Chapter 7 “It’s an old Mr Fix It trick.”

John stretched out in the back of the truck on the surprisingly comfy bench. The rolling, clanking, sound mixed with rattles from the packed containers, filled the canvas covered cargo bed. He tried to rest, as his older, wiser, travelling companion told him to do.

John still didn’t feel like he was in shock, he didn’t feel much of anything. Like the volume of his emotions had been turned down so he could get through the carnage he conjured. The question was if they could be turned back up. Not even Rusty bothered him, despite it being the very real manifestation of the killer automatons from the children’s stories in the Vault. Still could be worse, he thought to himself, could have been a wolf. Those savage beasts always frightened him.

Questions began to fill John's mind again. Questions without answers. Each one putting strain on the dam put in place to stop them flooding over everything else. No matter how much he tried to think of something else he came back to the same question, why was he ok. Why wasn’t he alarmed at killing not one, but four people. He tried to rationalise as the truck rolled and clanked along. It was them or us. They would have killed the boy and his grandfather. They would have cut your arm off to get the pipboy, dooming the Vault, dooming Rosie.

Every reason he gave himself sounded valid, yet it didn’t make him feel better, or worse, or anything at all. John sat up, he couldn’t rest, resting just gave him time to think. John didn’t want to think, he wanted something to do. For a moment he wanted to go on shift. To spend twelve hours breaking rocks for no good reason, then he got angry at himself. Angry at the thought of retreating, the thought of giving in. He smiled, anger was a feeling.

Rolling metal treads screeched trying to find traction on what sounded like loose rock. The hidden panel in the floor slid open and Wallace poked his head through, smiling. “Oh good you’re awake. Can you help me push Rusty to the back, we need the weight over the treads.” John all but jumped at the chance to do something useful.

First he studied the back of the large mechanical torso. Armour plates missing, exposing round vents encasing fans. More hydraulics, more clusters of wire. “Just push him, he won’t activate. Even if he did I told him you’re our friend.” John struggled to see the deadly machine as anything else. Yet the boy spoke like it was a person, he had genuine affection in his voice. John pushed the machine slowly along the rails specially built into the truck bed.

The weight over treads had the desired effect, jolting the truck forward. “See those vents, Pop Pop says that when Rusty ran at full speed the armour would open and steam would shoot out.” John thought the boy picked up on his unease around the machine and was trying to show him he had nothing to fear. “Of course we don’t run him anywhere near that.” Wallace continued, “We could, he’s got plenty of charge, see, look at the fusion core.” He pointed to a black circle with rounded edges between the vents. In the centre the radiation symbol glowed, illuminated, filled two thirds of the way indicating the power level.

To his surprise John did actually feel more at ease with the half automaton built into the truck. He noticed something between the shoulder hydraulics. Rusted, grimy, but he recognised it, a four pin socket. “It doesn’t work, we couldn’t get past the encryption, so we went in through the main wire trunk inside.”

“You really know your stuff Wallace.” The boy of no more than eight beamed at the compliment. “Maybe I could take a look at that encryption for you.” John said, retrieving the wireless four pin plug from its slot on the back of the pipboy, holding it out for the boy to see.

“Hey is that a wireless four pin? I’ve never seen one before, that’s neat!” John handed the small cylindrical connector to the boy who examined it intently. Pressing the pins in, twisting the top to push them back out. “What frequency does it operate on?”

“I’m sorry Wallace I don’t know.”

“What’s the maximum range?”

“I don’t know.” John found himself the focus of the boy’s curiosity again, only without Robco to intercede on his behalf.

“How many have you got?”

“Just the one.”

“Does everyone in the Vault have one?”

“Not like this one, not wireless.” John remembered how his father taught both him and Rosie how to fashion fake wires from scrap to blend in with everyone else.

“These grooves on the side, they hold it in place.” John wasn’t sure if the boy was asking him or telling him, but he nodded all the same. He held out his arm and pushed open the compartment for Wallace to see. “And the light on the end shows when it’s connected.”

“Exactly right.” Wallace smiled showing his missing teeth. Rosie would love this kid John thought. Briefly enjoying the thought of Rosie without the guilt he knew would return at some point.

