Prologue: Enclave Reborn
The one and only. Now in an exclusive, ultimate edition, reworked as the officially 'canon' version going forward.
Prologue
"There is a Providence that protects idiots, drunkards, children and the United States of America."
- Otto Von Bismarck
"This is not the end. This is just the beginning of our great crusade to save America. We have not won in one fell swoop - but we, the lawful government of this great nation, will build on this victory - the first of many - to reclaim and rebuild our land, to save the American people from their plight, to drive back the wasteland and the monsters that infest it. The night is far from over, but the dawn is now on its way!"
- President of the United States Augustus Autumn, First Inaugural Speech, 2278
==*==
Raven Rock Bunker Complex
13:00 EST, March 20 2278
Liam Walker did not like Raven Rock. He was familiar enough with the winding maze of corridors, but the military base reminded him too much of his old home – Vault 101, the bunker where he had spent almost all his life before venturing out into the wasteland after his missing father. On the way out he had accidentally killed the Vault’s Overseer – and he was still considered persona non grata, even though the Vault had recently opened up to the outside world. The last time he had been here, it had been on a mission of what his commanding officer had called a “necessary measure” and what less charitable minds would consider political assassination or an outright coup.
But the world didn’t – couldn’t, the President had made very clear – know just what John Henry Eden had been planning, or his true nature, or how he had really "died". So he kept mum and said nothing. So far as the world knew, “he” had just had an unexpected stroke or heart attack. The history books would comment on the irony that the paranoid measures he took to prevent his demise had prevented him from getting medical assistance.
He knocked on the oaken door, as a mere matter of courtesy, and opened it, entering a brightly lit office. He felt a burst of embarrassment, until he remembered he wasn't wearing his grey field suit but his garrison uniform, the Army blue-and-tan coat being trialled before the Great War and used by US officers since. Everything was in order. He took off his black leather officer's cap and saluted as expected on seeing the room's occupant.
“Welcome,” the figure sitting at the desk opposite said in his characteristic Tidewater drawl, ruffling a finger through his hair, that last time Walker had seen him had been grey, though now parts of it were their natural sandy color – though he wore civilian suits now, the medals of his military career still covered his chest. “Lieutenant Walker, it’s been too long since I last saw you. I trust you're doing well?"
“Yes, I'm helping personally with the distribution of Aqua Pura. How're you doing, Aug-”
“Mr. President, now, remember. I expect people to be formal when speaking with me. Even my friends.”
“Yes, Mr. President. I voted for you in the election after all – of course, there weren’t any other candidates. So, what do you want to speak with me about? Is it what happened at the purifier?”
“As I’ve said before, I bear no responsibility for the death of your father. His own stubbornness, his desire to be the hero of the wasteland himself and gullibility when it came to rebel propaganda led to him releasing that radiation pulse. He killed himself in an attempt to assassinate me – hoping to put an end to our campaign in the region and with it the last, best hope for the United States of America ... and the world. But he believed those rebel lies because we had let ourselves become insulated from the country we sought to reestablish authority over. Richardson and Eden both made that same mistake - this time we'll do things right."
Both of the men here knew what that meant, knew the real meaning behind that statement. Not a soul apart from them did. Both of them had agreed it was better that way.
Walker looked to the flag standing on the office – the old pre-War flag, but different. Where there'd been a single star surrounded by those representing the Commonwealths, there was an "E" with its middle bar divided in three - the post-War symbol of the US Federal Government. There was talk of changing it back to the star once the ENCLAVE continuity-of-government protocols were no longer in force, but the President was determined that now was still not the right time to do that and end the de jure absolute power that they gave him.
"One day, they'll be living their normal lives just like they used to before," Autumn continued. "The Great War will be a fever dream in the distant past and the wasteland a horrible nightmare they woke up from. In the end all our sins will be forgiven ... even your own. But today's not that day. I have to inform you about the next stage of the plan."
"When will that be?"
