Calculation (part 11)
Mr Zoat
Dedicated ragequitter
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25th December 2282
13:08 GMT -6
As far as I know, the Eighties don't celebrate Christmas. No presents, no trees, no carolling and no prayers. But they do mark the 25th of December with a motor parade, followed by a communal feast.
I'm looking down at the parade now.
It's been decades since Warchief Super Bee fled Sac City ahead of the Shady Sands/Redding/Boneyard army. Most N.C.R. textbooks refer to it as the N.C.R. Army, but the N.C.R. Constitution hadn't been signed yet, even if it was clear to all parties that it was inevitably going to be. A large, technologically sophisticated band of raiders squatting on the N.C.R.'s neck couldn't be tolerated, so they had to go.
Unfortunately, and perhaps also inevitably, the attack was poorly planned. The various city states had armies made up almost exclusively of light infantry. The Lost Hills Brotherhood weren't involving themselves and the Desert Rangers were still trying to hold Arizona. Against a raider army which was mostly driving cars and trucks and even had a few restored tanks, they could gradually grind them down but weren't able to prevent a breakout. Thousands of heavily armed Eighties drove towards New Reno and then Vault City, committing brigandage and enslavement wherever they went.
And they finally set up shop here, in Wendover, where they built their new home, conquered some of the weaker proto-nations and then sat here menacingly. Eastport aside none of them are places the N.C.R. cares about, and since Eastport's conquest has mostly just resulted in them paying the Eighties proper to leave them alone it's not really a pressing concern.
Until they started talking to Wyatt. So now it's time for hardball.
The parade is going slow, Thunderbird taking time to wave at his admirers and toss bottle caps into the crowd. Other luminaries drive just behind him, engines revving, drivers and passengers having shouted exchanges with one another and the crowd. Behind that… Tanks. Not final generation American army tanks, but certainly more advanced than anything fielded during World War Two. I'm a little concerned that they're a novel design rather than just a copy of the Abrams or something, because that indicates a level of technological skill that we didn't think they had.
There, in the second rank. That's Wyatt. So at least I know where he is.
Behind the tanks are trucks and cars, all heavily customised. Some trucks are modified with armoured plates and welded-on machine guns. Others have rocket launchers or anti-air guns mounted on the back, and one has what looks like a ludicrously oversized flamethrower. Eighties tribesmen standing in the transport vehicles are shouting and waving at the crowd…
Some of the trucks have bound slaves instead. I spot a few heavily worn vault suits amongst Canaanite cotton and leather and patched pre-War clothing that could have come from just about anywhere. **[I reach out]** but I don't feel any Sky Reavers or Sky Walkers down there. That's not surprising; we only got a border with Eighties-controlled territory fairly recently and they don't have much of a presence near us.
**A song? A song!**
My eyes widen as I do hear a telepathic voice, and…
**Will it join us? Will it sing to the hole in the sky? The chorus is so quiet now.**
That's a Crimson Acolyte. I didn't think they'd all died, but I'm going to need to get on that.
But first things first. Stealth field off, acceleration increased, Ride of the Valkyries on external speakers, prepare to launch flares and skim!
My saucer zooms through the air towards the back of the convoy, burning magnesium flying from the air like falling stars all around me. Some of the people below duck or scrabble for their guns, while others shout and cheer.
All part of the fun.
I pull up, go nose up, spin and then aileron roll into a drop back onto the parade. At the point Thunderbird has brought the slow-moving convoy to a halt and is standing in his seat to watch me. He isn't laughing. And neither is Wyatt.
I level out, put the saucer into a plate spin and fire off a new round of flares as I drift towards the front of the convoy using the anti-gravity system and my momentum. The leadership all have guns in their hands, though they're all trying to conceal it at least a little. I stop the spin just as I pass Thunderbird, dropping to just above the ground and popping the canopy.
"War Chief Thunderbird. Merry Christmas."
His eyes narrow slightly as he gazes into mine. "Chief Krono. Surprised you're here now. Not surprised you came."
"Then you know why I'm here." I raise my right hand in greeting. "Wyatt."
Wyatt guns the engine on his… Bike.. chariot thing, and pulls up level with Thunderbird. Normally that would be an insult, but he needs to be involved in this talk. "Krono. Nice ride. Build it yourself?"
One of the slow-on-the-uptake lieutenants in one of the cars behind them make an ooooh noise. Suggesting that a man can't work on his own car is a pretty serious insult both amongst the Eighties and in Two Sun. Fortunately, I can repair most of the systems in a saucer. It wouldn't be safe for me to fly on my own if I couldn't.