“Can I connect it?” Wallace asked politely, John nodded, ready to distract himself. The boy reached out with four pin then stopped. “I should ask Pop Pop first.” Wallace disappeared back through the hidden panel in the floor and returned a moment later. “He says it ok as long as Rusty stays online, we’re not out of the woods yet.” John nodded, thinking about how he felt safer in the woods than in the town. “Can I?” The boy asked again holding up the four pin. With a muffled click he connected the device to the port in the back of the old world machine and sat back on the bench opposite John. Eyes fixed on the unlit light

After a few long moments the light on the four pin connector blinked. Then blinked faster, and faster, until it showed steady green. The pipboy contracted gently twice in quick succession on John’s arm, flashing the message. *connection established run diagnostic y/n?* Wallace strained his neck, trying to read the screen from the other side of the truck. John smiled, and beckoned the boy to the seat next to him. “Yes, no, navigate, scroll.” John showed him how to operate the jet black pipboy, his small hand reached over and pressed the yes button.

Data scrolled down the screen showing John words he didn’t know he knew till he read them for the first time. Rusty was, or at least had been, a Sentry bot, mark two. A schematic displayed, running through systems. “Pretty neat right.” John said with a smile. The boy’s excitement felt contagious, infecting the numbness that overwhelmed John, breaking it down, pushing it away.

John examined the pipboy screen. Forty millimetre launcher, offline. Right arm, twelve point seven Gatling operational, ammo low. Optics operational, identification of friend or foe operational. Power level sixty eight per cent.

“There’s no encryption, none, it just bypassed it completely!” Wallace became excited, getting more so as he inspected the schematic further.

“Wallace, select the left arm.” The schematic zoomed in on the broken arm, showing damage in each section with an option highlighted. *detach y/n?* “What do you think?” John asked the bright boy.

“We tried to detach it manually, never could, but it should be ok, they’re built to be swapped.” Wallace pressed the matte finished button.

John moved to Rusty’s left side ready to support the damaged arm, and waited, tensing his arms. Nothing, no sound, no movement, nothing. Just the faint glow of the red eye as the machine slept. “Yeah it’s probably busted.” The boy said with resignation that John didn’t share.

John pushed the arm from the elbow with enough force to activate long dormant gears. Hinged catches around the shoulder flicked open. Hydraulic pistons hidden in the mechanical torso pushed. The arm detached, slipping into John’s waiting hands. It felt heavy, not heavy for John, and lighter than he would have guessed. He laid it out on the bench then knelt in front of it.

“I’m going to check on Rusty from the terminal.” John heard concern in the boy’s voice he didn’t understand. To him it was a machine, nothing more, still the boy spoke as if it were alive. Wallace disappeared through the panel leaving John alone. He looked closely at the broken arm. Joints rusted, armour stripped bare, exposing the simple mechanisms that were supposed to drive it. He didn’t know anything about robots. He didn’t know anything about raiders, or food, or the old world. Or even the device on his arm and in his head, but this looked familiar.

This looked basically the same as the arms on the constructor frames from the Vault. Ten foot powered exoskeletons designed for one man to do the work of six. Heavy lifting, moving tons of rock, steel wall panels. Operating heaving drills that bored through the earth itself. The constructor frames got done in hours what would otherwise take weeks.

Both John and Rosie qualified on them, logged their two hundred hours, passed proficiency tests. Only to be rewarded with a demotion in all but name. They stuck Rosie in the repair shop and John in the euphemistically named ‘pioneer corps’, turning big rocks into smaller rocks.

Fortunately he’d spent more than enough time in the repair shop, mainly to be near Rosie, to know enough to fix this.

“Wallace, could you hand me my multi-tool please.” John half shouted to be heard over the rolling, clanking truck

“Your what?” The small voice replied.

“My backpack.” A moment later the shiny blue vault-suit redesigned as a backpack appeared through the floor panel. Followed by the boy, poking at it, stretching it. His curiosity drawn by the advanced fabric. “Want to see something cool?” John knew the bright boy would like this. He emptied the improvised backpack of the meagre possessions water. Everything John had in the world. He slipped his hand behind a soft impact protection pane on the chest, then laid it flat on the bench. John took the multi-tool in his free hand and passed it to the boy. “Hit my hand.” The boy looked confused.

