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When the Everwinter tribals proposed an alliance with the Dominion in the Arkana Dead Plains, it was met with skepticism. At first glance, the rugged wasteland savages seemed to offer little. More often than not, first impressions could be deceiving. Two days after Outpost Keen sent its troops to verify the defenses of Niflheim, an urgent call for aid reached the base, which was then relayed to the outbound convoy.
A jet-train was under attack by the Worldenders. The convoy was closest to the train's last known location, and so Outpost Keen sent them on a little side mission to secure the site.
"That train's carrying the equivalent of eight truckloads of weapons and ammunition. "Major Tom Ford said, his face flickering in the HUD's main screen. "We cannot allow it to fall into the hands of those savages. If you can't secure it, mark the area for fire-mission. We can always get another luck, OK out."
"I hate this fucking wasteland."
Vick Wong ignored his co-pilot and set the coordinates on his nav-computer to mark it for the journey. Private Perry Noir rubbed his hands together and rapped sharply against the faulty heater. Inside the Jottun Mark-2, it felt like the inside of a freezer. "Fuck the natives! Fuck this war! And fuck this piece-of-shit mech! Is it too much to ask for a working heater?"
"You done?" Vick asked, not to goad him into a rant- but to keep him from having one. Vick and Perry were an odd pair in a strange age, both forced to combine their incompatible personas to make for an effective team.
Vick Wong was the book-smart graduate from Camp Forge and the child of naturalized citizens. Perry Noir was earning his citizenship the hard way, by bleeding for the Dominion and fighting its wars. One of them believed in the cause for reclamation, the other was a survivor. The irate dusky-skinned Perry grumbled in silence for the rest of the trip. Vick couldn't really blame him for being wound up so tight. After all, in the last battle they were in against the Enclave, they won by the skin of their teeth.
He eased the throttle lever forward and sent them on their way. The mech lumbered like an old man with weak knees, but it built up a good pace to keep up with the rest of the convoy. Its massive legs stomped a path through the snow, breaking the ice for the wheeled vehicles to gain traction up steep inclines or hills. There was one other mech with them. An older model, a Mark 1. It was smaller and more agile, with an arm complement of two 20mm auto-cannons and a flamethrower. Vick watched, feeling a little envious, as the Mark 1 effortlessly glided through the harsh terrain to scout ahead.
The pilot turned his head to look back at Perry. The hours had gone by quickly, and the co-pilot had fallen asleep. Rotation didn't apply to mech-pilots as much as the grunts, sadly. He and ol' Perr would have to stick around the front for a long time. But in order to finish their tour of duty the proper way, Vick made it his responsibility to keep his co-pilot focused.
The last time he indulged Perry in one of his rants, he had to hear him talk about deserting.
Traveling with them and bringing up the rear was the Everwinter caravan. Despite the protests of the Dominion convoy commander, the tribals insisted on helping out. Accepting aid from the locals was a practice that varied with each officer on the Dominion frontier. By the warsworn's direction, much to their credit, their journey towards the jet-train's location was sped up by half a day. By the time the sun's dimming light cast its dizzying glare through the flat silhouette of the Western horizon to declare the beginning of nightfall, the convoy reached the train's final resting place.
The fires hadn't gone out yet. Great billows of smoke marked the air from one end of the train to the other, while the savages tore through the cargo like rabid dogs, carelessly hauling crate after crate and dumping their contents all over the snowy earth. There was much dancing, fornication and wanton violence.
As for the train crew...
The Worldenders did with them as they liked. Their flayed and dismembered bodies hung from the jagged gash ripped into the side of the lead car, some still writhing in unspeakable agony as they twisted about from the taut end of a rope.
"Poor bastards." Vick breathed, barely keeping a steady hand on the controls as he watched the demented scene unfold. Everyone in the convoy was seeing it, but from the look on their blank faces, nothing was quite registering yet. He paused to call up the commander on the plan of action, "Zulu-One, this is Zulu-Two. Got a hot payload ready to deliver, shall we get this party started?"
The convoy commander's voice crackled through the channel, "Negative on that, Zulu-Two. We can't risk getting overrun and losing a valuable asset. I'm calling in a fire-mission. Sit tight and check your angles. Out."
