Chapter 13 “Not all who wander are lost son.”

John told Robco everything. The Grand, the trap he triggered. The emergency combat protocol, the invisibility, the slowed time. The nightmare, dreamlike state that left him unsure who really made those decisions. The cartoon mascot calling him a soldier. The code and diagrams he saw inside his eyes, projected onto the world, showing him how to kill.

Robco didn’t react, save for throwing back his drink as he worked. Painting the pistol grips with fine handmade brushes and bright paint. Aided by the illuminated magnifying lens on his advanced workbench.

“I don’t know what this thing is Robco, I don’t know what it has done to me, I don’t know if I control it or it controls me.” John looked down at his heavy work boots, he knew he had to be honest, and it did feel better to say it out loud.

The older, wiser man turned from his work, finally with a response. “You know what that is right?” He pointed to the headless, faux feminine form of the still thirty per cent combat effective bot standing in the corner. John thought this might be part of some test, like the lighter, like the strange lights in the greenhouse.

Robco continued before he could answer. “Assualtron, invader class, area denial weapon. See in the old world say you wanted to attack a town, you’d drop four or five of these things a few miles away. They’d walk ahead and kill everything that moved. Soldiers, civilians, didn’t matter. They’d slaughter them and stay there till someone switched ‘em off.” John couldn’t take his eyes off the claw like hands. Driven by powerful pistons and highly efficient chain motors, hidden behind the suggested curves of the chest plate.

“You know what the four of them do here all day, carry boxes, pick crops, and help build houses.” He looked at the man in the shiny blue suit, computer on his arm, confusion on his face. “Point is technology isn’t good or bad, it’s just a tool, like a hammer or a knife.” He tapped the jet black pipboy with his knuckle, “What matters is how you use it.”

“I don’t even know what it is, what it really is, underneath.” John moved his arm activating the screen. The cartoon mascot pointing to new features over and over again for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

“Yeah, well I had some thoughts on that too.” The older man’s expression gave John a sense of calm, or maybe that was the whiskey and water in his cup. “See folk forget that before The Great War, there were plenty of smaller wars going on all over the world. Wars need soldiers, soldiers need training, and that takes time, unless of course…”

“You give them a machine that teaches them automatically.” John thought it made sense, it could be true, he’d heard so little truth in his life it took a billboard to make him see it.

“Exactly. You ever heard the term ‘muscle memory’?” John shook his head. “I bet after all those years down there you could weld or rivet things blindfolded right, without thinking?”

“Yeah, once you find the rhythm it’s automatic.”

“Because your body, your muscles, remember the motion. Same thing with shooting, you learn over months, years, till it’s second nature. As to how it’s in your head, well that’s tech beyond my understanding, but.” Robco trailed off, “You sure you want to pull this thread?” John took a moment to think, able to do so without being overwhelmed again.

“Whatever the truth, it’s better to know.” The more John heard the resolute tone to his voice the more he liked it. The older man rummaged through a draw, pulling out a mirror and flashlight with a dark cover on it. Robco moved the arm supporting the magnifying lens, angling it in front of John, holding the mirror so he could see a magnified reflection of his eye.

“Don’t move and try to relax.” Robco shut off the lights and clicked on the flashlight. Creating the same effect as in the greenhouse on a smaller scale. The beam of ultraviolet light fell on John’s face and he saw something. The same thing the older man had seen, something in his eye. Edging the blue iris of John’s eye was a thin line, glowing green. Pipboy code green.

In the ultraviolet light, straight lines of green branching off from it and disappearing deeper into his eye. Reflexively he tried to rub his eye, to get whatever it was out. Realising instantly that whatever was in there had been there a while now and wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe it wasn’t better to know after all.

“You know me and Rosie, we always thought we got these damn things for a reason. That we were special somehow. All this time they were never meant for us, probably a fucking shipping error.” John sounded despondent as he threw back a neat whiskey. A long held belief crumbling into nothing like the burned logs in the fire, and not for the first time today.

“Take a minute and think what you’d be doing right now if we hadn’t run into each other.” Robco spoke without shifting his focus from his precision painting.

“I’d be out there alone, frightened, hungry, sober.” Robco laughed and raised his cup.

“Seriously though, say you escaped last week, or next week, say you went east instead of west, left instead of right.” He turned from his workbench, looking John in the eye. “Now take a minute and imagine what’d be happening here. Imagine Junior making that journey back by himself because I did something stupid. Imagine him explaining to his mother. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” Robco poured them both another drink. “Not all who wander are lost son, remember that.” They clinked cups and enjoyed the strong, smoky taste together, quietly, each grateful for the other’s company.