"Did some work. What happened to your car?"
He waves his right hand dismissively. "I drive it all the time. This is a parade."
"That thing's going to have rarity value, soon. So." I turn back to Thunderbird. "Reason I'm here. The Legion's going to be dead soon. The N.C.R. wants to talk to you about the future."
"Ain't nothing to talk about. I-Eighty is ours. Republic might beat the Legion, but then their army is going to be spread out all over the desert. No dice."
"The N.C.R. will offer to normalise relations and recognise your ownership of your current territory. They will grant you the right to travel the I-Eighty in their territory as you please, subject to their laws. And they will agree to begin making repairs to the road, with the aim of restoring it to its original state." He looks mildly intrigued by the last point, and unmoved by the rest. "You could even visit Sac City again."
"So I can visit my own home. Nice. And what else?"
"You release your slaves and prohibit slavery."
His eyes widen in surprise, then he chuckles. "I meant for me. For us. But that's it? Not even a truck load of caps? Nothing?"
I nod. "Nothing. Can I have a quick answer? I'm having the in-laws over."
"Get outa here, psyker. Stop wasting my time."
I shrug. "As you wish."
And then I sit back down in the cockpit, close the canopy and accelerate directly upwards.
Activate target designator. Open channel to vertibird air wing. Lock on to the lead cars, anti-air trucks and significant concentrations of armed men.
"Targets received, missiles away."
I watch as Thunderbird frowns at the sudden increase in illumination. And then I smile as Helios fires a giant burning beam down from orbit, completely obliterating him, his car, and most of the Eighties leadership! Missiles begin slamming into cars a moment later, fuel detonating, fragments of destroyed vehicle scything through anyone nearly!
Then I switch on my own guns, pulses of energy precisely striking anyone who even looks at the slave trucks. I designate a new batch of targets as the people manning the few fixed anti-air guns in Wendover work out that they're being attacked, and only a handful of hopeful shots are fired before the second wave of missiles silences those as well.
As this point everyone who can run is running, crowds and militia alive fleeing for cover. Some try to drive away, but with the wrecks blocking the road a good many are forced to abandon their vehicles and flee on foot.
My Christmas present and bride-price to my father-in-law: the rest of Utah.
"Convoy destroyed. Bring in the transports."
13:08 GMT -6
As far as I know, the Eighties don't celebrate Christmas. No presents, no trees, no carolling and no prayers. But they do mark the 25th of December with a motor parade, followed by a communal feast.
I'm looking down at the parade now.
It's been decades since Warchief Super Bee fled Sac City ahead of the Shady Sands/Redding/Boneyard army. Most N.C.R. textbooks refer to it as the N.C.R. Army, but the N.C.R. Constitution hadn't been signed yet, even if it was clear to all parties that it was inevitably going to be. A large, technologically sophisticated band of raiders squatting on the N.C.R.'s neck couldn't be tolerated, so they had to go.
Unfortunately, and perhaps also inevitably, the attack was poorly planned. The various city states had armies made up almost exclusively of light infantry. The Lost Hills Brotherhood weren't involving themselves and the Desert Rangers were still trying to hold Arizona. Against a raider army which was mostly driving cars and trucks and even had a few restored tanks, they could gradually grind them down but weren't able to prevent a breakout. Thousands of heavily armed Eighties drove towards New Reno and then Vault City, committing brigandage and enslavement wherever they went.
And they finally set up shop here, in Wendover, where they built their new home, conquered some of the weaker proto-nations and then sat here menacingly. Eastport aside none of them are places the N.C.R. cares about, and since Eastport's conquest has mostly just resulted in them paying the Eighties proper to leave them alone it's not really a pressing concern.
Until they started talking to Wyatt. So now it's time for hardball.
The parade is going slow, Thunderbird taking time to wave at his admirers and toss bottle caps into the crowd. Other luminaries drive just behind him, engines revving, drivers and passengers having shouted exchanges with one another and the crowd. Behind that… Tanks. Not final generation American army tanks, but certainly more advanced than anything fielded during World War Two. I'm a little concerned that they're a novel design rather than just a copy of the Abrams or something, because that indicates a level of technological skill that we didn't think they had.
There, in the second rank. That's Wyatt. So at least I know where he is.
