NOVEL NEXT Chapter 93: The tribes
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Caesar had bestowed upon me immense power within the Legion. Holding administrative authority in addition to my rank as Legate meant near-absolute control over everything that transpired within the Legion. I dictated what could and could not be done, wielding power over the lives of the men who marched under the banner of the Bull, as well as over those living in the lands that now belonged to Caesar. This power enabled me to shape order as needed but also burdened me with the responsibility of maintaining the structure of an entity that spread like an ocean of blood, steel, and discipline.
There was much to be done. Under Caesar's pragmatic genius, the Legion maintained remarkable simplicity in governing vast and diverse territories. Our structure relied on fully autonomous groups extracting their own resources and contributing their annual ten percent tribute. Then there were the allies, who paid no wealth but provided soldiers for battle. Finally, there were the territories where the Legion exerted total control—a sea of slaves and overseers who obeyed without question. Here, the laws were even more lenient; men lived or died by the will of their commanders.
The Legion's laws were minimal yet clear, with strict rules about drugs and alcohol. The core laws were simple: no stealing, no lying, no unjustified killing, no touching another man's wife or children, always obey your superiors, never disgrace Caesar, and never be captured alive. Simple enough for anyone to understand, but this simplicity gave rise to numerous challenges. On the field, interpretations of "justified" actions varied. The boundaries of obedience were tested by desperate men, and the conflicts among the Legion's tributaries often pushed the strength of our laws to their limits.
Developing a firmer, codified legal code was a task I knew would be essential someday to sustain Caesar's authority over such a vast and complex territory. But that day was not today. My current duty was to pacify the Mojave—a task requiring pragmatism, strength, and, at times, the removal of those who had once been useful but were no longer aligned with the Legion's interests.
Among them were the Fiends.
This was a large, violent, and drug-addicted tribe that had wreaked havoc along the NCR's northern routes, spreading chaos with a brutality that even some of my men found difficult to comprehend. They had taken over a Vault-Tec shelter, slaughtering the inhabitants and enslaving the survivors, transforming a symbol of hope from the old world into a nest of degeneracy. Integrating them into the Legion was unthinkable. Their addiction made them a liability, violating Caesar's laws against substances that weaken the mind and body. Their past usefulness meant nothing. Their time was up.
My first move was to attend a meeting with their leader, a man called Motor-Runner, and his lieutenants. They were even worse than him—a parade of humanity's dregs. One was a rapist and cannibal; another was a drug-addicted husk of a woman. There were others—tribals whose cruelty far outweighed any potential value they might have offered. Honestly, we were doing them a favor by wiping them out. And that's exactly what we did.
The fools let us into their Vault—a sprawling, labyrinthine structure designed to protect life but now reeking of dried blood and chemicals. They allowed dozens of my hardened veterans to enter, men clad in power armor gleaming with the Legion's insignia. They believed the meeting was to discuss their future role in the Mojave and how they would be "rewarded" for their supposed service to the Legion. Smiles and a haze of drugs filled the air as they led us to their operations hub.
Motor-Runner began speaking with arrogance, as if he held any power in that room. His request, as absurd as I expected, was to be granted control over the northern part of Vegas. I couldn't help but laugh—a short, hollow laugh devoid of humor. It was the signal. In an instant, their laughter turned to screams.
My men drew their machetes and opened fire simultaneously. Chaos erupted like a storm. Limbs flew as sharp blades tore through the Fiends. Explosions echoed in the halls as grenades ripped apart those who tried to flee. No amount of drugs could save them from the ferocity of my veterans, men who had faced the worst and now carried Caesar's will in their hands. Cries of horror and pleas for mercy filled the Vault, but there was no mercy. There could be none.
I watched from my seat, unmoving. I didn't need to act. This was not a battle to be won; it was a purge—a necessary act to ensure the Mojave knew who was in command. I observed as a Fiend's guts spilled onto the floor from the impact of a grenade, and how machetes severed flesh and bone with merciless precision. Motor-Runner tried to flee but was struck down before he reached the door. His final screams ended as one of my men drove a machete into his chest, twisting it brutally to leave no doubt about his fate.
