Chapter Two

0753 hours, June 30, 2545 (military calendar)

Town of Goodsprings

Unknown system

They worked until the early hours of the morning, though it was more accurate to say that Mitchell worked whilst Ryan stood there and occasionally handed over the requested tool or mopped up a particularly large pool of blood. Nevertheless, Mitchell seemed thankful for the help and offered him his sofa once they finished operating on the man just as the clock struck four, which Ryan graciously accepted but he didn't sleep for long, rising a little before seven to explore Goodsprings.

Not that it took long, the whole place consisting of maybe a dozen or so buildings including a saloon, a store, a schoolhouse and a fuel station, the general conditions of which varied greatly, with there being close to thirty or forty people living in town, tops. Most seemed to be ranchers of some kind as they tended to large creatures called bighorners or grew scraggly looking crops in plots just outside their homes, with a small handful of them being miners hunting for precious metals like gold, silver and copper, even lead, but judging by the looks of things they hadn't been overly successful in their endeavours.

If anything they spent most of their days hanging out in the town's saloon, talking and drinking when they weren't playing pool, offering up some conversation to Ryan when he briefly stepped inside to inquire after food. They didn't have all that much to say with most of it pertaining to the NCR-Legion war, in particular painting the latter as something akin to a band of savages and slavers. Their opinion of the NCR was a little better but they had plenty of complaints about high taxation, bureaucracy and even corruption within its offices, and the apparent ineptitude of its armed forces given they had both allowed and seemingly done nothing to contain the breakout of criminals from a correctional facility to the south.

These Powder Gangers, as they were now calling themselves, had already caused no small amount of disruption along the nearby roads, attacking caravans carrying vital supplies when they weren't just extorting them of their money and violently beating down the ones who couldn't, or wouldn't, pay the toll. What made them particularly dangerous was their access to a huge cache of dynamite, allowing them to inflict a level of damage far beyond what they would have otherwise.

It caused some worry amongst the saloon's patrons that the Powder Gangers might soon turn their attention to the town just as they had allegedly already done further south, in a place called Primm, especially as they had no dedicated guard beyond the handful that owned something more potent than a handgun or break-action shotgun.

Ryan just filed all this way for later use, as he did the knowledge that currency in the Mojave came in the form of bottle caps, or just caps for short, particularly those of a soft drink known as Nuka-Cola and, to a lesser extent, another one called Sunset Sarsaparilla, of which he obviously had neither. Trudy, the bartender, seemed taken aback by this fact but nevertheless took pity on him, whipping up a simple meal that he graciously thanked her for ahead of resuming his explorations of Goodsprings.

He even returned to the cemetery to see if there was anything of note to be found, but there was nothing beyond a battered looking pistol casually dumped nearby alongside a few spare magazines. The courier's, presumably, which Ryan pocketed after examining it. There wasn't anything too noteworthy about the design though, other than it being very archaic looking compared to what he was familiar with and chambered in a 9mm round that had long since fallen out of use within the wider UNSC. Beyond that, though, there was nothing, not even the cigarette butts which had blown away at some point during the night with the only indication something had occurred here being the pile of disturbed dirt from where the courier had been buried.

His tour of town concluded, Ryan went back to Mitchell's house where he found the doctor stood outside, grimacing against the bright early morning sun as he sipped at a cup of coffee.

'Morning,' he said, raising a hand in greeting. 'I'm hoping that sofa of mine wasn't too uncomfortable.'

'It was more than adequate,' Ryan said with a dip of the head. 'Thank you for letting me use it, doctor.'

'Just doc is fine,' Mitchell said. 'That's what most people around here call me, anyway.'

He motioned towards Goodsprings with his mug as Ryan joined him, turning to look out at the town and the wider desert beyond it. As he had seen yesterday there was plenty of evidence of human development, in particular a satellite station of some kind sitting atop a mountain off to the east. Several of the dishes had collapsed or fallen with just one remaining upright, plus three or maybe four radio antennas scattered about. An old UNSC early warning site of some kind with any luck, maybe with a Pelican tucked away somewhere.