"Acknowledged." Vick sighed, partly out of relief and partly out of disappointment. He enjoyed the brutal cacophony of the Mark-2's guns and fighting from a distance, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't feel that same fear of getting swarmed again.
Two minutes passed, then four. The wait stretched to half an hour, and pretty soon the pilots were starting to worry.
"Ah, Zulu-One... what's the ETA on splash, over?" Vick inquired.
"Zulu-Two..."The commander replied, "Negative on splash. We've lost contact with Outpost Keen."
"So, what's our objective?"
"Move your mech to higher ground, closer to the crest of the hill. Once we've engaged with the enemy, it'll be like kicking a hornet's nest. They'll egress from the crash site and rush our position. Your job is to make sure they don't hit our flanks. We've got more than enough firepower to take them out, but it'll be in the shit compared to a fire-mission." The commander called up the scout mech, "Zulu-Three, take point in formation. Attention Element, we hold this hill. Mop the floor and give these assholes hell, hoo-ah!"
"Hoo-fucking-ah."
The Everwinter tribals, not realizing what the Dominion soldiers were doing, watched in confusion as they took positions along the ridge. Vick paused to tilt the mech's compartment and have a word with the young warrior Sif. His voice blared through the speakers mounted in the front chassis, "Time for us to go to war. I mean this with all due respect, don't get in the way. Get me?"
Sif's brows furrowed. She and the warsworn tugged at their reins and pulled their horses back. The massive silhouette cast by the lumbering Jottun Mark-2 as it ascended the hill alerted the Worldenders. The ragged cultists roused themselves from the snowy earth and bellowed a cacophony of bloodcurdling warcries and animalistic howls.
"Gonna need you to stay on your toes today, Perr." Vick said to Perry. "From the way I hear it, Worldender savages love a good melee."
"If they're allowed to get that close, that's your fault. Just keep the mech moving, leave me to my guns. Clear?"
"Okay, let 'em have it!" Vick announced.
Perry's face contorted into a sneering grimace as he squeezed the triggers on both control sticks. The mech's 20mm minigun spooled up with an ecstatic whir, followed by a burst to jaundiced light as the Jottun rained fire on the Worldender horde. Despite the stabilizers, the entire mech rocked with the kick of the bigger 75mm cannons. The rest of the convoy lit up the air with some fire of their own. The Centaurs parked in a scattered line, bracketing the ridge to distribute an even firing line. Their chassis rocked with every shot, spitting heavy ordnance or peppering the reeling cultists with their 35mm's.
It was a glorious sight.
The cries of the Worldenders were drowned out by the roar of exploding ordnance. The ensuing hail caused a chain reaction in the haphazardly placed loot as the fire cooked off the ammo boxes as well as the crates brimming with surplus explosives. The convoy stopped shelling the valley for a moment and let the smoke clear. A few moments later, the fiery carnage they left in their wake became quite apparent for all to see.
What wasn't reduced to charred meat simply burned away into ash. And what wasn't burned away simply stopped existing. Back then, Vick Wong didn't believe in the word vaporize. Now that he saw its effects with his own eyes, he couldn't help but wonder.
"That's some damn fine shooting, Element." The convoy commander declared, never one to skip a beat in momentum."Now, form up and get ready to move. Still got some miles to cover and I'd rather be behind some walls by nightfall, don't you?"
"Solid copy, Zulu-One." Vick sighed. He turned to look back at Perry to check on him. To his surprise, the co-pilot was shaking like a leaf and drenched in sweat. "You okay, Perr?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"It's just adrenaline, it'll pass." Perry took a deep breath and stifled his shivers, "Come on. Get us out of here."
"Listen, Perr..." Vick offered, "I'll fix up the heater first chance I get. Would it help rid your bitching if I help you get a good night's sleep?"
"Maybe..." The co-pilot muttered, "But you know what'll make me feel better? Bum me a smoke. Haven't lit one since we left the outpost."
"Here. Take the whole fucking pack." Vick tossed the cigarette pack over his shoulder. Perry fumbled with it, peeled the glove from his right hand with his teeth, then lit up a stick. A few minutes later, the cockpit became filled with the malodorous residue.