“You want me to hit your hand with a wrench?”

“It’s not just a wrench, but yeah, hit it as hard as you can.”

“The fabric is too thin, it’ll hurt you.” Wallace looked uncomfortable. Despite his intelligence or the pistol holstered under his arm, he was still a boy. John took the heavy multi-tool, raised it above his head, and brought it down onto his fingers, hard. The boy’s face dropped, perplexed as to why anyone would break their own hand. John drew his hand out and flexed his fingers showing them to be unharmed. “Feel this.” John traced his finger around the edge of the soft pane. The boy followed, “Stays soft until hit gets hit, then harder you hit it, the harder it gets.”

“That's cool.” The bright boy became fascinated. Slipping his small hand into place and hitting it as John had done, over and over. Hitting harder and giggling louder with each strike. The last of the numbness began to drain from John as he felt happy to show the bright boy with inexhaustible curiosity something new. “What’s it made of?”

“I’m sorry Wallace I don’t know.” John felt embarrassed at his own lack of curiosity about the garments he’d worn every day. Taking the advanced design for granted like everyone else. Though being embarrassed felt better than being numb.

“It’s really cool John, I’ve never seen anything like it!” The boy smiled, putting John at ease. “Oh and Pop Pop says be careful with the grenade launcher it’s probably still loaded.” The unearned knowledge whispering in his head did not match the casual delivery of the warning.

John set to work disassembling the arm, starting by undoing the rusted bolts. “Wallace do you have a—” He held out a lump hammer, John took it, the boy understood what they were doing. He started using the wrench head of the multi-tool combined with well placed taps to the handle. John along with his assistant, were able to break down the upper and lower arm quickly. Easily stripping out the seized gears and jammed pistons. Leaving the tubular, hollow, skeletal frame that supported vein like wiring intact.

Wallace took the parts and laid them out in a roughly similar pattern on the bench opposite, strapping them down. Next came the hand. Four wide metal tubes in a square. Mounted to a thick wrist made of heavy steel alloy that survived years in a swamp significantly better than the rest of the arm.

One last rusted bolt remained holding the wrist in place. It wouldn’t budge despite gentle, then not so gentle, encouragement from the lump hammer. John refused to be stopped now. He retrieved the length of twenty two gauge tungsten wire. Along with the half charged micro fusion cell, he’d brought with him as a last resort should he need to light a fire.

John began wrapping the stubborn nut in the wire. Crimping it tight with his multi-tool around the worn hexagonal shape. Wallace looked on confused. “It’s an old Mr Fix It trick.” John said while tapping the side of his nose. He twisted the wire round one final time then shaped the ends to fit the positive and negative contacts on the micro fusion cell. Holding the cell in place sent a current through the wire causing a faint red glow.

Wallace filled a tin cup with water and placed it on the bench. He’d already proved a better assistant than John had ever been to Rosie, or anyone in the repair shop. John was too big, always in the way or making a mess, but he got the job done. With a second nature flick of his wrist John switched the multi-tool to the pliers configuration. He plucked the red hot wire from the nut and dropped it into the tin cup with a hiss of water. A few turns later and the stubborn nut came free with ease.

“So the heat made it expand making it easier to remove, that’s pretty clever.” John couldn’t remember the last time something he did had been considered clever. It brought a smile to his face.

John ignored the grenade launcher for the moment, still wary of unearned knowledge in his head telling him how it worked. Never mind Wallace’s casual warning that it was probably still loaded. He ran his calloused hands along the vein like wires of the partially disassembled arm. Feeling for any breaks or splits. There were none, unlike nearly all the ten foot, strength amplifying constructor frame arms. Wiring was always splitting in those, leaving whoever operated it awkwardly off balance. And if both human driven arms went down, dangerously so. The shorter, stout, legs were great for lifting. Not so great at walking without the arms as a counterweight to the top heavy design.

Wallace set to work on the seized gears, actuators and jammed pistons. First smearing them in whiskey scented gel, then scrubbing with a wire brush at the rust that gave the machine its name. More than a name, John thought, character, a story, trying to see the deadly automaton as the boy did.