'How's the patient?' Ryan said.

'Doing fine, last I checked,' Mitchell said. 'Boy's built as solid as an oak, which is probably why he survived. Just a question now of how long until he wakes up. Could be a few days, or it could be a week or more. Head wounds are unpredictable like that.' He paused. 'Are you planning on waiting around until he wakes up?'

Ryan nodded. 'I'm partially responsible for him being in this state to begin with, after all, and I'd like to apologise.'

'You thinking of going after the men who shot him?' Mitchell said.

'Not particularly,' Ryan said. 'I have my own objectives to complete.'

'Like what?' Mitchell said.

That made Ryan pause for a moment, glancing towards Mitchell. He thought it would have been obvious from his armour that he wasn't a local and, more than likely, part of NAVSPECWAR, which meant getting off this planet so he could rejoin it in the wider war effort against the Covenant and, to a lesser degree, the still raging Insurrection. This planet couldn't have been cut off from the rest of the colonies long enough for that to fade from people's minds, especially someone as old as Mitchell who looked to be in his late fifties at minimum. The earliest the Covenant could have attacked this planet was twenty years ago, when he was in his thirties.

Ryan frowned inside his helmet as he said, 'Rejoin the UNSC.'

'They your merc group or something?' Mitchell said, apparently sincere in his lack of knowing who or what humanity's military arm was.

'No,' Ryan said. He paused, then added, 'Where are we?'

'Goodsprings,' Mitchell said before chuckling. 'Though I imagine that's not what you mean. You're in the Mojave Wasteland, part of what used to be the State of Nevada.'

Another name that meant nothing to Ryan, even when Mitchell pointed towards a flagpole outside his house that bore a cobalt blue standard with a star-like emblem in the upper left corner.

'No, I mean what's the name of the colony we're on,' Ryan said.

'Colony? What?' It was Mitchell's turn to throw him a look, one of confusion. 'I'm not sure what you mean by that, unless you're referring to the original thirteen colonies that became the United States after signing the Declaration, but Nevada was never one of those. Heck, it wasn't even around at the time.'

'Planet, then,' Ryan said, even as a foreboding feeling began to form in the back of his mind.

Again, Mitchell gave him that confused look as he said, 'Well, Earth, unless them dropping the bombs two-hundred years ago changed something.'

Ryan could only look at the doctor following that, thrown by the information coming his way and for a long, long moment he wondered if Mitchell was trying to trick or manipulate him for whatever reason but no, he continued to be sincere in his demeanour which meant one of two things; either he genuinely believed this was humanity's homeworld, or something even more implausible had occurred.

This was Earth.

1547 hours, October 12 2281 (local calendar)

Town of Goodsprings

State of Nevada, Planet Earth, Sol System

Ryan spent the next few hours trying to grapple with the impossible reality he apparently now found himself in, that he had somehow landed on Earth but evidently not the one he had been taught about during lessons back on Onyx. For starters, no significant nuclear exchange had occurred at any point in its history to increase the background radiation count to the level it was at now, and nor did it seem likely that the UEG would allow groups like the NCR or Legion to rise up to the sizes they apparently were.

There was also a distinct lack of SATCOM links, military or otherwise, or COM chatter on any UNSC channel Ryan knew of for that matter. In fact, the only signals he could pick up were either commercial radio stations or the occasional encrypted one from NCR units out in the field. As if to further drive the point home this wasn't Earth, or the version he knew, the security protocols on the NCR channels were laughably easy to break. Even Insurrectionist communiques had better protection.

At first he refused to believe this, even going into the Prospector Saloon to ask Trudy and her patrons the same questions he had posed Mitchell but they gave more or less the same answers. This was Earth, with the added caveat that two-hundred years ago a global exchange of nuclear weapons had taken place to turn the world into the irradiated desert it was now. They had no knowledge of who or what the UNSC was, or any of the other factions he could think to name. All they did was look at him as though he were a little strange, possibly crazy, but were too polite to say as much in his presence.