"Ahhh… that's better."
Vick didn't mind. It was a little bit better than sucking on cordite.
"For the last time, I'm fine." Roman Stern gave the EMT guy an icy glare which sent him packing in a heartbeat.
The High Marshal buttoned up his replacement suit after discarding the one ruined by the Enclave's assassins and straightened up his tie. He and the dignitaries from Horizon were moved to a secure location, following the attempt on his life in the highways of Carlon City. Having been cleared by the medical team, Stern was left alone with his thoughts. A cold seething fury burned in his eyes, betraying the murderous desires clouding his judgement. That was twice now in a single month that the Enclave made a mockery of the Dominion. First, the attack on Riverside City. The second, the assassination attempt on the highway. Someone in charge of security didn't keep their edge on and left him completely vulnerable.
Heads will roll, it should go without saying.
And now, this rogue 'Cabal' agent. This 'Hannah Greyfax'… Stern didn't quite know what to make of it. On one hand, he hated being at the mercy or indebted to someone beyond his reach, and that's saying a lot considering the great power he held. Stern had faced this type of enemy before. The Chinese were masters of the shadows. Clearly, the Enclave learned a thing or two about how to wage that kind of warfare.
He'd underestimated the lengths they would go through to win the war.
"High Marshal?" A man approached him at the head of a group from Stern's Chiefs-of-Staff. "I assume you'll want a state funeral... for Lancelot? Sir?"
"Obviously." Stern's voice was at a menacing low, "My dog, my boy... my beautiful, massacred boy... was a hero. And what's the point of being a dictator if I can't throw a lavish funeral for those closest to me?"
"High Marshal Stern..." Dr. Holiday interjected, "If I might butt-in for a bit?"
"What?" Stern snapped.
"We can save Lancelot, technically. From what I can see, the brain and stem seem intact. Just need to wheel him off to the vault. No need for a funeral."
"What-" Stern's eyes widened, then became filled with indignation. "No, no! You will not clone my dog!"
"B-But sir, the procedure is no different than aesir bio-transference."
"I. Don't. Care." Stern enunciated through gritted teeth, a universal boss's language to shut up. "Lance deserves the dignity of a funeral, and a monument. Both of which will outlast a new body. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Now…" The High Marshal stood up and declared his next move, "Assemble our best operatives from PsyOps. The Cabal agent may have had a head-start, but she's close. I want her taken and contained. I trust that your ability to remain discreet hasn't waned?"
There were nods all around.
"Good." Stern dismissed his generals and emerged from the room to speak with the civilian heads. "Any news from Riverside? Preferably good news, people!"
An attaché from mayor's office quickly responded, "Survivors are coming in. As per quarantine protocol, they are being isolated and tested for the contagion. Preliminary results point to a peculiar immunity…"
Hearing the word immunity caused Stern's brow to jump a quarter of an inch, "Explain."
"Er, yes… an immunity to the contagion, present in aesir survivors. They're being brought up to Elysion for further testing…"
Stern nodded, "Yes, that's good. Finally, a silver-lining in this fucking cloud. Now, if you have any bad news, just send it up to my office- I'll handle them when I've got the grit. As you were."
There was a lot more to deal with besides a bio-weapon crisis. As with all wars, there was war-exhaustion. The Dominion propaganda was strong enough to keep its citizens blind to the effects of a prolonged conflict, but even an industrial juggernaut could sometimes find itself waist-deep in the mud of economic instability. Every decision Stern made felt like patching up a leaky dam with plaster. Greyfax's proposition for an alliance sounded too good to be true, and Stern felt right in assuming the worst.
There would be no alliance. The Cabal would use the Dominion as its weapon to overthrow their own government, so that they could retake command. But as soon as the alliance was over, they could easily demand that an exhausted Dominion would throw down its colors and be absorbed into the new Enclave regime.
Stern knew it. He would do the very same if he was in their place.
By the end of the day, the High Marshal felt like locking himself in an underground bunker and drinking his way through the entire supply of alcohol- which was more or less what he did. Dr. Moira Vahlen found him emptying his sixth bottle of Scotch, serving himself in an empty room at an empty bar.