At Robco’s instruction John set about using the bullet press to crank out forty five calibre rounds, thirty of them. The repeated motion easy to grasp for someone used to doing the same thing over and over again.

Next he used a hammer and chisel to cut deep crosses into the relatively soft metal on the tips of the bullets. He asked why and the older, wiser man simply raised his closed fist then spread his fingers. John understood, the weakened bullet would spread easily on impact.

Finally he loaded them into the pistol magazine. Cleaned and oiled, with a freshly made narrow cut for checking the bullets left inside. The remaining ammo he stored in small loops hidden in the fine leather coat. “Not bad John, not bad.” Robco said as he inspected a loose bullet, he gestured to his bench. “That needs to set, what’d say we check on the brain trust in there, maybe scare up a sandwich.” They turned, heading towards the house. Red light rising and falling along the curtains, “You know you never did answer me, about the hou—”

“Yes. Thank you, yes, yes ,yes!” John’s answer sounded like the boy of no more than eight. He couldn’t help it, he had a home, half built, not even four walls, but his, theirs, he just needed to get her here.

Inside the bright boy and his mother had been equally busy, if not busier. No doubt unencumbered by whiskey and revelations. Four clean white sheets had been hung around the kitchen table, creating its own room within a room. Everything scrubbed even cleaner than before. The fire put out so that not even smoke could get into the opened Assaultron head, bolted to the centre of the table. Much to the older man’s annoyance. “Damn it Lou, did you really have to drill through the dinner table.”

“That was my idea Pop Pop.” Wallace didn’t so much apologise as brag, keen to show off his intellect. “Works real well.” Wallace and Louisa didn’t shift their focus from the detached, striped, mechanical head. Circuit boards, thin wiring, precisely engineered cogs, gears, actuators. All built around the now exposed complex lensing assembly.

“Ok Junior, try it now.” Louisa twisted a thin screwdriver plunged deep in the bot’s brain. Wallace typed a brief command into the terminal placed on the chair next to him. A faint whir sounded as an image of code appeared on the hung white sheet. Sharper, much better definition than before. The boy took his yellow pad and quickly jotted down the first line. Then typed it back into the terminal, hit enter and stepped back.

“Come on, come on, come on.” The boy forced himself to stay still in the tight confines of the sheet walls as the terminal silently processed the data he just typed.

“Momma! Momma look, one hundred percent match! It worked!” The boy and his mother slapped hands across the table, pleased with the result of their labour. It only lasted a few seconds before she turned to John.

“John we need to, that is it’d be better if…”

“You bolted my arm to the table.” John laughed, remembering the mother’s annoyance with her son for even trying to use mere tape. “Its fine, go ahead.”

John sat in the chair and let the excited team work around him. Stacking books to get the pipboy screen at eye level with the detached head. Despite the uncomfortable position it put him in. Marking up the table, then producing a drill, and causing Robco to leave. Not wanting to watch more holes put in the table he’d built.

Leather strips were wrapped around his wrist, ratcheted tight and secured with bolts. They were so tight it hurt John’s arm, but he didn’t want to complain. Wallace retrieved his homemade wireless keyboard. He connected the four pin and began queuing up the remote override code in read only mode.

One last nod went round the table. The politeness of the boy and his mother including John. As he half sat, leant forward and strapped to a table. Wallace hit enter on the terminal and his wireless keyboard, but mistimed it, John had an idea.

“Wallace, get ready.” The boy’s fingers hovered over the buttons as he stared at his new friend. “Three, two, one.” Just like the Vault door he thought to himself. Remembering the screech of dormant metal coming back to life. Only this time hearing a faint whir, nearly drowned out by the boy pressing keys.

“Done.” Wallace said as Louisa rushed to free the uncomfortable man bolted to her table. Looking as if she may have allowed her own focus to overtake reason. John stopped her, he wanted, he needed, to help the people who’d given him so much more than food, clothing and shelter.

“I’m ok, see if it worked first.” The bright boy twisted the robotic head and projected the recorded data. Slowly jotting down the first line of code this time, to make sure he got it right. He all but threw himself over the table to reach the pipboy screen, checking off his writings against the code shown. Tension filled the room within a room. It felt like no one even dared breathe. Least of all John, fearing even a slight movement would throw the boys laser like focus.

