Chapter Text
“Here we are,” crowed Victor over the roar of the closing North Gate. “New Vegas!”
Greta blinked. It had been four months since she’d last stepped into the Strip, and she swore everything had gotten bigger — the crowds, the buildings, the neon signs, their halos. Squinting against the bright lights, she struggled to see through the vague shapes that swam in the multicoloured field of her vision. “It sure looks... different, doesn't it?”
“Sure is, friend. Strip’s changed up a bit since you was here last. The boss managed to lasso in some professionals and prettied up the place, as it were. Bunch of real mathy types — engineers, scientists, mechanics, architects — 'specially architects — you name 'em. Put 'em on a bunch of different jobs. Take a look over there!”
He swept a claw in the direction of the Tops, and Greta’s gaze — now better adjusted to the lights of New Vegas — followed. Beside the casino was a building she remembered as nearly crumbling and guarded by a lone Securitron whose duty it was to warn citizens of falling debris; now, with its trapezoidal silhouette and smooth white exterior, the rubble had been transformed into a worthy neighbour to the Chairmen’s cradle, attractive and slick. At its crown a neon sign that read “The Regal” — Sheldon’s work, she was sure — pulsated red and white, asserting its presence on the Strip.
“...fuller than a Brahmin-bag every night it’s open,” Victor was saying when her amazement had worn off. “Those reels you found sure came in handy! Even got westerns from time to time.”
“What’s a western?”
“What’s a — shucks, you ain’t never heard of a western?” He let out a tinny robot whistle. “Well, I can’t spoil that for you. Think you’ll like ‘em, though. Maybe when you’re done with the boss, we can catch one.”
Ah, the boss. Her work. This was familiar ground, something less disorienting than the new additions to Vegas Victor had been rattling off. She shot the cowboy robot a wry smile.
“I guess so. —But what does Mr. House want from me, anyway? He called me back pretty suddenly.”
“Now, even if I did know, what makes you think I’d tell you?”
“I thought he didn’t like surprises?”
“Mr. House? He likes a surprise just fine… long as it ain’t a snake in his boot.”
“What if I'm worried about there being a snake in my boot, too?”
“In your boot? Now, are you callin’ us snakes? After everything we've been through? I thought we were all friends here.”
“I’m just speculating. And no,” said Greta, laughing, “Mr. House is the boss. We're friends.”
“Is that right?” Victor put a claw over where a Securitron’s heart might have been, his screen brightness flickering. She was sure the gesture was more sarcastic than his constant smile could convey. “I'm touched.”
“I mean it!”
“I like you, too, pardner. —Tell you what, though, you're right about Mr. House being the boss. The boss who just said if you don't drag your hide up there lickety split, he'll have a word about it with those Followers of yours.”
“And you don't think there's a snake in my boot?” Shaking her head, still smiling, she started in the direction of the Lucky 38. Victor followed behind her at a slow crawl.
“Just a reward for all the work you've been doing, that's all it is. Like Grant gets.”
Greta reached for the handles of the casino. Like so many of the doors she had pulled open in the past four months, they were cool to the touch. Briefly she thought about the doors to Old North Church in Cambridge and the maze of a crypt beneath, how one of the members of the Railroad had told her to walk softly and avoid disturbing the dead. “But that's because Grant’s the Courier,” she said after a moment.
Victor shifted back on his wheel as if contemplating. Then he leaned forward again.
“So’re you.”
*
The penthouse hadn’t changed. It had the same eerie feel, whether that was the fault of the dim lighting, the unavoidable giant head on a monitor, or both; the same clanking and clattering from the Securitrons as they recalibrated themselves, shifting to see the new arrival, on their single wheels; the same stale air, thick with dust and Old World memories, that never seemed to flow out no matter how its owner fiddled with the ventilation or which windows Grant opened. Still as a snowglobe, a world of its own.
For a moment Greta felt foreign, estranged from herself as déjà-vu took root. Several moments (or were they minutes?) passed before she shook her head to free her thoughts; then, inhaling a lungful of the musty air, she stepped out of the elevator, waved at the robots’ static screens, and headed for the stairs where her employer awaited.
“You took your time coming here,” boomed the computer as she came to a stop before it. Rich, distinctive, a little dry — that was Robert House, all right. “Was there a cholera outbreak in Freeside?”
“Freeside’s doing okay! No cholera, thank goodness.” She glanced up at the screen, at the monitors beside it, into the cameras mounted on the walls of the penthouse. She was never sure where to look when she spoke to House. “The Strip looks like it's running even more smoothly than before.”
“You sound like you were expecting anything less, but yes. I've expanded the Strip’s offerings in a number of ways. You already know about the theater, of course.”
