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Fallout: Vault X

An original novel set in the Fallout universe, written to be accessible to all, featuring unique people and places Fallout: Vault X tells the story of John. A vault dweller, who spent every day of his twenty five years underground. Like his father, and his father before him. Proud to live in the last remaining bastion of humanity, all that survived The Great War of the atomic age. Hidden deep below the surface of the earth, toiling under brutal conditions. Year after year, decade upon decade. All to expand into the natural cave system the Vault occupied, building for the future. However, John knew what his forefathers did not, that everything he’d been taught was a lie. After finishing school at the age of ten, John received his standard issue pipboy. An arm mounted personal computer, worn by everyone in the Vault. Used to coordinate the relentless pace of expansion, needed to work as an apprentice. To learn the craft that would be his life’s work. A noble calling to ensure a future for all that remained of the human race. A quirk of fate saw John equipped not with the crude, clunky, pipboy model his father wore. That almost everyone around him wore. His looked smaller, sleeker, finished in a jet black sheen. And capable of doing far more than its drab counterparts. The world above had been ravaged by atomic flames, yet life clung to its bones. The Red Valley fared better than most in the century since the bombs fell. The clean water and rich soil protected by rolling hills. All spared from direct strikes, for the most part. Life survived here. Trees spawned from charred ground, misshapen, green leaves turned red. Along with simple crops, grown wild at first, then cultivated by the survivors. The scavengers of the old world were inventive, hardy people. All determined to rebuild in the ruins of a world they never knew. In the decades that passed settlements emerged. They grew, spreading along the valley floor. Reclaiming the pre-war remnants of the once industrialised heartland. Salvaging the robotic wonders of a bygone age to build their walls and work their fields. To protect them in the dark of the wasteland. But such things are uncommon in this world, and the rarer something is, the greater its value. And the worth of pre-war technology had not gone unnoticed. The last, real, power in this world rested in the mechanised hands of The Brotherhood of Steel. Forged from the mortally wounded old world military. The Brotherhood used its access to the weapons made for a conflict no one won to strike out into the wastes. Men and women were equipped with advanced armour, aerial transportation, high grade weaponry. Accompanied by the training, strength, and will, to put them to use. They established chapters and set up outputs far and wide. All dedicated to a single purpose. To ensure the technology left abandoned by its long dead creators didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Namely, any hands that were not their own. This is the world John escaped into. A place of horrors brought forth from atomic fire. A place where survival meant battling against the darkness. Fighting a war each day to get to the next. And war...war never changes

FourPin · Video Games

Not enough ratings

223 Chs

Vol. III Chapter 18 A Vail of Inky Blood

Chapter 18 A vail of inky blood.

Burton walked along the wall of equations. He'd stop every few feet, adding new sums to the floor that factored in new data.

Years of cloud seeding had brought a consistent change. Monsoon like rains fell for months each year. Combined with the condensate reclamation in the living quarters, water now filled the launch tube. Even began to pool aboveground.

A straight tunnel had been excavated back from the launch tube. This passed directly underneath the heat exchanger for the main reactor. So close that when water travelled through, it warmed up.

Cold, dirty water would sink down from the pool. It'd be sucked through the spiral tunnels, exposing it to the bacteria living on the rock. Then the Vault systems would filter it, and pump it back through. The cleaner, warmer, water would rise up. The cold water would sink down, and the cycle would start over. In theory at least.

No moving parts. No maintenance. All powered from the by-product of a reactor that could outlast him. All that remained was to kick start the process.

Even the strongest pumps Burton had access to wouldn't have the raw power needed. Only one thing down here would. And that had sat mangled under a sheet for over fifteen years.

Burton tugged at the sheet, revealing Shaw's car. Burton could still hear the v-eight engine roaring down the tunnel and into the Vault. Every panel had scrapes and dents, all the windows smashed. The front end took the brunt of the impact, crumpled like paper. Fortunately, the speedster had the engine mounted in the rear.