"Years, maybe a decade. I've discussed with my generals and my cabinet, and we all agree it's critical to rebuilding our nation."
“So what is it?”
“I have long-term plans for the beached supercarrier. The one that recently accepted re-integration after I had some of my boys land vertibirds on the flight deck.”
“What of it? It’s just another wasteland settlement we have to protect against the super mutants. At least until we clear out their base and destroy their remaining FEV supplies. After that, they’ll be doomed.”
“You made a report before we had announced our presence. One of your first missions for me was scouting it out. I believe it was concerning the android?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with the current situation? I’ve just returned from Philly and the locals there are eager to join us – just for the water from Project Purity so much as anything.”
“I already know,” Autumn replied. “Suffice to say, with the steel-refining capabilities of Pittsburgh – once we destroy the warlord in control there and purge those troglodyte creatures –, the dockyards of Naval Station Norfolk, and the miracle metal produced by Project Duraframe; we can eventually make her seaworthy again. Rebuild her. And send her on a long-range expedition.”
“Where?”
“The origin point of the android you encountered on that very same carrier,” President Augustus Autumn said. “Boston.”
==*==
Naval Station Norfolk
11:00 EST, September 15 2287
"My fellow Americans ..."
Rhonda Richardson put her military cap on and clutched the bottle of champagne tight as she heard the President’s speech, his Tidewater drawl still distinctive from such a far distance. It was a chill day, cloudy with the prospect of imminent rain, and the drydock was nevertheless filled with people. Many were sailors of the restored US Navy, a good number citizens of "Rivet City" who had elected to join and serve on the carrier rather than be moved to a temporary settlement area or pre-War town under restoration. There were journalists for the Department of Public Information, soldiers of the Secret Service guarding the President and his family - their armour still black when other branches of the military had shifted to olive drab, still wearing T-67 APA with its bug-shaped helmet and heavy metal collar, and a decent amount of local civilians crowding around the great ship, eager to see it set sail.
She knew his words were being broadcast across the nation – at least what parts of it were now back under the control of the US Federal Government, still informally known to an extent as “the Enclave” - even by the President himself occasionally. That had never formally speaking been an official designation, derived as it was from the name of its secretive headquarters, Control Station ENCLAVE and the ENCLAVE protocols which had greatly increased the power of the President.
That base had been destroyed more than forty years ago, in a cataclysmic nuclear explosion that had killed thousands – including Rhonda’s own great-grandfather, President Richard “Dick” Richardson. The blast had later been determined to be sabotage caused by terrorists aligned with the illegal regime of the secessionist “New California Republic”. After that the majority of military and civilian personnel on the west coast had decamped to Raven Rock, Adams Air Force Base, and Mount Weather via Chicago – leaving behind a small group at Camp Navarro owing to logistical difficulties.
It wasn’t known if the base had survived the past 40 years, but with no radio signals all the way since 2248 things looked grim. Still, she hoped so – most people who had been in US service from the beginning did. The wastelanders – including some in her unit – didn’t really understand.
She tried her best to put on a smile – this day was a nice break from most of what she did as a Staff Sergeant in the US Army Logistics Corps, which boiled down to glorified clerical work. Today, she was to be the star of the show – though looking on the mighty warship before her, she wondered if she might be herself upstaged by that hulk of steel and duraframe. But even though it was going to be launched today, there were still almost two months before the expedition that everybody in the military was talking about. The recon team needed to gather more data and logistical preparations needed to be made - once she arrived in the region herself with the first wave of troops, she knew her workload would only increase.
“USS Richardson ”, the white letters in stencilled military typeface painted on her stern declared her to be – a memorial to the man who had taken the first steps to reclaiming American soil. That was technically inaccurate – Rhonda had heard whispers about the man’s “tyrannical behaviour” and his “going too far”, though she didn’t know how accurate they were. Her own father, Donald W. Richardson, had said nothing of the matter, and at any rate had never known the man himself.