When the noise subsided, silence filled the Vault, broken only by the drip of blood from the remains of what had once been a tribe. I rose from my seat and walked among the bodies. I felt no satisfaction, only a cold and absolute certainty: this was necessary. They couldn't be integrated; they couldn't be rehabilitated. They were a cancer, and I had done my duty by excising it.
The Khans were next on the list. Like the Fiends, their connection to drugs was an issue, but with one crucial difference: the Khans were more interested in selling drugs than consuming them. This gave them a functionality the Fiends could never achieve. Furthermore, they had contributed significantly to our strategy of weakening the NCR, becoming a constant thorn in their side. For this reason, I initially considered offering them a place within the Legion—a gradual process of assimilation to strip them of their identity as a rival tribe and make them part of something greater, something eternal.
That idea began to crumble the moment I spoke with their leader, a man called Papa Khan. It only took a few words to realize I was dealing with a completely useless man—a weak leader consumed by grievances and laments, unable to accept the reality of his own situation. He spent most of our conversation whining about what the NCR had done to his tribe, as if he were an innocent victim. But I knew his history. This man and his people had slaughtered NCR settlers, attacked caravans, and murdered entire families trying to make a home in the Mojave. Now he came to me, pleading for compassion and demanding justice. Hypocrite.
But the worst part was his demand. Papa Khan, in his arrogance, insisted that Vegas be handed over to his tribe, arguing that his people had lived on those lands before House drove them out. The mere suggestion of such an idea erased any possibility of reconciliation. The Khans were nothing more than a remnant of a defeated past, led by a man who desired more than he could maintain. There was no place for them in Caesar's vision.
The decision was simple. A massacre like the one with the Fiends wasn't necessary. This would be swift, clean, and effective. As Papa Khan droned on about his tribe's supposed destiny, one of my men, acting on a subtle signal from me, raised his pistol. A single shot. A clean hole in the Khan's forehead. He hit the ground, dead before he even realized what had happened. His lieutenants tried to react but were quickly subdued by my soldiers. Those foolish enough to resist shared their leader's fate. The rest dropped to their knees, trembling before the implacable might of the Legion.
The tribe was dismantled with the efficiency I expected from my men. The warriors were enslaved, a decision that not only weakened the Khans but strengthened our ranks with workers who had no choice but to obey. The children, still impressionable, were sent to the priestesses to be indoctrinated in the values of the Legion. The women were distributed among mid- and high-ranking officers, a reminder that loyalty and service to Caesar come with rewards.
In the end, all that remained of the Khans was a shadow of what they had once been. Their identity as a tribe, their independence, their history—all reduced to ashes under the hand of the Legion. As I watched their camp crumble before me, I felt nothing but a cold satisfaction. Another threat to the Mojave's order had been eliminated, and Caesar's dominion had been reinforced. This was not cruelty or vengeance—it was necessity. The Mojave had no need for tribes clinging to dreams of greatness they could never achieve. It needed only order, strength, and the banner of the Legion flying in every corner.
In dealing with the Khans, we discovered something unexpected: a large group of super mutants residing in a place called Jacobstown. This settlement, nestled in the snowy mountains of the Mojave, was led by a super mutant named Marcus. What struck me immediately was his intelligence—something rare among his kind. I quickly deduced that Marcus was likely a "son of the Master," a first-generation super mutant created with a higher purpose. This explained his ability to organize and maintain a relatively stable community.
Jacobstown's society appeared peaceful. They weren't warriors seeking conflict or monsters raiding caravans, but rather a group united by a common goal: curing a subgroup of super mutants known as the "Nightkin," who suffered from madness and schizophrenia. It was strange to see super mutants, beings often associated with brutality, dedicated to something as deliberate as medical research. Marcus and his community exhibited a level of cohesion and purpose rarely found in the wasteland.