Wallace retrieved the small knife from his oversized boot using it to try and split the gears apart. “Wallace, if you force it from one side you might break a tooth on the gear.” John put a rusted bolt into the wrench head, slid gears over it, and handed to lump hammer to the boy. “Small taps, then turn." John held the multi-tool while Wallace worked. Tapping, turning, until the gears separated, then repeating the process on the remaining gears.

John looked at the jammed hydraulic pistons. Nothing he’d seen in the repair shop had ever sat dormant this long. The most common problem he’d seen was them rupturing under too much strain. He remembered what to do when they did. “Wallace, do you know what a centrifuge is?” John asked, thinking aloud, the boy shook his head. “Can you think of a way we can spin the pistons?”

“Because the fluid inside needs help to get moving again.” Wallace thought for a brief moment. “I mean you’re pretty strong right, why don’t we put them on a rope and you spin them round.” A simple solution. It never would of occurred to the man who, up until yesterday, spent his entire life underground. Living in narrow corridors with oppressively low ceilings. Wallace disappeared through the floor panel bringing the rolling, clanking truck to a stop. Robco appeared at the back of the truck, throwing back the curtain, inspecting their work, nodding approvingly.

“Junior says you got an idea.”

“Actually it was his idea.” John said, allowing the boy to explain. Robco listened, then gathered a metal chain from under the truck. John moved the pistons out, returning to faded blacktop, blood red canopy, and endless blue. The sun caught him off guard. The bright, warm sensation, denied to him for so long felt new again, after the numbness had been mercifully driven back.

“Junior, you tie them pistons on good and tight don’t want them flying off.” The boy set to his task using leather strips and secure knots. Wallace distracted, Robco beckoned John silently to the probably still loaded grenade launcher.

The older man reached out to take it but John stopped him. He hadn’t earned the knowledge in his head, he hadn’t even asked for it, but he knew how to handle the weapon safely. “Now the thing ain’t fired in years, but that don’t mean the shells are dead.” Robco spoke in his reassuring flat, even tone.

John reached inside the steel alloy wrist housing finding exactly what the invading information told him. A horizontal metal grip. He turned it vertically with a solid clunk, simultaneously pushing out another metal grip from the side. The robot's weapon now converted for a man. “Keep the barrels pointed away and up.” Instructed Robco, giving John yet more information he already knew, somehow.

John walked ahead of the older man, who kept his distance. The boy comes first, John remembered. Trying not to think about the thousands of lives depending on him. They would become Rosie’s burden if he blew himself up. He didn't want that. Then again he didn't want to be handling swamp damaged, decades old, high explosives.

John slid a loose chunk of faded blacktop in front of him with his heavy work boot. Using it to prop up the quad barrels as he lay down. He pushed the vertical metal grip forward into the steel alloy housing as far as it would go. The barrels clunked forward, hinging them open at the sides. Two empty casings dropped on one side, and two live rounds on the other. To John they looked like comically large bullets, but he knew what they were, there was nothing funny about them. A swift pull on the outer handle removed the box magazine, half full of more live rounds. And with that the weapon was clear, safe. Robco approached as John stood up. The older man casting his eyes over the weapon “You got a lot of grenade launchers in that Vault?” Robco said, only half joking.

“Somehow I knew how it worked.” The dam in John’s mind sprung a leak. “I know those are forty millimetre, high explosive rounds with a variable airburst fuse. The pistol on your hip is ten millimetre automatic. The pistol under Wallace’s arm, seven point six five millimetre, and I don’t even know what millimetre means, we only ever used feet and inches.” John sounded despondent, knowing the leak could turn to a crack at any moment.

“I don’t know what to tell you son, almost sounds like programming to me.” Robco tapped the pipboy with his knuckle. “Knowing your way around weapons though, that ain’t a bad thing out here.” John couldn’t disagree. “Hell, you saved my old ass!” Robco slapped him on the back, trying to lift John’s mood.

“Saved you from what Pop Pop?” Wallace stood behind them, his task finished and a concerned look on his face.

