Vol. III Chapter 3 The Not So Grand
Vol.lll Chapter 3 The Not So Grand
Burton found himself in a two star motel room, thinking about the past. The firm bed, the hard wearing scratchy carpet, the entirely unobjectionable art.
It had been to a place near identical to The Not So Grand that a pregnant, penniless teenager had come to. His mother shunned by her religious family, paying for their room by cleaning all the others. Ten years later and the closest thing Burton had to a grandmother passed, leaving the motel to his mother.
She worked all hours of the day. Any profit going to the so called preachers on late night television. She filled his head with the weapons grade fairytales and bronze age myths. And he believed them. At least until the so called loving god put an inoperable tumour in her brain.
At sixteen, the orphaned Burton applied for a scholarship to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. He made it to the final, and had to present a working prototype at a science fair in Las Vegas. It took a day and half on a crowded coach to get there. Every minute of which he spent writing and rewriting code on paper.
Burton had never seen anything like the Vegas Strip. Buzzing with neon and life. He enjoyed every second of the ten minute walk from the monorail station to his room at The Tops. Then spent the next fourteen hours coding and tinkering. Trying to disguise the fact his terminal and model had been made from things people threw away or left behind. He didn't eat from the minibar, and drank from the bathroom tap. Terrified he'd be presented with a bill he couldn't pay.
Burton dressed in the best clothes he had. The donated suit from his mother's funeral. He lugged his heavy case to the Aces theatre and found his table in the corner. About as far from the stage as possible. He tried to ignore being the youngest person in the room, not an uncommon feeling at this point. The dozen other finalists had equipment that looked new.
Burton set up his outdated terminal. Assembled the mechanical arm made from scrap, and positioned the wireless control stick.
Before long, a small crowd of drunken students gathered round his table. Making the mechanical hand perform obscene gestures and grope at the girl's mohair sweaters. He tried to snatch the stick back, that only brought more amusement.
"What's this?" Burton froze as the laughter stopped. He knew the voice from the television. As the small crowd scattered he saw him. Hair perfectly parted, pencil moustache, bespoke three piece suit. The great industrialist Robert House, looking right at him.
"It's...it's a wireless remote override, sir." He handed the control stick over and saw a raised eyebrow at the speed of the mechanical movement. "It's just a proof of concept." Burton tried to keep an apologetic tone from his voice. "There's no reason why it wouldn't work on something bigger."
"How did you reduce the latency?" Mr. House asked him a smart question.
"The code implants subroutines when it first uploads. The stick sends commands that are almost indistinguishable from core protocols." Burton answered, his voice now confident. Mr. House cast a slow glance around his model and across him too.
"Your name?" Mr. House asked.
"Blake sir, Burton Blake."
"Not bad Blake." Burton shook the outstretched hand of a man he idolised, after wiping the sweat from his palm. "Not bad at all."
The next few hours flew by. Burton couldn't believe the great Mr. House knew his name. He thought for a moment that the scholarship could be his. It wasn't. He smiled and clapped as the winner took the stage, entirely unimpressed with hydroponic potatoes.
It didn't make sense, until he remembered the last name of the winner. Same as the mayor of Vegas. Disheartened, Burton forced himself to stay and congratulate the winner. Knowing his mother would expect that of him. Then he packed up and left. He didn't even go back to the room, having already left it spotless.
Burton sat on the metal bench, his pride too wounded to take in the bustling strip. All he wanted was to go home. Back to a tiny room in a closed motel. He didn't notice the limousine till a voice he knew shouted his name. Burton craned his neck and peered through the opening window.
"Get in." Mr. House called from the back of the limo. "Victor, get the lad's case." A large, well dressed man got out of the front and opened the door for him.
Inside the hospital like smell overpowered everything else. "You learned an important lesson today, Burton." Mr. House closed the folder he'd been reading and set it aside.
"Yes sir." Burton panicked and tried to think. "It's not what you know, it's who you know."
"Quite. But that is not the lesson of today. Today's lesson is that simple people like shiny things. Easily impressed by applause and attention. Men like us Burton, we have the work." Us, Burton thought, he liked the sound of that.
"I gave that dullard the scholarship because I need his father. I'm building a future here Burton. And I want you to be a part of it." Mr. House gestured to the briefcase on the seat, Burton opened it. Inside lay a glossy prospectus for the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. A plane ticket, and two thick stacks of cash. More money than Burton had seen in his life.
"You start next month. After you graduate you will work for me." Mr House didn't ask, he didn't have to.
"Thank you sir." Burton felt like he'd won the jackpot, only better. He'd earned his prize.
After graduating top of his class Burton went to work for the great Mr. House. Robco industries R and D, eventually becoming the department head. All while Mr. House built his future on the work Burton did. After almost twenty years, Burton handed in his resignation. He wanted to build his own future. The old man fired him on the spot.
Now he stood on the verge of that future. Blake Technical had begun generating profits. Construction was underway across the Green Valley. His factories employed enough people that he had the local politicians onside. After sufficient 'donations' and an assurance that he wouldn't automate them.
It had been over a year since he pitched his idea to the military brass and the man in grey. As he sat in the motel, watching infomercials, government supercomputers compiled his code. Stress testing every aspect millions of times a second.
