Chapter 25 “Say thank you old dead guy that invented auto-stand.”

Once John dressed in his military fatigues and left the glass room. Sara took him into the next hangar. The one he saw knights walking in and out of all day. Inside the cavernous hangar were row after row of workbenches. Each one of the fifty or so with empty armour racks. The powered suits, and the men and women that wore them, out in the world. “Pay attention Aspirant Blake.” John dawdled too long, his eyes drawn by a disassembled minigun.

“This is me.” She pointed to her dormant armour and the bench next to it. “That’s Styx, then Acheron, and Crixus, and the empty bench next to mine is yours. Keep it tidy. You can come in here anytime you want, any time you have. Which isn’t going to be a lot.” John placed down his long guns, leaving his belt on. Keeping the metal orb gripped tight after already dropping it once and seeing Sara stop herself from yelling. Every piece of the steel inside got treated with respect, even the stuff that normally got thrown away. He understood why, the Brotherhood saw it as sacred, containing the memory of the dead man lowered into it. To disrespect that was to disrespect them all.

Apart from the workbenches the rest of the hangar had been outfitted with some weights sets. Punching bags, padded mats for fight training, but what really caught his eye was the unusual sight of polished wood. Smooth, long enough for two people to stand behind, matched with comfy seating and low tables. A bar, currently empty. “Proctor Reed, this is John, he’s got something for you.” Sara introduced him by name not rank, although he stood to attention anyway to greet the proctor. An older man, bald, wearing greasy overalls and in a foul mood.

“Good afternoon sir.”

“I ain’t no sir, what’s that you got there?” John held out the orb, still gripped tight. It brought an expression of reverence to the proctor’s face as he opened it.

“For the pistol?” Sara nodded. “And what lunacy has the lady come up with this time?” John unrolled the drawing, weighing it down at the corners on the workbench. “This real life, not a damned comic. I don’t have any chain this size, I can’t spare this much mercury, that locking system will take hours to fabricate.” Sara threw John a wink.

“Well looks like she was right, Reedy can’t build it.”

“I never said can’t. You tell her ladyship she might want to check the stock levels before she goes on her little flights of fancy.” There wasn’t exactly a rivalry between the proctor and the lady. It felt more like a difference of styles, pushed by her designs clashing with his realism. Right on cue someone walked over and handed him another metal orb, with a sigh he opened it.

“What does it say?” Sara asked, her amusement just barely hidden.

“Valkyrie will have chains and mercury, get to work. And later on you and I will…” Proctor Reed trailed off as he almost blushed. “That’s just technical stuff, notes and what have you, it doesn’t concern you.” The proctor left, setting about his task, with the promise of reward later.

“They’re married.”

“Who?” John had an idea of what married meant, cohabiting they called it in the Vault.

“Reed and the lady, two years now. They used to argue constantly when she first arrived, then one day they were together. No one saw that coming, not even them.”

“So they live together?” John had gotten better at asking questions to elicit the answers he wanted without revealing his lack of knowledge.

“Yeah, thankfully on the other side to us, arguing isn’t the only thing they do constantly. We held the wedding right outside.” John stopped himself from asking, but apparently not quick enough. “A wedding is a big party where the couple make vows to each other.”

“In the Vault you have to submit a form, then if the Overseer agrees you can apply for double quarters on the family deck.” John’s tiredness loosened his tongue. He regretted saying it almost immediately. Feeling the same rage that the repeated denials of their requests brought. Keeping them both on level six, forced to steal moments together.

“Forget about all that. When you get your girl you can have a wedding too, a real one.” Sara always knew just the right thing to say to keep him focused. It made him smile, it made her easy to talk too. “Come on, put that on and we’ll do something fun.”

Behind the hangar stood a raised concrete platform John had ran past it many times, too many times. Rectangular, square edged, and only accessible by a sloping ramp. In front of it, still, dormant, and looming larger with every step he took, a suit of T-60 power armour. The dull steel glinting in the setting sun.

“Look, I know you’re tired so for today, all I want you to do now is walk.”

The alterations to the under armour made it fit perfectly, the inflatable sections lined up neatly. The all important metal connector ports sitting at the exact spots needed along his limbs and torso. Thanks to a precisely cut window in the layers of fabric that sat around the pipboy.

Something bothered John on his short walk. He couldn’t put his finger on, not at first, then he realised. This five minute walk had been the longest period in weeks he’d been above ground without a weapon. The rose carved pistol, the multi-tool, even his knife were all left inside. It made him uneasy, although he wouldn’t be unarmed much longer. The steel suit before him was a weapon in and of itself.

He stood in shadow of the suit, towering over even his six foot plus frame, staring into the dark glass visor. Knowing how fast the steel armour could move and still finding it hard to accept. It looked new, or more accurately never used, dormant for almost a century.