“Momma, you check it.” Wallace sat back, wringing his small hands with nervous energy as his mother checked his notes against the screen. She stood, solemn faced.

“I’m sorry Wallace.” The boy looked down at the table, crestfallen once again. “It looks like you’re going to have a lot less free time while you write this code!” A small fist banged the table in vindication mixed with excitement.

"I knew it’d work!” His mother rounded the table to hug him tightly, proud of her son and happy that he'd achieved what he set out to do. “I know it’s still a long shot, but it gives us a real strong foundation, right Momma?”

“It does son, it really does.” She stopped, remembering the dinner guest she had bolted to the table. “Sorry John.” The boy disappeared under the table and within seconds the socket wrench had freed his arm, giving him a chance to stretch.

“So you got the code?”

“Well, not exactly, we got a picture of the code, now we need to type it up then see if it’ll run. If it does we can get admin access to any bot instantly, just like you! And if, when, I build a wireless four pin we can control them directly.” Wallace sounded confident, belief in his own abilities. “Thank you John.” The boy put out his tiny hand in a gesture that seemed too old for him, but John indulged him, and shook the boy’s hand.

“You’re welcome, happy to help.”

“What have you been working on out there?”

“No Wallace, it’s nearly midnight.” His mother’s voice firm, but warm. “Save the settings, let’s get Betsy back online then it’s bedtime, you’ve had a long day and that code isn’t going anywhere.” John wanted to tell Wallace about the house, but stopped himself. Not wanting to give the boy false hope, he knew he might not live to see the half built house finished.

After some more precision engineering, the lensing assembly had been retracted. The armour casing replaced, and the head reattached atop of the old world weapon. That then confirmed it was back to one hundred percent combat efficiency, politely thanked Louisa, and returned to its patrol. Keeping people safe instead of killing them.

John, Robco and Louisa sat round the fire outside. Drinking, listening to the radio while Mr Goodnight talked. Punctuating the soft, melodic, music that all but John seemed to know the words to.

Robco kept going over to his bench, checking on his work, until eventually he called John over. “Considering the time frame, I think we’ve done pretty well, even if I say so myself.” Robco began to list the improvements, but John couldn’t take his eyes from the painted grip. “You got a threaded barrel, that there’s a compensator, helps with the recoil.” The older man pointed to the small pipe section, repurposed with neatly cut, long holes in the top half. “I dotted the sights with radium, glows in the dark, helps you aim at night. That long piece is a suppressor, not a silencer. Flared magwell for smoother reloads and the artwork.”

Robco had carved and painted the knurled wooden grips. Then coated in clear resin, a near perfect copy of the rose from the pre-war magazine. Dark green stem, deep red petals, and a glossy sheen to protect it. He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “I put the rose on there so you remember every time you pick it up why you’re carrying it, and why you have to use it.”

“It’s beautiful.” It became clear where the boy got his artistic talent from. Louisa ran inside and quickly reappeared with her high capacity nine mil. Square slide, dark grey, and a picture of their wooden house on the grip. Their home, complete with lights in the windows and smoke from the chimney.

“That’s why I carry it, to keep me and mine safe.” She shared a smile with Robco. Whatever strain secrets put on their relationship, it could take it, they were family. She pulled a round, gold watch on a chain from her tight fitted blue jeans. “You know I think I’m going to turn in, I’ll make up the spare room for you John, goodnight boys.” She threw back her drink and headed back to the house.

“Louisa,” John called out to the woman who turned back to look at him, her curly brown hair bouncing as she did. “Thank you, for everything.” John felt foolish for repeating thanks over and over, but he didn’t know how else to show the gratitude he felt for far more than food and shelter.

“You’re welcome honey, I’m glad you found your way to us.”

“So am I, so am I.”

John and Robco headed back into the fenced in forest. Stopping at the still for another harsh drop of Private Reserve. The intoxicating effect amplifying the whiskey already in their systems.

“Alright,” Robco said as he handed John the customised pistol for the first time. “Put the suppressor on it.” John did, quickly unscrewing the inch long compensator. Replacing it with the nearly four times longer and twice as wide suppressor, it fit perfectly.

Without conscious thought John aimed the pistol finding a comfortable stance instantly. The radium dots on the iron sight glowing in the darkness beyond the still. “Ok, stance is good, grip not too tight, good.” Robco pushed John this way and that, fine tuning his stance. “Now lower it, just let it hang by your side.” The older man retrieved a bulbous red fruit. Uneven and misshapen like the pigs, not symmetrical in any way. He held it up so John could see. “This is a tato, we had some for dinner, you’ll find ‘em pretty much all over, grows real well but doesn’t taste great raw.”