Ryan briefly hoped he was on a long lost colony that had inexplicably deluded itself into thinking this was Earth but, somehow, that sounded even more farfetched than the explanation he eventually settled on; this was Earth, albeit one from an alternate universe he had somehow been transported to. As for how that had occurred, he could only speculate it had something to do with slipspace. There was just so much humanity still didn't know about that strange dimension, and it wasn't uncommon for probes and even entire ships to vanish whilst travelling through it. Who was to say their fate wasn't actually being transported to an alternate world?

Really, though, the how and why of it hardly mattered next to the fact that he was here, and likely as not stranded. Forever.

Accepting that filled Ryan with an almost overwhelming sense of despair and loss, that everything he had fought and trained for was rendered null and void with no chance of ever getting back to it. He felt lost and adrift, sinking into a fugue-like state outside Mitchell's house as he tried to process everything but it was hard going. After all, he had dedicated his life to being a Spartan so that he could help prevent other children from going through the same suffering he had at the hands of the Covenant. And now it had been rendered moot?

His hands clenched into fists at several points but they eventually relaxed, and before long his training reasserted itself with Ryan's mind pushing his despairing thoughts to a dark corner as it began focusing on longer term plans, chief amongst which was figuring out a means of supporting himself as no UNSC meant no logistical base to rely on. That meant earning enough money to support himself, or at least aligning himself with a faction that could fill the role of the UNSC. Again, his first thought was that of the NCR.

They were probably the closest the region got to a government with all the technical backings that implied, and with how precarious their position in the Mojave apparently was they probably needed all the help they could get. Of course, there were the allegations of corruption against it but, historically speaking, no government had ever been able to say that it was entirely free of the act. Even the UEG had to have at least some elected officials who exploited their positions for personal gain. In fact, Insurrectionist propaganda basically ran with it as a primary complaint against Earth and the Inner Colonies, though their message was slightly undercut by the truly heinous acts of terror many of them happily carried out their pursuit of 'freedom' and 'justice'.

That, and Ryan knew of no other factions he could potentially ally himself with, having spent a grand total of just over twenty-four hours in the Mojave Wasteland, much of it in a small town that had a population of less than fifty. He would need to explore the region more to know who, and who not to, potentially ally himself with, which meant deciding on where to go to determine that.

New Vegas was the most obvious destination as it was the Mojave largest and perhaps only city, meaning it had to have a thriving population and maybe even a sizeable NCR garrison he could make inquiries around. Getting there would be a problem though, as Trudy and several others had mentioned the presence of numerous dangerous creatures along the roads to the north, one of which came with the decidedly unfriendly moniker of deathclaw. As confident as Ryan was in his abilities, he had no major desire to see if they were a match for such a beast, or several of them if the rumours were to be believed.

And with the eastern and western regions blocked by tall mountain ranges, that left heading south through Powder Ganger territory as his only course of action. Which, really, was no issue at all. First of all they would have to find him, and on the slim chance that they did it was highly unlikely criminals like them had the training or equipment necessary to handle a Spartan aware he was travelling through hostile territory. Not even their access to dynamite did much to elevate their threat level, though as he made his plans Ryan caught sight of someone who looked like he had suffered through an encounter with the criminals.

He was covered in a layer of burnt grime that Ryan recognised as coming from several near misses with explosives, and walking with a pronounced limp that favoured his left side. There was a distant look of shock on his face too though he had enough wits about him to make for the Prospector Saloon, disappearing inside as Ryan himself stood to turn and knock on Mitchell's door.

'I think there's a new patient in town for you, doc,' he said when Mitchell answered. 'Just went into the saloon, and it looks like he ran into Powder Gangers.'

'Probably means he had a few sticks of dynamite thrown at him,' Mitchell said. 'Give me a minute to gather my things and I'll head down there.'

Ryan dipped his head as he span on his heel, making for the saloon. As he went, his eyes drifted south towards the road out of town where he caught sight of three figures dressed in pale blue outfits, one of them wearing what looked to be armour of some kind. They had come to a stop just before reaching the outskirts of Goodsprings but it was obvious their attention was on where the injured man had gone, pointing at the building as they spoke amongst themselves. A few minutes of this went by before they turned and left town, disappearing behind a cliff face.