She was an impressive ship, after all the repairs had been completed – with the latest in modern computer technology, 4 fusion reactors powering her systems, and the capacity to carry multiple squadrons of VB-02 vertibirds and F-77 Valkyrie fighters – about a hundred aircraft in total.
“This day represents not only a triumph of our military, but of our resurgent industrial power and economy ...”
The President’s speech continued.
“… As a signal to America’s enemies, on this continent and others, that we are committed to the utmost in rebuilding and reuniting our great nation, no matter the forces that put themselves up against us. As the late President’s great-granddaughter herself has been invited to play a key role in the ceremony, we take the memory of our fallen leader to heart and promise never again to fall into such jeopardy.”
“1, 2, 3, launch!”
The gates of the drydock opened and Rhonda threw her bottle against the side as the massive ship rolled down the gangway with a ponderous speed, quickly gaining momentum to smash into the waters of the Chesapeake Bay.
==*==
Jacksonville, North Carolina
11:30 EST, September 16 2287
This wasteland town had outstayed its welcome for Martin McLaggen and his caravan. He was a trader from the NCR travelling on the Grand Trail – the biggest trade route in the Wasteland, through Legion Territory and the South then up north to the Commonwealth and back west to sunny California – and he'd been stuck here for a month. That damn fool Murphy had punched a little too hard in a bar fight and the Mayor'd been back-logged with requests from April till late September.
Come to think of it, this whole journey had been a disaster. First, barely after leaving the NCR at Hoover Dam he'd been shaken down a thousand caps by a petty warlord, a former Legion centurion who needed money to pay his men. Say what you like about Caesar , he thought, at least he didn't pay exorbitant tolls . Then his wagons full of energy weapons and electronics had been impounded by the Lone Star Republic, and he'd lost twenty good men to bandits near the old Mexican border. Then Jenny'd shot a man who tried to abuse her in Orleans and he'd had to skip town without getting to sell anything. And finally, he'd spent the last few months fighting ghouls, tribals and swathes of mutant kudzu to get to this podunk wasteland shithole, whereupon one of his mercenaries killed a man and couldn't pay the blood money. If this bad luck lasted much longer, his company was busted.
He looked around the busy marketplace in front of the town hall, seeing the usual brahmin-drawn carts and a busker singing some old ballad:
“He was comin' down the grade makin' ninety miles an hour,
The whistle broke into a scream,
They found him in the wreck with his hand upon the throttle,
He'd been scalded to death by the steam...”
And then … fuck.
Martin saw the man first. He was wearing a tailored, clearly expensive suit and had … a working pip-boy ! And there were his bodyguards, wearing power armour that …
No, it was that armour. The collar and the shoulders made that clear. Though painted olive drab, it was the old armour McLaggen knew from the history books, from school, from the museum in New Arroyo. Enclave. He turned white.
Must be mercs of some kind, he thought, trying to rationalise it . They headed out east after taking the armour as some kinda trophy . That was when he heard a local radio station coming from a market booth.
“ Yankee Doodle came to town a-riding on a pony,
Stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni,
Father and I went down to camp along with Captain Goodin',
And there we saw the men and boys as thick as hasty pudding!”
“What's that radio station you're listening to?”
“Enclave Radio,” the shopkeep said in her Virginia accent. “Says it's the official station of the Fed'ral Government - sometimes they say 'Enclave', it's the same thing - but they sure took their sweet time coming to try and help us.”
“ And there they were a thousand men,
As rich as Squire David,
And what they wasted every day,
I wished it could be saved!”
“The Enclave is gone,” McLaggen said, trying to convince himself as much as anything. "We defeated them decades ago after they ... they tried to wipe out humanity!”
“Defeated? Mister, they just launched an aircraft carrier. Heard it on the news just yesterday; that President Autumn sure has a sweet voice. And they haven’t been wiping out anybody other than super mutants and raiders. There aren’t any left in the Capital Wasteland any more thanks to them. Only people who could tame a place as bad as that.”
“And there they had a swapping gun,
As big as a log of maple,
On a mighty little cart,
A load for father's cattle!”