“I bet it tastes better than a protein bar.” John was only half joking, they didn’t taste of anything to him, which he now understood wasn’t normal.

“I bet it does, then again what we feed the pigs probably tastes better than that. Now I would normally never waste food, but in the interest of science.” Robco went quiet and still for a long moment. Just as John readied himself to ask if something was wrong, Robco slapped him across the face with his open hand. Throwing the tato out in front of them in the same instant. “SHOOT!” The shock of the slap, coupled with the loud shout left no time for John to think, he raised the pistol and fired.

A sharp crack filled the air. The suppressor did its job and reduced the sound while the tato all but vaporised in mid-air. “Damn fine shot son, damn fine.” John couldn’t believe he hit bulbous red fruit. He struggled to hit a bottle on a wall that morning, of course a lot had happened since then.

“I hit it?! In mid-air, I hit it.” Confidence filled John’s mind. “Wait, you slapped me.”

“That I did, for science!” John didn’t feel insulted or angry, clearly it’d done something to help him. “I didn’t want you to think, just react, and you did. I couldn’t make that shot and I’ve been shooting since I was the boy’s age!”

“Wait, is this why you threw that.” John fumbled for the new word, “lighter at me?”

“It was, you got fast reflexes. Plus it’s dark, you’ve been drinking, even for someone your size you’ve had quite a few and can still make a shot like that. Damn, I’m impressed! And a little bit afraid.” John's face dropped, but before the thought could take hold Robco corrected himself. “I didn’t mean it like that son, I’m not afraid of you, or that thing, and you shouldn’t be either.” He poured another healthy drink into their tin cups and began to head back to the workshop. “I don’t think that thing makes the decisions, you do, look what happened with the dog. You were scared, not for yourself, for the boy, but you didn’t shoot did you?”

“You held the gun down with your boot.” Robco laughed and stepped back from John.

“Son, look at me.” He gestured with his hands moving them up and down his body. “Now look at you.” He did the same to John. His muscular six foot plus frame not hidden by normal clothes. On display under the tight, shiny blue material. “Now I can handle myself, but come on. You’re half my age and got twenty pounds on me, if you really wanted that gun, I wasn’t going to be able to stop you.”

"I feel stupid thanking you again, but thank you. I didn’t think wolves were real.” He corrected himself, remembering the lifeline of affection the gentle creature had given him when he so desperately needed it. “Not a wolf, it’s a dog, she’s a dog.”

“That she is, raised her from a pup, she’s family.” Robco lent in as they walked as if to avoid being overheard, despite most of the Rest being asleep. “Of course if someone tried to hurt me or the boy she’d rip their fucking throat out.” John laughed, nervously. “Not that you need to worry about that, not after all the grease you gave her, you’ve got a friend for life there!”

“I didn’t give it to her.” The pair laughed, without nerves this time.

John fed the fire outside the workshop, trying to keep it going, as Robco poured more drinks. “What do you say to one last experiment?” Robco asked with a sly grin.

“Sure, as long as you’re not going to slap me again.”

“Wasn’t planning too. I think we should see how much drink it takes before you can’t shoot straight. And besides, we should celebrate you joining the Rest.”

“Didn’t you say there was a, I can’t remember the word.” An all too familiar look of sadness and pity appeared on Robco’s face.

“A vote. See everyone here gets a say in what happens. A chance to be heard, it’s a special thing, that’s you’re right as a free man, a chance to go your own way.” Like so much John didn’t understand, but if it meant he got to stay here he’d learn. “You know I won’t be offended if you don’t wan—” John didn’t even let him finish the sentence.

“No, I want to stay. I want to learn how to build things out of wood instead of metal. Metal is cold, it’s always cold, but here everything is warm, nothing is the quite same, it’s amazing.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever thought of it like that, you’re right though this place is amazing. But it’s a secret, don’t tell no one where it is. And don’t tell no one where that Vault is neither, not even me, secrets keep you safe out here.” Robco’s expression became a serious, like out on the road.

“I won’t, I promise. We had plenty of practice keeping secrets in the Vault.” They raised their cups and drank. The neat whiskey smooth after the harsh, but not in any way unpleasant, Private Reserve.

“Speaking of secrets.” Robco retrieved something from his bench and threw it to John. “Now that’ll do in a pinch as a tool, but this is definitely a weapon first.” John looked at the flat, dark metal object. The handle had sections removed and wrapped tightly in the synthetic cord. With a longer knotted strand hanging from it, the top encased in a smooth plastic sheath.

