as they were told and searched the bodies of the dead slave traders for their keys. Finding an old rusty key, they opened the cages and helped the slave girls climb free from their imprisonment. "Come on out, girls. Don't be afraid, we're not gonna hurt you." Their eyes took in the thick metal collars around their necks. "Aw shit, they've got bomb collars on them. Not the kind with a key, either. They've got a num-locks."
Wayn shrugged, "Then find the deactivation code, it's gotta be here with them somewhere."
"No they don't." One of the girls, a pretty blonde with roughly shorn short hair, said in reply. "Only Black Tom knows the code."
Kells looked at her, then at the trader lying unconscious beneath Wayn. "You mean this guy? Is he Black Tom?"
Blondie nodded, "Yeah...yeah that's him."
"Does that thing have a proximity setting?" Wayn asked, immediately switching to better terms she could easily understand when she flashed him a confused look. "Is it wired to blow up if you get too far from him?"
"We don't know." Raven, the girl with the black hair shaved like a crude undercut, answered the soldier. "We never tried running from him. Couldn't risk it."
"Uh-huh." Wayn acknowledged, "Kells, call it in. Radio in for someone with engineering skills to help the ladies with their problem, while you're at it."
"On it." The man nodded, "Sit tight ladies, we'll get you out of those things in a jiffy."
As they prepared to leave, three figures in the distance caught their attention, and the soldiers immediately took up defensive positions along the checkpoint in preparation for whatever attack might come. They've been having more than their fair share lately of raider attacks, and were suffering losses with each engagement. Assuming the worst was the best way for them to lessen their casualty rates.
"Well look who it is." Wayn said after the figures were revealed to be none other than the Brotherhood of Steel cultists they've encountered some time in the last month. "What, you finally figured out you're out of your league out here?"
Paladin Brand approached the Dominion soldiers slowly and took off his helmet. He looked gaunt, exhausted, and discouraged. Something bad happened to his group in their time out in the Corpse, it was fairly easy to tell from first glance. If the scarred and dent marks on their armor couldn't tell the tale, the lack of their personnel at present told plenty. "Does your offer still stand?"
"That depends entirely on you, tin-man." Wayn replied.
Brand ignored the jab and glanced up at the bodies hanging from the poles. At least this time, they weren't calling them 'wasters', not yet anyway. "I see you lot have been busy."
"I guess I can say the same for you, though it looks like you haven't been doing so well for yourselves." Wayn leaned back and lowered his gun, "So what are you here for?"
"Food, supplies, and a place to rest." Brand sighed, clearly hating the fact that he was asking someone for help. It was quite the struggle to swallow his pride for the sake of what was left of his men, and Wayn found that bit a little admirable for a waster. "We're willing to exchange the technologies we've salvaged along the way."
"Paladin..." The woman, the scribe named Karter, protested.
"Be silent, Scribe Karter." Brand said. "I've made up my mind." He tossed a net bag their way, filled with all manner of Old World weapons and devices. Most were nothing like the Dominion soldiers had seen before. All were valuable finds, and exactly the kind that anyone in the Wasteland would kill to acquire.
Wayn nodded slowly upon seeing what they could offer, "Wait a moment. I'll see about getting you settled."
Brand closed his eyes in relief and breathed, "Thank you."
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