“Screw Murphy!” McLaggen yelled to his associates. “We're heading back to the NCR! We have to warn them if it's the last thing we do!”
As they hurried back to their lodgings to prepare to begin their journey, the final words of the old song played.
“It scared me so I hooked it off,
Nor stopped as I remember,
Nor turned about till I got home,
Locked up in mother's chamber!”
Cambridge, Greater Boston Area
10:00 EST, 11 November 2287
Sgt. Elliot Tercorien was woken with a loud noise, an overwhelming boom that might have deafened him had he been closer to the site. He looked up in panic, trained and honed combat senses taking over – there was a fireball in the sky, already dissipating. An air-to-air nuclear missile, too high up to cause any significant fallout or radiation exposure, a paltry 1.5 kilotons of firepower. And to the southeast – he checked with his binoculars – the distinctive shape of an F-77 Valkyrie fighter, its wings swept forward like no military plane in service before the nuclear war, already zooming away.
It was a mere three days before Operation Iron Eagle swung into full gear, but already the US military had made its mark on the region.
Sometimes he went to sleep fearing that he would wake up on an experimentation table – his whole life since his rescue from that den of horrors a vision implanted into his mind by those freakish little green men that had abducted his squad and experimented on his squadmates to the point they’d had to be mercy-killed.
He had been one of the only ones that had escaped – along with the little girl he’d adopted, Sally, and the special forces man who’d rescued him. The rest had died on that alien mothership, giving them precious time to get back to the teleport chambers – and to Earth – before it had collided with the other alien ship. The Samurai – he didn’t recall the name, now – had even stayed behind on the bridge to make sure their plan succeeded, guarding the door. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain.
He got into his armour – a suit of Mk. 7 T-72 ‘Black Devil’ power armour (that being a term the Brotherhood traitors had used before being appropriated by the US Military itself), enjoying the cool pneumatic hiss as his suit opened to let him in and then closed around him. He took his M52 Liberty plasma rifle – a derivation of the old Glock-86 ‘Plasma Defender’, expanded to rifle size – and hurried out of the old police station his recon team; Squad Charlie, 3rd Platoon, 2nd Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment – were using as a base, firing shots into the mass of super mutants attacking the pre-War facility after clambering onto the standard-issue military barricade.
He took out one with ease, and another, and another – but it wasn’t enough. They seemed a sea of bestial madness. More worryingly, he was the only soldier with power armour – his men were in combat armour for ease of travel and to keep a low profile. They might not be able to hold.
“I’m on standby to do a combat evac,” his pilot, Camilla Everhart, said through his helmet radio, from the vertibird planted on the police station’s roof, next to the antenna array that theoretically should provide the small base with an electromagnetic shield against teleportation - the eggheads wanting to test one of their new theories per usual, he guessed.
“Acknowledged,” he replied, squeezing off another shot. “But no need, we’re holding them.”
Just then he saw laser rifle shots hitting from behind the super mutants, picking off them one by one. They were being fired by men dressed in what looked like farmers' overalls adapted into some kind of anachronistic uniform, using some sort of crude single-shot laser rifle. The leader was wearing combat armour - a winterized type, Elliot noted. The same type that he had worn himself fighting in the Alaskan theatre more than 200 years ago. Curious, part of his mind noted. Very odd.
A group of the baying muties split off to deal with the intruders, and the confusion gave Elliot’s men an opportunity. He loaded a plasma grenade into the underbarrel attachment of his rifle and fired it into one of the largest masses, scything a group down and blasting fragments of blood, bone and brains in all directions.
After that they proved easy to pick off one by one, and the leader of the mysterious group approached the USMC soldiers, advancing cautiously in combat armour.
He was – no, it can’t be – Elliot recognised him as he got closer. One of the soldiers moved to level a weapon, but Elliot moved his hand aside.
He should have been long dead, over 200 years gone. Elliot had never thought he’d see that man – one of his close friends and a fellow soldier in the 108th Infantry Battalion – ever again. He spoke out loud.