He pulled the sheath away to reveal a double edged knife, ground to a point, the edges razor sharp. “I keep mine here.” Robco put his boot on the chair pulling out an identical knife. “I thought maybe you could slip it under your pip thing, no one will think to look there, might just come in handy. But you could just as easily put it wherever you want.” His flat, even tone returned. “As long as you can reach it in a hurry.” John saw the idea, it never would have occurred to him.

Slowly he worked the gel cushion around his wrist. Loosening it just enough to slip the sheath in, while leaving enough to pull the knife back out if needed. John stood, without looking he felt the loose knotted strand and pulled. Drawing the blade and gripping it firmly in his hand.

“That’s a really good idea.” John stabbed at the air, getting a feel for its pointed reach. “Tha—” Robco put up his hand to stop him, the older man knew how grateful he was without the words.

“Feel the balance, see how its top heavy.” Robco snapped his arm with force. Sending his knife through the air and sticking into the wooden workshop wall with a satisfying twang. “You try.” John drew his arm back and picked a spot on the wall to aim at. “Wait, what am I thinking, we’re not marking up my walls, we’re gonna mark up your walls, get the stools and bring that bottle."

The pair walked into the half built house. Placed the chairs near where the fireplace would eventually be and sat in the roofless, one walled, house like it was already built. After a few loud bangs of a hammer, Robco hung a cut log end on the two thirds built far wall.

“Alright, rules of the game are simple, you miss, you drink, got it?” Robco threw back a glug of whiskey from the bottle. “That one doesn’t count. Your throw.” John threw his new knife far too hard and it clattered off the wall. “Drink.” He did, Robco threw his knife in a smoother way and it stuck near dead centre. “That’s how it’s done boy.” He said in a joking manner while he poured more drinks, taking a nip himself. And so it went, throwing, drinking, laughing, talking. In a half built house that John couldn’t stop imagining sharing with Rosie.

“Can I asks you somethings?” John’s inexperience of knife throwing had cost him, full blown drunk for the first time in his life. "What are my chances of finding whats I needs? Honestly.” The not exactly sober older man took a long sip from his cup.

“Well, let’s look at what we know. We know there’s more Vaults. They had to be built somewhere, and I mean it’d make sense to build the parts nearby right, so I think you’ve got a good chance. The problem you’ve got is intel.” He took another drink, remembering who he was talking to. “Intelligence, information, leads on what’s out there. See folk get to talking, and drinking, round the fire suddenly things get exaggerated, twisted. One attacker turns into two, two into eight. Old factories become filled with loot that turns out to be little more than scrap.” He fixed his gaze on John. “Folk start talking about a big guy with dead eye aim and computer on his arm. That moves faster than people ought to be able to, you’re gonna draw the kind of attention you don’t want.”

“The rarer something ish the more precioush, I remember.” John threw back his neat whiskey. “And don’t waste nothing outshere. I remember thats too!”

“Good man.” Robco turned to the door and John did the same seeing Louisa in a fluffy white robe. An embodied ‘G’ on the front and unlaced work boots on her feet. “Shit did we wake you Lou, sorry, we were…experimenting…for science.”

“For schiencse!” John repeated as he threw back yet another drink.

“No, I couldn’t sleep, thought I come and see what was so funny in here…” She ran her hand over the freshly carved ‘J’ and ‘R’ then smiled. Sharing an approving nod with Robco. “Of course when we’re neighbours you’ll have to keep it down. I need my beauty sleep.” She entered the half built house and finished John’s drink for him.

“You don’t needs beauty sleep, you’re gorgeoush enough.” Louisa laughed.

“Damn Pops, how much as he had?”

“We finished one bottle and put a dent in another, he was fine till he started losing at knife throwing. Besides we’re celebrating ain’t we John.” John nodded “Come on Lou, one last nightcap.” Robco poured one last drink into the cups, keeping the bottle for himself. “Welcome to the neighbourhood John.”

The three drank in celebration. Then guided John to his room, keeping him upright just long enough to collapse into the guest bed. Louisa removed his loose boots and left him to sleep off the alcohol in his system. Amused, but concerned for a good natured man with a heavy duty to carry.

John’s last thoughts before he passed out, like always, were of Rosie. And the look on her face when she saw the house he would build for them both. Even if she didn’t want to be together, she would have a safe place to call home, no matter what.