When we arrived, Marcus and his people acted wisely. Instead of resisting or attempting negotiation, they quickly submitted to Caesar's authority. I must admit, I was surprised—not because I expected them to be foolish, but because they seemed to understand perfectly what our arrival meant: resistance would lead to their annihilation. Perhaps Marcus, with his experience, had seen too many wars and learned the value of knowing when to bow to a superior force. Whatever his reasoning, they accepted the yoke of the Legion, securing their place under our watchful eye.
However, something during our visit unsettled me. One of the scientists working in Jacobstown—a nervous, aged man—approached me while I was momentarily away from my soldiers. In a hushed voice, as if afraid of being overheard, he asked me a question that caught me off guard: "Are you with the Enclave?"
The question surprised me, though my expression betrayed nothing. I offered no answer, merely staring at him in silence. After a moment, he stepped back, as if realizing he shouldn't have asked. I watched him retreat, his hunched figure disappearing into the shadows of the improvised laboratory.
The interaction lingered in my mind even as I coordinated Jacobstown's integration into the Legion. Why had he identified me as someone from the Enclave? Was there something in my demeanor or manner of speech that led him to that conclusion? Or, more disturbingly, did he know something I didn't? Whatever the reason, there was no time to investigate. Caesar demanded results, and Jacobstown was now part of his domain.
Caesar's order to release the Followers of the Apocalypse and send them back to their homeland initially seemed puzzling. I knew his mindset: pragmatic, calculating, ruthless toward his enemies. Yet as I observed the execution of this decision, it became clear that this time there was something beyond simple strategy. Caesar had not ordered this because he found them useful or harmless but for a deeper, more personal reason.
It wasn't until after I carried out his mandate that I understood the root of his decision. Caesar, before becoming the divine figure who now ruled our lives, had once been one of them—a Follower of the Apocalypse. His knowledge, intellect, and ideas were shaped by the principles taught by that organization. He had studied their history, methods, and objectives, and although his path eventually diverged from theirs, he had not forgotten what he had learned from them.
This is why he didn't destroy them, enslave them, or humiliate them. Deep within, there was a measure of respect, perhaps even a silent debt owed to the Followers. They had provided him with the tools to understand the world, to see beyond immediate conflicts, and to conceive of something greater—something like the Legion. Perhaps in his order to free them, there was a reflection of that part of his past that he still respected, an act of acknowledgment toward those who, though naive in their goals, shared with him a desire to transform the world.
The Boomers presented a unique challenge. Reports described them as a group of Vault dwellers who, after an internal leadership dispute, abandoned their shelter and established themselves in a nearby airport. Their story wasn't unlike other tribes we had encountered, but what set them apart was their arsenal. They had transformed the airport into a fortress armed with heavy artillery, which they used indiscriminately against any intruder. This made them a threat we couldn't ignore, especially given their strategic position for securing total control over the Mojave.
Their former Vault was heavily irradiated, and the contamination extended even to the water they used. I sent a contingent of legionaries with anti-radiation supplies to address the issue. We ensured the water was purified and began restoring fertility to the area—a measure that would guarantee our ability to sustain operations there.
When we attempted to negotiate with the Boomers, it became clear they wouldn't make it easy. They killed three frumentarii and one legionary sent with peace proposals. That betrayal made it evident that the only negotiation possible would be through force. A disorganized, armed group like theirs could not be allowed to challenge Caesar's authority in the Mojave. Our response had to be swift and decisive.
We mobilized via vertibirds; engaging their artillery on the ground would have been suicidal. Even from the air, we had to evade missiles fired with alarming precision, but we ultimately managed to land at the airport-turned-bastion. That's where the real "negotiations" began—a pitched battle in which our forces demonstrated why the Legion is invincible.
The Boomers, despite their advanced technology, were ill-prepared to face soldiers trained in the art of war and equipped with power armor. Their firepower was deadly but disorganized, and their strategy lacked cohesion. Once we breached their defensive lines, their resistance crumbled quickly. We overwhelmed them, clearing the airport within hours. The battle was brutal but effective.