He almost wanted to thank those commie bastards for Anchorage. Red boots on the ground in Alaska made his project a priority. As well as providing other benefits, which is what brought him to The Not So Grand tonight.
Burton owned the motel, unofficially, like most things in the Green Valley. He'd even filled suit against the name he'd thought up. An uncommon pang of nostalgia compelled him to buy it. To elevate it from the sleazy place it was. Burton made it the kind of place his mother would approve of. She would approve of little else in his life.
It also served as an ideal spot for clandestine meetings and deals that might land Burton in a room smaller than this one. Usually that meant black market art and antiques, smuggled out while Europe burned. Tonight however, the grey man was to bring him a far rarer prize.
The low rumble of Corvega speedster engine rattled the single pane of glass in the window. Burton checked the snub nosed revolver at the small of his back. Then the signal on the prototype pipboy he wore. Hiding both beneath the bulletproof suit jacket he slipped on. For once, he looked better dressed than the grey man.
The grey man entered using the key Burton gave him days ago. Jacket and tie off, collar open, his eyes tired but still sharp. "Long drive?" Burton asked.
"Eighteen hours." The grey man walked in and perched on the sideboard. Behind him, wearing a new tracksuit and stunned look, stood the reason for the drive. A defector.
"Hello." Burton smiled, hiding his disgust. Fucking commie, he thought. The young man smiled and nodded, marvelling at the two star luxury. His eyes quickly drawn to the television.
"Wei here doesn't speak a lick of the Queen's, but he understands bits." Burton heard the warning in the grey man's words. He muttered something in the guttural Chinese and the young man placed a steel case on the bed. Emblazoned with a red star.
On the bed before him lay the pinnacle of communist technology. A stealth suit. Stolen by the soldier trained to wear it, traded for a life of freedom. Burton had to admit it was impressive. Polycarbonate visor, hexagonal cell structure. Non Newtonian lining with a self repair function.
Yet like everything the commies did, it had been designed by committee. Armour plating on the legs and arms would only decrease the efficiency of the cloaking field. And it wouldn't make it more effective as combat armour. They don't know what they've got, he thought, feeling a hint of empathy for an undoubtedly overlooked scientist.
The defector tried to explain something in a language Burton despised. "He says that he used the last of the isotope to escape, it won't cloak without it." The grey man translated, telling him what he knew.
"It's fine, why don't you show him the minibar." Burton pointed to the wood textured fridge. The grey made a noise that apparently made sense.
"Nu-Ka-Co-La!" The defector exclaimed in broken English, excited by the mundane. He guzzled it down and scoffed snack cakes, clicking through the tv channels.
"Had to go out on a limb to get you this." The grey man half whispered.
"It'll be worth it." Burton smiled, knowing he had the grey man's trust. He folded the suit back into the case. "Got you a suite down the road, or this place is booked for the week."
"I'll take the suite, spent more than enough time in rooms like this." You and me both, he thought.
"Well then, time for our friend here to start his new life." Burton had things ready.
Burton led the other two out and into the woods behind the motel. Heading to retrieve what he'd left there earlier. "Not much further." Burton kept his tone calm, just not calm enough. A flurry of barked sounds that passed for words went back and forth. They ended as the grey man drew his silver sidearm and defector realised he wasn't being taken to a suitcase of cash. Burton pressed the button and from the dark forest came a sound. A metallic clanking.
Burton watched through the display on the contact lenses he'd grown used to wearing. The dominator class Assaultron aimed at the face it's software recognised. Burton issued his command with a single word. "Execute."
A pencil thin beam of red shot from the single eye and bored a hole straight through the defector's skull. He collapsed into a heap, staring up at the night sky with vacant eyes.
"Fucking traitor." The grey man expressed his disgust that had been carefully hidden till now. Burton issued his next command.
"Immolate." He took a step back.
"Confirmed. Please turn away." The bot tilted at the waist as the eye grew in intensity. Burton felt the heat on his back as the dark forest became light for a brief moment.
The grey man let out a low whistle. Any trance of the body had vanished, replaced with a scorch mark. Glinting with flecks of sand turned to glass on the ground.
"Thank you Number Four, take this and head home." Burton handed over the steel case.
"Confirmed. Good evening gentlemen." The bot turned and clanked towards the hidden bootlegger tunnels Burton renovated. All evidence of the off the books espionage gone without a trace.
"I've got to get one of those." The grey man lit a cigarette, relieved things were over.
"You get a spare eight hundred million let me know. I'll even paint it grey." Burton took the offered cigarette to cover the lingering smell.
Back in the five star luxury suite of The Grand, Burton enjoyed a perfectly cooked steak. Paired with a fine Merlot. Capped off with aged whisky and cigars. All in the company of the grey man.
Burton left him to rest shortly after, half staggering down the hall to his penthouse. He found Clara asleep in the bed they shared, and managed to get to the bathroom without waking her.
He checked in with ex wife number four. Deep below his feet, and right where he'd sent her. Next he took out the display lenses and unclipped the pipboy. He let his mind mull a way to take off the device after the integration, but didn't get far. Why would anyone want to take it off, he thought. Then he slipped into bed, pleased there were at least one fewer pair of commie boots on American soil.