“Nate?!"
Prologue
"There is a Providence that protects idiots, drunkards, children and the United States of America."
- Otto Von Bismarck
"This is not the end. This is just the beginning of our great crusade to save America. We have not won in one fell swoop - but we, the lawful government of this great nation, will build on this victory - the first of many - to reclaim and rebuild our land, to save the American people from their plight, to drive back the wasteland and the monsters that infest it. The night is far from over, but the dawn is now on its way!"
- President of the United States Augustus Autumn, First Inaugural Speech, 2278
==*==
Raven Rock Bunker Complex
13:00 EST, March 20 2278
Liam Walker did not like Raven Rock. He was familiar enough with the winding maze of corridors, but the military base reminded him too much of his old home – Vault 101, the bunker where he had spent almost all his life before venturing out into the wasteland after his missing father. On the way out he had accidentally killed the Vault’s Overseer – and he was still considered persona non grata, even though the Vault had recently opened up to the outside world. The last time he had been here, it had been on a mission of what his commanding officer had called a “necessary measure” and what less charitable minds would consider political assassination or an outright coup.
But the world didn’t – couldn’t, the President had made very clear – know just what John Henry Eden had been planning, or his true nature, or how he had really "died". So he kept mum and said nothing. So far as the world knew, “he” had just had an unexpected stroke or heart attack. The history books would comment on the irony that the paranoid measures he took to prevent his demise had prevented him from getting medical assistance.
He knocked on the oaken door, as a mere matter of courtesy, and opened it, entering a brightly lit office. He felt a burst of embarrassment, until he remembered he wasn't wearing his grey field suit but his garrison uniform, the Army blue-and-tan coat being trialled before the Great War and used by US officers since. Everything was in order. He took off his black leather officer's cap and saluted as expected on seeing the room's occupant.
“Welcome,” the figure sitting at the desk opposite said in his characteristic Tidewater drawl, ruffling a finger through his hair, that last time Walker had seen him had been grey, though now parts of it were their natural sandy color – though he wore civilian suits now, the medals of his military career still covered his chest. “Lieutenant Walker, it’s been too long since I last saw you. I trust you're doing well?"
“Yes, I'm helping personally with the distribution of Aqua Pura. How're you doing, Aug-”
“Mr. President, now, remember. I expect people to be formal when speaking with me. Even my friends.”
“Yes, Mr. President. I voted for you in the election after all – of course, there weren’t any other candidates. So, what do you want to speak with me about? Is it what happened at the purifier?”
“As I’ve said before, I bear no responsibility for the death of your father. His own stubbornness, his desire to be the hero of the wasteland himself and gullibility when it came to rebel propaganda led to him releasing that radiation pulse. He killed himself in an attempt to assassinate me – hoping to put an end to our campaign in the region and with it the last, best hope for the United States of America ... and the world. But he believed those rebel lies because we had let ourselves become insulated from the country we sought to reestablish authority over. Richardson and Eden both made that same mistake - this time we'll do things right."
Both of the men here knew what that meant, knew the real meaning behind that statement. Not a soul apart from them did. Both of them had agreed it was better that way.
Walker looked to the flag standing on the office – the old pre-War flag, but different. Where there'd been a single star surrounded by those representing the Commonwealths, there was an "E" with its middle bar divided in three - the post-War symbol of the US Federal Government. There was talk of changing it back to the star once the ENCLAVE continuity-of-government protocols were no longer in force, but the President was determined that now was still not the right time to do that and end the de jure absolute power that they gave him.
"One day, they'll be living their normal lives just like they used to before," Autumn continued. "The Great War will be a fever dream in the distant past and the wasteland a horrible nightmare they woke up from. In the end all our sins will be forgiven ... even your own. But today's not that day. I have to inform you about the next stage of the plan."
"When will that be?"
"Years, maybe a decade. I've discussed with my generals and my cabinet, and we all agree it's critical to rebuilding our nation."