When it was over, the Boomers were enslaved without exception, and their technology became ours. Their artillery, weapons, and technical knowledge were absorbed into the Legion's arsenal. The airport, with its unique infrastructure, became a new strategic base under our control. The fortress they once used to defy the world now served Caesar.
With the Boomers' defeat, the Mojave was finally pacified. No tribes, factions, or forces remained to challenge our control. The entire region was under the Legion's order, as it should be.
The last items on my list were the families of New Vegas: the White Gloves, the Omertas, and the Chairmen. Unlike the desert tribes we had crushed before, these families were not mere bandits or degenerates. They represented sophistication and utility, qualities I couldn't overlook. If handled correctly, they could become invaluable assets to the Legion.
The White Gloves were the first family of New Vegas to capture my attention. Refined and elegant, they were masters of diplomacy, their words carefully chosen, their behavior impeccable—a stark contrast to the crude brutality of the desert tribes we had faced. Their loyalty to Mr. House during his reign was absolute, a trait I couldn't ignore. Yet, beneath this veneer of sophistication lurked a darker faction—those who viewed the Legion's arrival as an opportunity to return to their cannibalistic practices. Their leader, Marjorie, kept this faction under control, but whispers of Mortimer's ambitions reached my ears.
Marjorie, shrewd and cautious, understood the situation immediately. During our meeting, she avoided any pretense of strength or defiance. Instead, she offered loyalty to the Legion, proposing an arrangement similar to the one they had with House. However, her personal plea intrigued me most: she asked that the true name of their tribe remain a secret. This name, uncovered in the databases seized after House's fall, was something they feared more than any physical punishment. I used this to my advantage, leveraging their fear of exposure to ensure their cooperation.
I accepted Marjorie's proposal, granting the White Gloves a place within the Legion—not as an independent tribe, but as a faction under Caesar's control. Their diplomatic skills earned them the role of emissaries, tasked with forging connections with the NCR—not as allies, but as representatives of Caesar. Watching them navigate NCR politics with the same precision they applied to hosting banquets confirmed that I had made the right decision.
However, the issue of Mortimer and the cannibals could not be ignored. Despite Marjorie's best efforts to keep them in line, they continued to pursue their abhorrent practices in secret. This defiance of both Caesar's laws and my direct orders left no room for mercy. Mortimer and his followers were rounded up and crucified—an unmistakable message to all: loyalty to Caesar must be complete and unyielding. Their screams echoed through the Strip, a stark reminder that no act of disobedience, no matter how subtle, would go unpunished.
With Mortimer's faction eradicated, the White Gloves were cleansed of their darker impulses and fully integrated into the Legion. Their refinement and utility were preserved, and their loyalty was reinforced by the knowledge of what had happened to those who dared stray from Caesar's path.
The Chairmen appeared at first to be a disciplined, structured family utterly loyal to Mr. House. They seemed like perfect allies for smoothly incorporating New Vegas into the Legion's domain. However, deeper investigation revealed an anomaly: one of their leaders, Benny, had been plotting to betray House. Betrayal wasn't unusual in a city built on bets and secrets, but what stood out was that Benny was acting alone, without the support or knowledge of the rest of the Chairmen. A loose end in a family that prided itself on flawless organization.
Benny had survived the siege of New Vegas—something that could be attributed to luck. But luck doesn't last under the Legion's rule. After capturing him, I interrogated him. He was insolent, mocking, as if he still believed he had cards to play. But beneath his arrogance lay desperation. He admitted to plotting House's overthrow and revealed ambitions to control Vegas himself, ruling it from the shadows. An admirable goal in another era, perhaps, but one I couldn't tolerate under Caesar's new order.
Benny's fate was sealed. In an exemplary execution, he was quartered—his body torn apart by motorized chariots pulling in opposite directions. It wasn't just punishment; it was a message. For traitors and uncontrolled ambition, there is no place in the Legion. Anyone considering a similar act would understand there was no escape, no forgiveness.