“Victor told me I should watch a western.”
“As your first foray into film? Hardly. The cinematography of Hell’s Angels should give you better insight into the capabilities of the silver screen — and why it draws scores of people in every night.”
“Scores! It sounds like a… a good investment,” said Greta, who had only learnt what a score was a week ago and didn’t know what a good investment was aside from the things House had labelled as such.
“It is. With refreshments at one and a half times their standard price on the Strip and a 'no outside food allowed’ policy, I estimate that the costs of building the theater will be paid off in three months. There are enough reels to keep New Vegas entertained for a year — and, with any luck, inspire some of them to make their own. They’ll scrape together the funds for their own movies, come to Vegas to showcase their work, and… voilà. Hollywood reborn at Hoover Dam.”
Hollywood. Another new word — she’d ask Grant about it later. “What else is new?”
“The monorail is fully functional, but I've yet to maximise its efficiency — resources are the biggest obstacle there, I'm afraid. Besides that, there are several new businesses you might be interested in visiting after our appointment, a contract in progress with the Kings and Followers regarding the Freeside initiative, and a handful of economy-boosting measures that include projects like The Regal…
“Which brings us to our next order of business,” House said after a beat. “It wasn’t Vegas that called you here to stand before me. You’re not here for a lesson on urban planning. No, you answered to me.”
Greta’s eyes widened. Her employer’s characteristic smugness — if she was reading him right — had just evaporated. In its place was something she couldn't quite name, something that reminded her of the conversations they'd had in the Mojave when the only things she’d had to comfort her were the light of a Securitron screen and his voice. Every morning she’d convinced herself her perception had merely been warped by drowsiness the night before. Now she wasn’t sure. “What do you mean by that, sir?” she said uneasily.
“You’ll find out in a moment. Step through the curtains, if you will.”
If House was unwilling to give her more information, Greta knew there wasn’t much she could do to convince him otherwise. She stepped through the tattered, moth-eaten curtains to the other side of the penthouse.
In the middle of the room was what looked like an oversized metal cocoon. It was split horizontally in the middle, bottom half secured to the floor by a sturdy base while the top half — a tinted glass dome supported by a ribbed metal frame — attached to an arm that stood waiting at the foot of the machine. On the underside a snarl of cables, thick and black, had been bundled together with electrical tape; they snaked across the length of the room where they ended in two computer mainframes, cuboids that blinked red patterns of which no two ever seemed the same even as they changed second to second.
Greta wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t what she was looking at. For a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the pod House had directed her to; then, turning to face the direction of his computer, she called out, “What is it?”
“What you’re looking at is a virtual reality simulator I negotiated from the Boomers. A relatively new technology before the bombs fell, they found primary use as training programs, ways to mine tactical data from battlefields. A few were manufactured by Vault-Tec for more civilian purposes — preserving residents in stasis, for example — but they remained largely military property.
“You can imagine what the Boomers found when they settled at Nellis Air Force Base and just how… coincidentally compatible it was with their goals. Since they've effectively moved out, it wasn't difficult to have Grant acquire one... and before you ask,” he added, as if somehow sensing Greta had opened her mouth to speak, “you won’t be flying. I’ve repurposed this one.”
“For what?”
“I invite you to see for yourself. It is, after all, your surprise.”
With that, Greta, knowing she would get nothing more out of him, turned back to the machine and cautiously approached it. She rounded it once, then twice, to get a better idea of its shape. On the second pass, she noticed there was a panel in the side with a button that read OPEN. As she shot one last glance over her shoulder at the room she was in — the familiar sleek curves and red lanterns, the stone walls and ancient bookcases — she hoped it would all still be there when she stepped out.
Then she depressed the button, and the machinery hissed and whirred into life. The glass dome popped open until it came to rest at a near perpendicular angle to the bottom half of the pod, revealing a reclinable leather chair with a headpiece that looked like it was intended to pull the thoughts from her head.
As if on cue, a new worry sprang to mind.
“Mr. House? Will I be okay when I'm, umm, you know…?”
“I doubt it will interact with the component at all,” he answered breezily. “If you're unsure, I'll dispatch you to Freeside unarmed and unaided after this.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause just a little too long to feel natural, then House sighed.
“You’d go with Victor, of course.”
“Oh! Thank you.”
Her fears thus put to rest, Greta pulled herself up onto the simulator’s platform and lowered herself into the seat. In response to what she could only assume was the added weight, the chair began to recline and the dome, which felt smaller than it had looked from the outside, closed in. Then a second screen she hadn’t noticed before (it had come up with the lid, she saw now) approached her, directing her gaze slightly upward. PLEASE STAND BY, it read.
It was only a moment. After that, she was plunged into darkness.