“So what is it?”
“I have long-term plans for the beached supercarrier. The one that recently accepted re-integration after I had some of my boys land vertibirds on the flight deck.”
“What of it? It’s just another wasteland settlement we have to protect against the super mutants. At least until we clear out their base and destroy their remaining FEV supplies. After that, they’ll be doomed.”
“You made a report before we had announced our presence. One of your first missions for me was scouting it out. I believe it was concerning the android?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with the current situation? I’ve just returned from Philly and the locals there are eager to join us – just for the water from Project Purity so much as anything.”
“I already know,” Autumn replied. “Suffice to say, with the steel-refining capabilities of Pittsburgh – once we destroy the warlord in control there and purge those troglodyte creatures –, the dockyards of Naval Station Norfolk, and the miracle metal produced by Project Duraframe; we can eventually make her seaworthy again. Rebuild her. And send her on a long-range expedition.”
“Where?”
“The origin point of the android you encountered on that very same carrier,” President Augustus Autumn said. “Boston.”
==*==
Naval Station Norfolk
11:00 EST, September 15 2287
"My fellow Americans ..."
Rhonda Richardson put her military cap on and clutched the bottle of champagne tight as she heard the President’s speech, his Tidewater drawl still distinctive from such a far distance. It was a chill day, cloudy with the prospect of imminent rain, and the drydock was nevertheless filled with people. Many were sailors of the restored US Navy, a good number citizens of "Rivet City" who had elected to join and serve on the carrier rather than be moved to a temporary settlement area or pre-War town under restoration. There were journalists for the Department of Public Information, soldiers of the Secret Service guarding the President and his family - their armour still black when other branches of the military had shifted to olive drab, still wearing T-67 APA with its bug-shaped helmet and heavy metal collar, and a decent amount of local civilians crowding around the great ship, eager to see it set sail.
She knew his words were being broadcast across the nation – at least what parts of it were now back under the control of the US Federal Government, still informally known to an extent as “the Enclave” - even by the President himself occasionally. That had never formally speaking been an official designation, derived as it was from the name of its secretive headquarters, Control Station ENCLAVE and the ENCLAVE protocols which had greatly increased the power of the President.
That base had been destroyed more than forty years ago, in a cataclysmic nuclear explosion that had killed thousands – including Rhonda’s own great-grandfather, President Richard “Dick” Richardson. The blast had later been determined to be sabotage caused by terrorists aligned with the illegal regime of the secessionist “New California Republic”. After that the majority of military and civilian personnel on the west coast had decamped to Raven Rock, Adams Air Force Base, and Mount Weather via Chicago – leaving behind a small group at Camp Navarro owing to logistical difficulties.
It wasn’t known if the base had survived the past 40 years, but with no radio signals all the way since 2248 things looked grim. Still, she hoped so – most people who had been in US service from the beginning did. The wastelanders – including some in her unit – didn’t really understand.
She tried her best to put on a smile – this day was a nice break from most of what she did as a Staff Sergeant in the US Army Logistics Corps, which boiled down to glorified clerical work. Today, she was to be the star of the show – though looking on the mighty warship before her, she wondered if she might be herself upstaged by that hulk of steel and duraframe. But even though it was going to be launched today, there were still almost two months before the expedition that everybody in the military was talking about. The recon team needed to gather more data and logistical preparations needed to be made - once she arrived in the region herself with the first wave of troops, she knew her workload would only increase.
“USS Richardson ”, the white letters in stencilled military typeface painted on her stern declared her to be – a memorial to the man who had taken the first steps to reclaiming American soil. That was technically inaccurate – Rhonda had heard whispers about the man’s “tyrannical behaviour” and his “going too far”, though she didn’t know how accurate they were. Her own father, Donald W. Richardson, had said nothing of the matter, and at any rate had never known the man himself.
She was an impressive ship, after all the repairs had been completed – with the latest in modern computer technology, 4 fusion reactors powering her systems, and the capacity to carry multiple squadrons of VB-02 vertibirds and F-77 Valkyrie fighters – about a hundred aircraft in total.