No dents, no scratches, no markings to indicate kills. Instead only smooth steel. Broad shoulder plates. Intricate workings around the joints. Layered plates along the stomach and pistons peeking up just above the thick steel, tree trunk like legs. All stood on mechanical, oversized feet, fitted with clawing gears to provide traction.

Sara drew him to the back by tapping twice on the armour affectionately. With a practiced hand she slid a small panel up, exposing the round handle with a circular port. “This is a fusion core.” She held out a yellow cylinder with a black top. “This gets damaged, starts venting coolant, you run like hell. These things make a real mess.” John had seen them before. The constructor frames in the Vault used a pair to fuel the hulking arms and legs. He didn’t say that, or that he’d qualified to operate one, it didn’t seem relevant. Constructor frames were open, not enclosed, slow and front heavy due to the longer arms.

Sara pushed the core into the port and twisted it. Almost instantly it lit up at one end, indicating full power, then the armour hinged open. The back plate arching up, the rear plates on the upper arms and legs opening outwards. “Grab here, pull up and in. It’ll close, pressurise, then calibrate. It might feel a little weird, your ears might pop, but once that’s done I’ll talk you through on the comm.” John felt calmed by her tone, he took a deep breath, and reached for the handhold Sara pointed to.

Swinging up and into the suit wasn’t as easy as Sara made it seem. It took John three attempts to lift himself and swing his legs into place. Eventually finding the right movement to slip his legs in and throw his body forwards. His weight on the angled pedals became enough to bring the back plate down in a smooth motion. John never liked small spaces, now he stood encased in steel. The echoing of his pre-panic breathing the only sound in the dark. Unable to shake the image of a body being lowered into molten metal from his mind.

Slowly a hiss crept into the suit as its systems drew in filtered air. He heard whirring, then he felt the inner frame lock on to the ports in the under armour. Tightening up in unison, joining him to the outer armour. Then stillness, followed by more stillness.

Just as he readied a shout of help the entire suit began to shift. Smaller plates sliding, clunking, realigning around his limbs. Finally fixing him into the right position and bringing the helmet even closer to his face. A thin strip of the outside became the only thing he could see. It didn’t help with the images of that damn vent, but the voice in his ear did. “Doing real good John, just breathe ok.”

“Copy.” A single word felt like a struggle to get out. The unearned knowledge whispered from the back of his mind. Giving useless statistics about speed, height, weight, all of little use. John did the breathing exercises Grimm taught him, that helped. Then the power armour switched fully on. For an instant he felt the impossible sensation of falling, then opened his eyes to a greatly improved view. Projected on the ballistic glass visor he saw an instrument panel. Simple compass line, charge level, suit integrity, all green.

“Now you should see the heads up display, the hud, it might seem a little weird but you’ll get used to it. Should be all green, copy?” Compared to the display inside his eyes the one in front of them seemed pretty straight forward. Although just thinking about contending with both at the same time made him feel sick. Not ideal in a person shaped, steel box.

“Copy, all green.”

“Good, a few last things then we’ll get moving ok, no rush, just breathe. Now look up.” Sara’s voice calmed him in a way that reminded him of Grimm. Not the yelling voice of the obstacle course. The quiet, calm, voice of the stressful hand to hand training, he did that, he could do this.

John forced his head back to look up. Seeing the briefest glimpse of metal before the inner frame pushed him down within the suit. While the outer armour lurched upwards, giving him a view of blue and white. “Ok now look down.” The exact same shifting motion happened in reverse, showing the concrete ground. He felt thankful to be hungry, because that definitely would have made him vomit. “Doing great John, almost moving. In each hand you should feel the control grips.”

“Copy.” John felt blindly with his fingers, feeling the shaped grips, getting a sense for the buttons. Finding the triggers covered with a safety catch. Buttons under his other fingers, and a slow clicking wheel under each thumb.

“Don’t worry about the buttons, I want you raise your arms, then rotate the grips.” John raised his arms, bringing their steel counterparts into view alarmingly quickly. Broad, curved steel echoing his movement. He rotated the grips, seeing mechanical hands whir round, turning a full circle. “Make a fist.” John did, squeezing the grips and watching the metal hands form a lump of solid steel. Complex, old world engineering creating the most primitive of bludgeoning weapons.

“Now relax. I want you to feel with the balls of your feet. Feel that plate under your toes, I want you to press down.” John’s feet were each resting on an angled, split, metal plates. Somewhere in the armoured shins, positioned as if he were mid sprint. He felt for the front plate and pushed, moving his hips to attempt a stride, nothing, he tried again, nothing.

“Don’t try and walk, the armour walks by itself, you just need to tell it to go. Like riding a bike...you know what forget that, just press down with your toes.” John followed the instructions sending a mechanised foot forward. Followed by another, and another still, advancing at a steady pace.