“Nothing, a joke is all, right John.” Robco’s look urged him to go along, hinting strongly to keep the events in the coffee shop from the boy. “We’ll talk on it later. As for millimetres, that’s metric measurements, lots of the old army tech uses it.” Robco said in his comforting flat, even tone. “It’s based on tens. So ten millimetres is one centimetre, an inch is two point five centimetres, a hundred centimetres is a metre.” The older man stopped as he saw John’s eyes glaze over. “It’s easy, we’ll get you a slide rule”. John didn’t know what a slide rule was.

Robco gathered the loose rounds and casings. Leaving John to carry the disarmed arm back to the truck through. The ever present, deafening silence returned as he held the questions without answers from his mind.

“You sure about these knots boy? One of them comes loose I’m sending you to fetch it.” Wallace checked his knots again, diligently, then nodded. “And you, you’re not going to hurt yourself or us right, we could try something else.” Robco asked, not opposed to the idea, but hardly in favour of it.

“We had constructor frames in the Vault that were built with these. When they ruptured we would spin them to draw the fluid out to recyc it. If we can get the fluid moving it should loosen them up.” John felt like doing it whether it would work or not. He’d started to see why people exercised for fun.

Wallace handed him the end of the chain, thoughtfully wrapped in leather strips to protect his hands. John took the weight, dragging it a safe distance away. His muscles flexed, ready to work, not used to doing so little.

Slowly he swung the chain back and forth. Building up a steadily increasing rhythm, letting out a few links at a time. He raised it above his head, sending it whooshing round and round. Getting heavier with each rotation. The chain fully extended, both hands gripped tight, arms tensed, shoulders and back all moving in unison with the whirring chain.

John's mind cleared, calmed, focused on his breathing. Shutting out everything but the whoosh of the increasingly heavy chain above his head. He felt like doing this for hours. He probably would have if he didn’t see Robco signalling him to stop by drawing his hand across his throat. Gradually he slowed, easing his back, shoulders, then arms. Till the pistons skidded once, then twice. Coming to a clanging, clattering stop as he released the chain.

“That was awesome!” Wallace said as he came from behind the truck, two ice cold Nuka Colas in hand. “It was like Grognak the Barbarian or something.” John’s chest and arms bulged under the tight blue suit as he took deep breaths.

“What’s a barbarian?” John asked, breathless. He took the ice cold bottle from the boy, throwing back a gulp of cooling, fizzing, sweetness. Wallace looked at his grandfather and shared a smirk. “Did it work?”

“I marked them.” The bright boy had scored the dull steel shafts. “The small ones are fully extended, the big ones, well they moved a little, so it must have worked right.” John shrugged, he felt like doing it again, but the older man spoke before he could suggest it.

“We’ve been still too long, gotta get moving.” His tone left no room for debate and the boy knew better than to try. So into the cargo bed they went and the rolling, clanking truck set off along the road towards Shadowtown.

John and Wallace set to work smearing each part with whiskey scented gel. Then reassembling them on the low bench. Finally John lifted the hydraulic mechanical arm into place, sliding it back onto the rusted shoulder with a clunk. Hinges clicked down, gears wound, steel locked back in place. But the reassembled arm offered no movement, no sign if their efforts had worked. John returned to his once trusted pipboy and ran the diagnostic again. Still ignoring the cartoon mascot notifications. Wallace sat next to him, watching the green on black pipboy screen scroll data.

*propulsion offline*

*power level 68%*

*right arm 12.7mm Gatling online: ammo low*

*left arm 40mm grenade launcher online: EMPTY*

“Did it work?!” The bright boy blurted out, in a tone that suggested he’d been humouring his new travelling companion. Data continued to scroll checking off systems most of which were claimed by the swamp years ago. Until one final option appeared .

*remote override y/n?*

“We’ve never been able to access direct override before, we just boot him up in or out of safe mode and he does the rest.” Before John could respond the boy darted for his secret floor panel, excitedly calling for his grandfather.

The truck rolled and clanked to a stop, the older man with the excited boy at his heels opened the canvas curtain. John slid along the bench holding out the jet black pipboy for Robco to see. “Can we test it Pop Pop? Can we? Please?” The older man held up his hand to prompt the boy to listen.