“This day represents not only a triumph of our military, but of our resurgent industrial power and economy ...”
The President’s speech continued.
“… As a signal to America’s enemies, on this continent and others, that we are committed to the utmost in rebuilding and reuniting our great nation, no matter the forces that put themselves up against us. As the late President’s great-granddaughter herself has been invited to play a key role in the ceremony, we take the memory of our fallen leader to heart and promise never again to fall into such jeopardy.”
“1, 2, 3, launch!”
The gates of the drydock opened and Rhonda threw her bottle against the side as the massive ship rolled down the gangway with a ponderous speed, quickly gaining momentum to smash into the waters of the Chesapeake Bay.
==*==
Jacksonville, North Carolina
11:30 EST, September 16 2287
This wasteland town had outstayed its welcome for Martin McLaggen and his caravan. He was a trader from the NCR travelling on the Grand Trail – the biggest trade route in the Wasteland, through Legion Territory and the South then up north to the Commonwealth and back west to sunny California – and he'd been stuck here for a month. That damn fool Murphy had punched a little too hard in a bar fight and the Mayor'd been back-logged with requests from April till late September.
Come to think of it, this whole journey had been a disaster. First, barely after leaving the NCR at Hoover Dam he'd been shaken down a thousand caps by a petty warlord, a former Legion centurion who needed money to pay his men. Say what you like about Caesar , he thought, at least he didn't pay exorbitant tolls . Then his wagons full of energy weapons and electronics had been impounded by the Lone Star Republic, and he'd lost twenty good men to bandits near the old Mexican border. Then Jenny'd shot a man who tried to abuse her in Orleans and he'd had to skip town without getting to sell anything. And finally, he'd spent the last few months fighting ghouls, tribals and swathes of mutant kudzu to get to this podunk wasteland shithole, whereupon one of his mercenaries killed a man and couldn't pay the blood money. If this bad luck lasted much longer, his company was busted.
He looked around the busy marketplace in front of the town hall, seeing the usual brahmin-drawn carts and a busker singing some old ballad:
“He was comin' down the grade makin' ninety miles an hour,
The whistle broke into a scream,
They found him in the wreck with his hand upon the throttle,
He'd been scalded to death by the steam...”
And then … fuck.
Martin saw the man first. He was wearing a tailored, clearly expensive suit and had … a working pip-boy ! And there were his bodyguards, wearing power armour that …
No, it was that armour. The collar and the shoulders made that clear. Though painted olive drab, it was the old armour McLaggen knew from the history books, from school, from the museum in New Arroyo. Enclave. He turned white.
Must be mercs of some kind, he thought, trying to rationalise it . They headed out east after taking the armour as some kinda trophy . That was when he heard a local radio station coming from a market booth.
“ Yankee Doodle came to town a-riding on a pony,
Stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni,
Father and I went down to camp along with Captain Goodin',
And there we saw the men and boys as thick as hasty pudding!”
“What's that radio station you're listening to?”
“Enclave Radio,” the shopkeep said in her Virginia accent. “Says it's the official station of the Fed'ral Government - sometimes they say 'Enclave', it's the same thing - but they sure took their sweet time coming to try and help us.”
“ And there they were a thousand men,
As rich as Squire David,
And what they wasted every day,
I wished it could be saved!”
“The Enclave is gone,” McLaggen said, trying to convince himself as much as anything. "We defeated them decades ago after they ... they tried to wipe out humanity!”
“Defeated? Mister, they just launched an aircraft carrier. Heard it on the news just yesterday; that President Autumn sure has a sweet voice. And they haven’t been wiping out anybody other than super mutants and raiders. There aren’t any left in the Capital Wasteland any more thanks to them. Only people who could tame a place as bad as that.”
“And there they had a swapping gun,
As big as a log of maple,
On a mighty little cart,
A load for father's cattle!”