"Greetings, High Marshal…"
"Guten tag, Fraulein Vahlen…" Stern smiled at the silliness of his own greeting, "Forgive me. Deutch is pretty much a dead language to us Americans."
"I can appreciate the effort." Vahlen said, pulling up a stool and taking a seat beside him. "But, I must say… you don't use 'guten tag', especially if it's evening. Instead, you say 'guten abend'."
"Guten abend." Stern echoed, deliberately thickening his accent in a mocking parody of the German tongue.
"Verdammt." Vahlen rolled her eyes, "Stop it, please. You're butchering my beautiful language."
Stern felt like laughing, but instead he just stared at the bottom of his shot-glass. "I'm sorry about your colleagues. Those assassins were there to kill me."
"I'm sorry about your men. I saw how they fought. They fought hard to keep us alive. Regardless of who the assassins were there to kill, they went after my people too." Stern glanced up at Vahlen and saw a similar righteous fury in her eyes. The woman was livid, "We're a part of this war now. And I know exactly who to support, believe me. You can count on Horizon as your ally."
Stern nodded slowly. "Would you drink to that?"
Vahlen politely refused, "Forgive me, but I don't partake."
"Ah. More for me." Stern raised his glass, "To finding allies, and making enemies."
He paused to drink the whole thing without savoring the taste. He only needed the burn, "Ahhh… You know, when I was a colonel in the United States Army during the Sino-American War, I learned early on that every decision I made concerning my men was about who lived and who died. And every choice weighed on me. Because I knew, and took the time to know, every soldier personally. It didn't make my job easier, but it instilled loyalty in every grunt because they knew that I cared enough to know their names. They threw themselves into hell willingly, not for America- but for me. I merely took that on a nationwide scale when I helped create the Dominion. Only difference is that I measure the deaths through the lenses of a statistician."
"That... burden must be heavy."
"You don't know the half of it. Now that we're at war, every choice means someone's going to die. No matter how hard I try, there's no happy ending. I can't save everyone."
"Perhaps you can, High Marshal." Vahlen replied, "But only if you bring an end to this war."
"How? By surrendering the sovereignty of the Dominion to the Enclave, just because they say so? Never in a million years."
"Nein. Through a decisive victory. Many years ago, the nuclear option was the equalizer of the modern world. But there is another option, one that is made possible through our alliance."
"I propose that the Dominion and Horizon construct an orbital weapon capable of delivering the same devastating potential of a nuclear bomb, but without the fallout. Horizon has stockpiled exotic metals, dense enough to cause significant damage to surface targets."
"I've heard of those kinds of weapons. They're effective, but only in theory."
"Yes, but that was before the Great War. Since then, we've taken great leaps in technology. This is not the age of the impossible, High Marshal. You are living proof of that."
The stony façade cracked, and Dr. Vahlen noticed a faint softness in the man's eyes. "Dr. Vahlen... that's probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me. Anyone who's not trying to butter me up for a favor, that is." Vahlen pursed her lips and smiled. The High Marshal looked at her thoughtfully. His next inquiry was of a nature beyond politics or war. "Is there a Mr. Vahlen, Dr. Vahlen?"
Vahlen's cheeks turned a tad rosy, "No. Why do you ask, High Marshal?"
"I ask because I would very much like to invite you to dinner."
"Oh my. But… that wouldn't be proper. And so soon, after we've just narrowly avoided an assassination attempt?"
Stern tilted his head to the side, "There's nothing quite like a brush with death to put one's priorities in order. Besides, I am dictator perpetuo of the greatest nation on Earth, I can do whatever I like."
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A/N
Greetings, dear readers! I dare say, this is the longest story I've ever written so far. Damn near chokes me up -sniff-. I'll have to end this book with the 85th chapter, since from this point onwards the identity and history of the Dominion takes a new direction. In the near future, I'll be publishing the next story, entitled 'Fallout: The Union' which will immediately pick up from where this chapter leaves off.
I'm grateful for your support and for joining me on my never-ending journey to mastering the art of writing.