He found the keys in ignition, squeezed into the seat, and turned the key. Anaemic spluttering came from the engine, but nothing else.

"Try it again. Don't flood it." He heard Shaw's voice behind him. He tried the engine again. More spluttering followed, the engine began to shudder, then roared. Burton revved the engine till the whole space filled with the growling noise.

"What's the verdict?" Shaw asked him directly, as he did before.

"Do you know a good body shop?" Burton made the same joke.

"Well, I always wanted to restore a classic car. Least I'll have the time." Shaw walked round his battered and beloved car.

"Yeah, about that. I need the engine. For the mission." Burton tried to push for a response.

"The mission comes first, last, and always." Shaw answered like the soldier he'd always been.

"And to Hell with anyone who gets in the way, right?!" Burton's simmering anger turned to rage. "You killed your friends, the children, and for what?!" Burton let a rasping scream and swung at nothing, sending him falling to the ground. He got to his feet, unsure of where the outburst came from. The only thing he knew for certain was that he'd been talking to himself.

Burton had reached the final stage of his work, and the most challenging. Bringing plant life back. None of the experiments so far had reached maturity. Without each plant seeding the next generation they were useless.

"New strain." Burton used his voice to program the augmented reality computer model. "English Oak for strength. Splice in Empress Foxglove for rapid growth. Acers for the leaves, gives us better nutrient absorption." The data compiled and rendered the model.

"Show me one year." The display rendered a small tree, floating before him. "Now two." The tree grew wider and taller at an accelerated rate. "Year three." The tree, now fully grown, had begun to mutate and wither.

"What's the cellular degradation rate?" The graph showed a steady climb, getting worse as the tree grew. "It's too complex." Altering bacteria and algae felt like playing with building blocks. The challenge before him felt closer to building a cathedral.

Burton tinkered with computer models of a tree for days. Trying to find a combination from the thousands of seeds he had access to. All without success. Something began distracting him, a familiar noise. He looked over his shoulder to see a television, stood in the middle of the floor. It showed one of the televangelists his mother watched. Pure white suit, gaudy jewellery, a con man's grin.

He walked over and shut it off. By the time he sat down, it had come back on. He ignored it, as he'd done for years as a child. Yet as his failures mounted, it seemed to get louder. Again and again he shut it off. Until he began to notice it played the same footage each time.

"There is no mountain too high you cannot climb it!" The preacher yelled to the enthralled crowd. "There is no river too wide you can't cross it!" The cadence and emphasis drew out the words. "He has given you all you need! Call now for salv—" He clicked the television off. Instead of walking back he lingered, trying to decipher the message from his broken brain. If there even was one. He crouched, staring into his black eyes reflected in dark, curved glass.

The realisation hit him so hard he nearly fell backwards. He walked back to the lab benches, and drew a vail of inky blood from his arm.

"Show me dna sample Blake, Burton." A rendering of a healthy double helix projected before him, rotating slowly. "Overlay sample Nash, Virgil." A sickly, helical vine crawled up and around the projection. Broken in places, damaged in others. And crucially, mutated. "Isolate mutations, cross reference against shared genes, and overlay with latest project." The rendering vanished as the computer cobbled together from spares worked.

First came the gene sequence for the hybrid tree. Then the shared genes with his own dna. And finally the mutations. There were at least ten points of overlap. He reeled off genes to be spliced into the virtual model.

"Show me one year." The display rendered a small tree, stout with stub branches. "Now two." The tree grew taller, sprouting gnarled branches and blackened bark. "Year three." The tree, now fully grown, spawned a crown of blood red leaves. "Year four." They grew, not higher, but wider. Shallow roots spread far. "Year five." Tiny, winged seeds appeared at the tips of the branches. Ready to be carried away on the wind.

Burton tried to think of any word apart from revelation. He couldn't. Instead he set to work. The television and preacher came back on. This time he left it on.

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