In motion, fully calibrated, the power armour felt entirely different. The inner frame kept him steady, moving him to counter the movement around him as needed, giving him a reasonable view. “Stop there John.”

Sara walked right up to him. He normally stood almost a foot taller than her. Looking down on her through the visor of the power armour it felt more like three. “How you doing in there?” She reached up to knock on the helmet, “If you threw up you wouldn’t be the first, or the last.”

“No I’m good, I kinda…” John couldn’t place the sensation he felt, giddy, maybe it had something to do with the air in the pressurised suit.

“If you shit yourself you wouldn’t be the first to do that either.”

“No, not that. I want to run.”

“Alright then, turn and head for the wall. Just gradually press more on the front foot plate to speed up, then the rear one to slow down. But once you get going it’s like a freight tra…it’s like a hammer swing, that inertia is going somewhere. It’s your job to keep it from taking you with it.” Sara had a practical tone, but the same grin as this morning. When she sent him on a three hour lecture after being on watch from two am.

John felt his confidence rise as he turned the armour round, leaning his weight right to indicate a direction. He stopped, took a few deep breaths, then started walking. Slowly he started pressing down on the split, front footplates. Gradually picking up speed, momentum, mass, heavy clunks and whirs propelling him forward. John moved faster and faster, until all he could see in front of him was the grey wall.

John pressed down as hard as he could with his heels, bringing the armour into a skid. Slowing, but not enough to avoid falling face first on the concrete with a calamitous racquet. Mixed with crushing pain throughout his body as the under armour filled the inflatable sections. The inner frame locked tight to protect him.

“You ok?” John heard the laugh in Sara’s voice despite her effort to hide it. Not mocking, more filled with recognition. Although he had a tough time imagining Sara doing something quite so foolish.

“I’m good.” John couldn’t figure out what to do next, how to shift the weight in the right way to get him back up. Fortunately, the heads up display came to his aid, prompting him with an automatically selected option. He clicked buttons till it started flashing, then John became a passenger in his own armour. The hands opened up flat, forming stable supports as the armour heaved it’s chest off the ground then drew in a knee. Finally stood up right once again. “I’m ok.”

“I see that, say thank you old dead guy that invented auto-stand.” Sara sounded like someone said that to her once. “Why don’t you take a slow lap or two.” John took five, getting faster, better, each time.

Learning to use the thumbwheel in conjunction with the exposed gears in the toes and heel to create traction. Growing more confident with the sheer size of the power armour. Figuring out when to turn, when to brake, how to stay upright. It felt nothing like the constructor frames. They were deliberately slow to keep them relatively safe. Even if you made a sweeping arm move the system would only ever translate that into steady movement.

The T-60 power armour however, had lightning fast reactions. You moved, it moved. You stepped, it stepped. You threw a punch, it threw a punch, and with a great deal more force. It felt immensely empowering, like how he imagined Val felt flying her Vertibird. Action, reaction, input, outcome, only with both heavy feet on the ground.

“Alright show off, bring it in, gotta leave something for tomorrow. Front and centre aspirant.” Sara, much to John’s relief, had been standing on the raised concrete platform while he ran laps under her supervision. John saw the ramp and headed up it. Taking a full three steps before toppling over backwards. Hitting with a bone rattling clang. Followed by a humiliating scraping sound as he slid down the ramp on his back.

The heads up display flashed a single option. John pulled back the control grips as indicated. Retracting the connectors, jettisoning the helmet along with the shoulder plates. They fell away, just enough to detach the chest and upper arm plates. Allowing him to throw the heavy steel off as he crawled out. “Say thank you old dead guy who designed the eject system.” John didn’t think he could say that many words, even as he got to his feet. “It’s better than the alternative. Next time that happens I want you out and firing in under twenty seconds.”

“Next time?!” Once felt bad enough, John could still hear ringing in his ears.

“Yeah, and the time after that till you get it right.” Sara knew when to use her humour, and when not to. John understood her reasoning. Being on the ground like that would leave him, and by extension anyone around him, vulnerable. “Now the fun part.” She cleared her throat, readying the impression of Grimm, “Why in the hell is that fine suit of armour on the ground?” John couldn’t even begin to imagine how to pick the power armour up, it obviously showed.

“Relax, it’s easier than it seems. Grab the left arm with both hands, then pull and twist into it, like throwing a sack over your shoulder.” John did as instructed, surprisingly hauling the partially clad armour to its feet. Using the design against itself to lever the steel suit up onto its feet.

Sara helped him gather and reattach the plates. Showing him the strap under the chest plate. Allowing it to be used as a, somewhat cumbersome, shield in case of emergency ejections under fire. She showed him how to use hand signals to activate the auto follow subroutine and walked back to his workbench. The steel suit moving under its own power.