“Now we’re too close to home to be setting off explosives for no good reason. If we took even a small detour we wouldn’t make Shadowtown tonight and John has his business.” Robco turned to John, “You’re welcome to stay the night with us, we can go into town at first light.” It hadn’t occurred to John he would leave his new friends in a few short hours, going on in the new, old world alone. He didn’t like it. He’d spent his entire life surrounded by the same faces day after day, year after year.

“If that’s ok I’d really like to stay.” John said, not wanting to impose on the good nature of near strangers.

“Can we test it then? Please?” Even if John wanted to leave, he would have found it hard to deny the boy. Robco looked around, his eyes telling him enough that he didn’t need a map. He looked at John with an uneasy expression, trying to hide it.

“I got just the place in mind, it’s not too far.” The boy all but jumped into the back of the truck, then began tidying the workspace in a way he knew his grandfather would want. John helped as they rolled and clanked along.

As they tidied the back of the truck John began to gather his meagre possessions. Two water cans, two protein bars, that he now realised weren’t, in fact had never been, real food. Some extra socks and underwear, and his trusted multi-tool. He looked at the repurposed vault-suit backpack. Thinking about all the cuts, bruises, burns and even broken bones he’d avoided thanks to its advanced design. Then he looked at Wallace, who’s only properly fitting item of clothing was the holster under his arm. The thoughtful, curious boy, who at this very moment was travelling to test fire a grenade launcher for fun. It didn’t sit right with John.

At the boys feet were the thin leather strips, unwound and untied from the chain. “Wallace, can I use these?” John asked. The boy nodded and threw them to him. John hadn’t handled leather this thin. Only as thick aprons for welding, or long gloves on the fabrication floor. This felt supple, pliable, new. He began winding it around the water cans, then measuring it to his waist.

“You should braid them, it’ll be stronger, here.” Wallace took three of the strips back, tied them in a knot at one end. He kicked off his oversized boot, slid the knot between his toes and pulled it tight, braiding the strips together repeatedly. John tried to copy, only instead of removing his boot for the first time since leaving the Vault, he used his multi-tool.

The boy looked over showing John the technique after he’d already finished. Wallace began rifling through the jangling containers of salvaged junk, plucking out two dull metal rings. He attached them to the braided strap with a complex knot. Next he diplomatically redid John’s braiding. Offering praise here and there, and rigged a simple, yet secure, pair of tightening straps for the water cans. “Try it on.” The boy held out the quickly improvised belt that John couldn’t have made in hours, it fit well.

“Thanks, it’s a good fit.”

“It’s just a start, we can add to it at home.” John saw Wallace didn’t need, or didn’t want, false praise, like the teachers in the Vault heaped on him to cover the lies. The boy wanted to solve problems, fix stuff, create things, John admired him. “Can I see your wrench?” The boy asked, already reaching for it, his ingenuity taking over.

“It’s not just a wrench.” John said with a smile.

“Can I see your not just a wrench then.” Wallace quipped, already holding the multi-tool in one hand, rummaging through salvage with the other. Each piece of scrap the boy selected didn’t fit the purpose he had in mind. They weren’t right to him somehow, despite not knowing exactly what right would be.

Ultimately he settled on a single chain link with an opening nut. Clipping it through the cast hole in the end of the multi-tool. Paired with a cut leather strip tied in a quick release knot he taught to John. All in a flat, even tone, that he no doubt learned it in. “When we get home I’ll show you my workbench and we’ll make something better.” The boy paused looking at the now empty improvised backpack John had turned back into a shiny blue vault-suit.

“These suits are tear resistant, burn proof, stain proof...” The unwanted memory of how easily the blood and viscera came off hours earlier popped into his head. “…and it’ll last years. I want you to have it, it will keep you safe.” Wallace held the advanced garment over his small frame. “You’ll grow into it.” The boy laughed.

“You sound like Momma! Are sure you don’t need it? You don’t owe us anything.” John nodded, even if he could get some of this money they tried to explain to him, he’d rather the boy had the suit. “Thanks John, it’s really cool.” Wallace noticed the three loose caps he’d given John that morning. Within seconds he’d whipped up a little pouch, put the caps in, tied it and threw it to John. “If you’re gonna keep giving things away you might want to keep an eye on that.” They both laughed. Numbness, slowed time, blood that hung in the air like a blanket, all distant from John’s mind.