“Screw Murphy!” McLaggen yelled to his associates. “We're heading back to the NCR! We have to warn them if it's the last thing we do!”
As they hurried back to their lodgings to prepare to begin their journey, the final words of the old song played.
“It scared me so I hooked it off,
Nor stopped as I remember,
Nor turned about till I got home,
Locked up in mother's chamber!”
Cambridge, Greater Boston Area
10:00 EST, 11 November 2287
Sgt. Elliot Tercorien was woken with a loud noise, an overwhelming boom that might have deafened him had he been closer to the site. He looked up in panic, trained and honed combat senses taking over – there was a fireball in the sky, already dissipating. An air-to-air nuclear missile, too high up to cause any significant fallout or radiation exposure, a paltry 1.5 kilotons of firepower. And to the southeast – he checked with his binoculars – the distinctive shape of an F-77 Valkyrie fighter, its wings swept forward like no military plane in service before the nuclear war, already zooming away.
It was a mere three days before Operation Iron Eagle swung into full gear, but already the US military had made its mark on the region.
Sometimes he went to sleep fearing that he would wake up on an experimentation table – his whole life since his rescue from that den of horrors a vision implanted into his mind by those freakish little green men that had abducted his squad and experimented on his squadmates to the point they’d had to be mercy-killed.
He had been one of the only ones that had escaped – along with the little girl he’d adopted, Sally, and the special forces man who’d rescued him. The rest had died on that alien mothership, giving them precious time to get back to the teleport chambers – and to Earth – before it had collided with the other alien ship. The Samurai – he didn’t recall the name, now – had even stayed behind on the bridge to make sure their plan succeeded, guarding the door. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain.
He got into his armour – a suit of Mk. 7 T-72 ‘Black Devil’ power armour (that being a term the Brotherhood traitors had used before being appropriated by the US Military itself), enjoying the cool pneumatic hiss as his suit opened to let him in and then closed around him. He took his M52 Liberty plasma rifle – a derivation of the old Glock-86 ‘Plasma Defender’, expanded to rifle size – and hurried out of the old police station his recon team; Squad Charlie, 3rd Platoon, 2nd Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment – were using as a base, firing shots into the mass of super mutants attacking the pre-War facility after clambering onto the standard-issue military barricade.
He took out one with ease, and another, and another – but it wasn’t enough. They seemed a sea of bestial madness. More worryingly, he was the only soldier with power armour – his men were in combat armour for ease of travel and to keep a low profile. They might not be able to hold.
“I’m on standby to do a combat evac,” his pilot, Camilla Everhart, said through his helmet radio, from the vertibird planted on the police station’s roof, next to the antenna array that theoretically should provide the small base with an electromagnetic shield against teleportation - the eggheads wanting to test one of their new theories per usual, he guessed.
“Acknowledged,” he replied, squeezing off another shot. “But no need, we’re holding them.”
Just then he saw laser rifle shots hitting from behind the super mutants, picking off them one by one. They were being fired by men dressed in what looked like farmers' overalls adapted into some kind of anachronistic uniform, using some sort of crude single-shot laser rifle. The leader was wearing combat armour - a winterized type, Elliot noted. The same type that he had worn himself fighting in the Alaskan theatre more than 200 years ago. Curious, part of his mind noted. Very odd.
A group of the baying muties split off to deal with the intruders, and the confusion gave Elliot’s men an opportunity. He loaded a plasma grenade into the underbarrel attachment of his rifle and fired it into one of the largest masses, scything a group down and blasting fragments of blood, bone and brains in all directions.
After that they proved easy to pick off one by one, and the leader of the mysterious group approached the USMC soldiers, advancing cautiously in combat armour.
He was – no, it can’t be – Elliot recognised him as he got closer. One of the soldiers moved to level a weapon, but Elliot moved his hand aside.
He should have been long dead, over 200 years gone. Elliot had never thought he’d see that man – one of his close friends and a fellow soldier in the 108th Infantry Battalion – ever again. He spoke out loud.
“Nate?!"
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