Behind the tanks are trucks and cars, all heavily customised. Some trucks are modified with armoured plates and welded-on machine guns. Others have rocket launchers or anti-air guns mounted on the back, and one has what looks like a ludicrously oversized flamethrower. Eighties tribesmen standing in the transport vehicles are shouting and waving at the crowd…
Some of the trucks have bound slaves instead. I spot a few heavily worn vault suits amongst Canaanite cotton and leather and patched pre-War clothing that could have come from just about anywhere. **[I reach out]** but I don't feel any Sky Reavers or Sky Walkers down there. That's not surprising; we only got a border with Eighties-controlled territory fairly recently and they don't have much of a presence near us.
**A song? A song!**
My eyes widen as I do hear a telepathic voice, and…
**Will it join us? Will it sing to the hole in the sky? The chorus is so quiet now.**
That's a Crimson Acolyte. I didn't think they'd all died, but I'm going to need to get on that.
But first things first. Stealth field off, acceleration increased, Ride of the Valkyries on external speakers, prepare to launch flares and skim!
My saucer zooms through the air towards the back of the convoy, burning magnesium flying from the air like falling stars all around me. Some of the people below duck or scrabble for their guns, while others shout and cheer.
All part of the fun.
I pull up, go nose up, spin and then aileron roll into a drop back onto the parade. At the point Thunderbird has brought the slow-moving convoy to a halt and is standing in his seat to watch me. He isn't laughing. And neither is Wyatt.
I level out, put the saucer into a plate spin and fire off a new round of flares as I drift towards the front of the convoy using the anti-gravity system and my momentum. The leadership all have guns in their hands, though they're all trying to conceal it at least a little. I stop the spin just as I pass Thunderbird, dropping to just above the ground and popping the canopy.
"War Chief Thunderbird. Merry Christmas."
His eyes narrow slightly as he gazes into mine. "Chief Krono. Surprised you're here now. Not surprised you came."
"Then you know why I'm here." I raise my right hand in greeting. "Wyatt."
Wyatt guns the engine on his… Bike.. chariot thing, and pulls up level with Thunderbird. Normally that would be an insult, but he needs to be involved in this talk. "Krono. Nice ride. Build it yourself?"
One of the slow-on-the-uptake lieutenants in one of the cars behind them make an ooooh noise. Suggesting that a man can't work on his own car is a pretty serious insult both amongst the Eighties and in Two Sun. Fortunately, I can repair most of the systems in a saucer. It wouldn't be safe for me to fly on my own if I couldn't.
"Did some work. What happened to your car?"
He waves his right hand dismissively. "I drive it all the time. This is a parade."
"That thing's going to have rarity value, soon. So." I turn back to Thunderbird. "Reason I'm here. The Legion's going to be dead soon. The N.C.R. wants to talk to you about the future."
"Ain't nothing to talk about. I-Eighty is ours. Republic might beat the Legion, but then their army is going to be spread out all over the desert. No dice."
"The N.C.R. will offer to normalise relations and recognise your ownership of your current territory. They will grant you the right to travel the I-Eighty in their territory as you please, subject to their laws. And they will agree to begin making repairs to the road, with the aim of restoring it to its original state." He looks mildly intrigued by the last point, and unmoved by the rest. "You could even visit Sac City again."
"So I can visit my own home. Nice. And what else?"
"You release your slaves and prohibit slavery."
His eyes widen in surprise, then he chuckles. "I meant for me. For us. But that's it? Not even a truck load of caps? Nothing?"
I nod. "Nothing. Can I have a quick answer? I'm having the in-laws over."
"Get outa here, psyker. Stop wasting my time."
I shrug. "As you wish."
And then I sit back down in the cockpit, close the canopy and accelerate directly upwards.
Activate target designator. Open channel to vertibird air wing. Lock on to the lead cars, anti-air trucks and significant concentrations of armed men.
"Targets received, missiles away."
I watch as Thunderbird frowns at the sudden increase in illumination. And then I smile as Helios fires a giant burning beam down from orbit, completely obliterating him, his car, and most of the Eighties leadership! Missiles begin slamming into cars a moment later, fuel detonating, fragments of destroyed vehicle scything through anyone nearly!
Then I switch on my own guns, pulses of energy precisely striking anyone who even looks at the slave trucks. I designate a new batch of targets as the people manning the few fixed anti-air guns in Wendover work out that they're being attacked, and only a handful of hopeful shots are fired before the second wave of missiles silences those as well.
As this point everyone who can run is running, crowds and militia alive fleeing for cover. Some try to drive away, but with the wrecks blocking the road a good many are forced to abandon their vehicles and flee on foot.
My Christmas present and bride-price to my father-in-law: the rest of Utah.
"Convoy destroyed. Bring in the transports."
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