He filed it away for later and carried on to the saloon where he found the injured man had already laid claim to one of the stools at the bar, a bottle of whiskey before him as Trudy and a few of the other townsfolk lingered nearby.

'Doc Mitchell is on his way,' Ryan said, announcing himself.

'Good,' Trudy said. 'Ringo here is more than a little banged up.'

'Powder Gangers?' Ryan said.

'Yeah,' Ringo said as he downed a slug of whiskey, grimacing. 'They ambushed us just north of that old skydiving place on the Long 15. Didn't even give us a chance to drop our weapons, they just started shooting. We put up a good fight but there were just too many of them.'

'Numbers?' Ryan said.

'Twenty,' Ringo said. 'To start with. I think we knocked them down to about an even dozen, but there's no telling if they'll go back to NCRCF to replace them.'

'I saw a trio on the outskirts of town just now,' Ryan said.

Mitchell appeared at this point and quickly busied himself with tending to Ringo's various wounds, each prod and probe making him wince slightly but the doctor eventually came back a promising prognosis of nothing being broken, just bruised and tender, with a recommendation of bed rest and a daily regimen of things called stimpacks to speed his recovery along.

Ringo thanked him for that then, to Ryan, said, 'Was one of them wearing some kind of armour?'

'Yes,' he said.

'Then that's their leader,' Ringo said. 'Of that little gang, anyway. He seemed to take our refusal to surrender pretty personally, which means he probably took my escape badly, too.'

'Bad enough that they'll take it out on the town?' Trudy said.

Ringo shrugged, making him wince. 'I don't know. It's one thing to ambush a caravan when you outnumber them five-to-one, and another to take on a whole town where the numbers aren't on your side.'

He paused then said, 'Look, I'll rest up a few days then carry on to Vegas. Then you can say to anyone that comes looking for me I've moved on, and hopefully that'll be enough for them to leave you alone.'

'A few days?' Mitchell said. 'Son, you'd be better off resting for a week before making any kind of journey like that.'

'Besides, all the roads north of here are blocked off,' Trudy said. 'You've got cazadores along the old State Route and deathclaws have infested the Long 15 north of Sloan. Only way you're making it to Vegas is going back down south and cutting through Nipton across to Highway 95.'

A pained expression crossed Ringo's face on hearing that, particularly the unspoken part that involved crossing Powder Ganger territory again. Only this time, he had no guards to protect him and chances were good the criminals had placed a bounty of some sort on his head. Getting through it would take no small miracle, with the alternative being he stay in Goodsprings indefinitely. Of course, that had all its own set of problems as there was no guarantee the Powder Gangers wouldn't come after the town for the simple crime of harbouring him. The cell that had ambushed Ringo to begin with might only consist of twelve members right now, but there had to be more waiting at the prison or in Primm who would be more than willing to lend their aid in capturing him and the town.

It seemed as though Ringo was damned regardless of what he did, or where he went, as was the town by extension. If they decided to throw him to the wolves, it essentially made them all complicit in his death and said to the Powder Gangers they could be intimidated into doing whatever they wanted. But if they allowed him to stay and offered some measure of protection, it risked incurring the wrath of the Powder Gangers as well, possibly with even more dire consequences.

A decidedly sombre atmosphere fell over the saloon's interior as everyone reached the same conclusion, some of them subconsciously touching any weapons they might be carrying on their persons at the moment. Ringo was particularly despondent over it as he swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, staring at nothing, but his attention soon diverted to Ryan when he spoke up.

'I could deal with the Powder Gangers for you,' he said.

'Really?' Ringo said. 'You?'

He seemed dismissive of the idea at first and gave something of a derisive snort, only to rethink his position on actually taking the in the sight of Ryan more properly as the daze of surviving an ambush wore off. Compared to the rest of the saloon's patrons he was dressed in armour and carried something more potent than a revolver on his hip, and at just under two metres in height he was certainly more physically imposing than them, too.

Ringo closed his mouth and gave a curt nod of the head, with Ryan departing the saloon shortly after.