With Benny's execution complete, I summoned the other leaders of the Chairmen. They knew of Benny's actions and recognized that, while his betrayal was an anomaly, it exposed a lack of cohesion in their group. I made it clear that the Legion tolerated no fractures; in our order, there was no room for individual ambition above the greater good.
Curiously, there was no resistance. The Chairmen's leaders accepted my proposal without hesitation: total loyalty to the Legion in exchange for a place in our system. They were incorporated as a unit and sent east to support Lanius's campaign. Their discipline and efficiency, once serving House, now served Caesar. Under my supervision, any remaining traces of independence or tribal identity would be systematically stripped away.
If there's one thing I've learned under Caesar's banner, it is that loyalty is the only solid foundation for building anything lasting. The White Gloves and the Chairmen were loyal to House because he had given them everything: he lifted them from misery, gave them new identities, wealth, and power. That loyalty, whether born of gratitude or fear, was something I could understand—perhaps even respect. The Omertas, however, were different. House gave them the same opportunities, yet they never abandoned their primitive roots. They had no loyalty. They were traitors by nature, incapable of keeping their word even to the man who raised them from the dirt. And in Caesar's order, there is no place for those who cannot be trusted.
When their time came, the Omertas made no effort to disguise their true nature. The meeting with their leaders was... grotesque. They spoke with sickening pride of how they had betrayed House, how they had turned against the master of the city who had given them everything. They toasted and laughed, reveling in their treachery before me and my officers, as if they expected admiration for their lack of scruples. All I felt was disgust. A tribe that betrays without remorse the one who gave them a dignified life has no place in the Legion. For Caesar, loyalty is more than a duty—it is the only currency of value. The Omertas had none.
My men and I watched in silence as the celebration continued. They raised their glasses, toasting with the liquor Vulpes, in his peculiar manner, had provided as a gesture of goodwill. There were no warnings, no threats—just the sound of clinking glasses and laughter. They drank deeply, and for a time, their revelry persisted. Then the laughter turned to coughing. The coughing became screams. The screams became a chorus of agony.
One by one, the Omertas' leaders collapsed to the floor, writhing in their own vomit, choking as the poison took hold. Their grotesque celebration of betrayal ended in convulsions, their pride and arrogance snuffed out by the death crawling from within them. When it was over, the room fell silent save for the last spasms of their dying bodies. I looked to my officers, and they looked to me. No words were exchanged; none were needed. This was justice—not for what they had done to House, but for what they represented. A cancer that had to be excised.
With their leaders dead, the rest of the Omertas offered no resistance. They were swiftly captured, chained, and sent east to the mines. There, they would work until their bodies broke, serving the Legion in the only way they were capable: as disposable tools. They deserved nothing more. A tribe without loyalty is like a dull blade—dangerous only to the one who wields it poorly. Caesar has no place for broken tools.
When my mission in the Mojave was complete, Caesar was pleased. We had advanced more swiftly than even he had anticipated, pacifying the region with an efficiency that demonstrated the might of the Legion. Every tribe and family had found their place in the new order or been eliminated. The White Gloves, transformed into our diplomats, became an invaluable tool for forging connections and sowing discord within the NCR. The Chairmen, purged of Benny's treachery, proved useful in our eastern campaign. The Omertas, the worst of the worst, became a grim reminder of what awaits traitors—enslaved or dead in a spectacle that would echo as a warning throughout the Mojave.
What pleased Caesar most was the legend that began to form around the Omertas' downfall. Stories spread among the soldiers, painting the act as divine justice. They said that Mars himself, the god of war, had guided our hand in punishing the Omertas for their betrayal. The tale grew, fed by the symbolism of their end: that their leaders, who celebrated treachery with such arrogance, had died poisoned by the very drink they raised in mockery and pride. To the Legion, this was no mere punishment—it was a testament to the inevitability of Caesar's justice. It was a powerful narrative, one that reinforced the unyielding authority of the Bull and the price of defiance.
In the Mojave, there were no loose ends. Only order, strength, and the will of Caesar.
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