Fallout - Chapter 97: Lights in the Night Sky (Patreon)

Late at night.

Heavy clouds covered the entire sky. Every so often, one of the brightest stars managed to pierce the cloud cover and flicker briefly through a gap, but most of the time, there was nothing overhead but endless, lifeless darkness.

One light, however, was slowly cutting through it.

The Prydwen.

The aerial flagship of the eastern Brotherhood of Steel, a mobile fortress, and currently the largest nuclear-powered airship in the entire Wasteland.

Its name came from the legendary ship of King Arthur, a symbol of the ultimate embodiment of chivalry.

Now, carrying a full Brotherhood expeditionary force, it was steadily advancing from west to east toward the borders of the Commonwealth.

Inside the command room at the front of the airship, the lighting was soft and bright.

A man stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was in his twenties, tall and straight-backed, wearing a heavy dark-brown leather coat with an off-white fur collar draped over his shoulders.

The Brotherhood of Steel's gear-and-sword insignia was sewn onto his left sleeve. His short hair was neatly trimmed, one side cropped extremely close, while the hair on top was carefully arranged.

A clean line of stubble framed his face, and a long, thin scar ran across his left cheek, giving him a severe presence.

Arthur Maxson.

Elder of the eastern Brotherhood of Steel, its supreme leader, and the last remaining direct descendant of the Brotherhood's founder, Roger Maxson. More precisely, the only bloodline the Brotherhood was willing to recognize.

He had taken command of the East Coast Brotherhood at the age of sixteen, becoming the youngest Elder in its history.

Before him, Owyn Lyons had established the Brotherhood's foothold on the East Coast under the creed of "protecting the people of the Wasteland." His daughter Sarah had inherited her father's ideals, only to die in battle.

Then came Maxson.

He overturned Lyons's interventionist policies and returned the Brotherhood to its old emphasis on technology and discipline. Technology was tightly controlled, pre-War resources were reclaimed by force, and any settlement that resisted was treated as an enemy.

Under his leadership, the East Coast chapter expanded rapidly. He incorporated the remaining Enclave technology of the Capital Wasteland, strengthened the Brotherhood's arsenal, and built the enormous airship beneath his feet.

Then he turned his attention toward the Commonwealth.

Now he stood before the windows, staring at the faint outline of the mountains along the western edge of the Commonwealth. In the darkness, the ridgelines were a deep blue-black, like the raised spine of the earth.

His expression was anything but relaxed.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

A Brotherhood Scribe in a scientific uniform stopped several paces away.

"Elder."

Maxson did not turn around.

"How is the mission progressing?"

"Everything is proceeding smoothly. We expect to enter Commonwealth territory at approximately ten tomorrow morning."

"Has the docking site been confirmed?"

"Yes. The East Boston peninsula, on the eastern edge of the Commonwealth," the Scribe reported. "Several reconnaissance teams have confirmed the presence of a large pre-War airport there. Its control tower and landing grounds are largely intact, and there is enough space for the Prydwen to dock. We can establish a forward base there immediately."

Maxson was silent for a moment before giving a slight nod.

"Very good. Return to your post."

The Scribe stepped back, brought a clenched fist to his chest, and saluted respectfully.

"Ad Victoriam."

He turned and left the command room, his footsteps gradually fading along the metal corridor.

Maxson remained by the window.

He stared at the mountains drawing steadily closer, his expression dark.

"I never imagined that I, the High Elder, would be forced to leave Washington and personally lead an expedition."

A trace of regret surfaced in his thoughts as he remembered the voices that had once slandered his adoptive father, Lyons, behind his back.

He had done nothing to stop them then.

Now, standing at the highest point of the airship, he felt as though countless hands beneath him were holding him aloft, leaving neither his hands nor his feet touching solid ground.

...

Meanwhile, southwest of the Commonwealth.

The Glowing Sea.

This was the most heavily irradiated region in the Wasteland. A nuclear weapon had struck the area directly, melting the earth into glassy black crystal.

Yet deep within the Glowing Sea stood a brightly lit base.

The Atlantic Office.

An Enclave forward base.

Inside, in a coldly lit laboratory briefing room, an Enclave colonel sat at a metal table with a thick report spread before him.

He looked up at the technical officer standing opposite him, a woman in her thirties wearing a white research uniform and holding a data pad. She looked exhausted, but her expression remained composed.

The technical officer nodded and opened the data pad.

"We conducted a comprehensive examination of the captured third-generation Synths, both physiological and psychological. Inevitably, some of the testing was rather extreme."

She paused, choosing her words before continuing.

"Our conclusions are as follows."

"First, these Synths did not develop from embryos. They are complete living organisms assembled from scratch on a production line using biological 3D printing and cellular weaving technology."

"Second, they possess complete reproductive organs, including individuals with theoretically functional uteruses and testes. However, even using the biological hybridization technology recovered from Vault 4, we were unable to make them conceive or carry a pregnancy naturally."

"Third, their genomes show obvious signs of FEV editing. But the original genetic template for every Synth, without exception, comes from the same individual."

The colonel looked up.

"The same person?"

"Yes," the technical officer confirmed.

"And his genetics are exceptional, particularly in learning ability and physical performance. Reaction speed, coordination, those innate indicators are all far above average. More importantly, his genome shows no traces of radiation damage or FEV contamination. It is an extraordinarily pure baseline human genome, perhaps even purer than ours."

The colonel took the report and turned to the relevant page.

There was a reconstructed image of a human face generated from the genetic data.

It showed a young man of roughly eighteen, with refined features, black hair, a scholarly appearance, and a well-proportioned face.

It was Shaun, the Institute's supreme leader known as "Father," as he had looked when he was young.

"His combat aptitude is really that high?" the colonel asked slowly, doubt creeping into his voice. "That doesn't sound like the sort of talent you'd expect from the pre-War academics at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. Genetic engineering?"

"No," the technical officer replied immediately. "Genetic testing confirms with complete certainty that he was conceived naturally. He is an unmodified human with no traces of artificial alteration."

The colonel tapped his fingers against the tabletop.

Then he asked the crucial question.

"What did the regression-to-the-mean model show?"

The technical officer had clearly expected it. She flipped to the next page.

"It still follows standard genetic principles. Regression toward the mean is present."

The colonel's pupils narrowed slightly.

Regression toward the mean.

One of the most basic principles of genetics. Extreme traits such as talent, appearance, height, and intelligence were not passed down unchanged forever. Over generations, they tended to move back toward the population average.

Children of unusually tall parents were often shorter than their parents.

Children of geniuses were often less intelligent than their parents.

"So," the colonel said, his voice lowering, "his parents were even more gifted than he was."

"According to the genetic model, yes. Considerably more."

The colonel fell silent for a long time.

He stared down at the genetically reconstructed face in the report, his mind racing.

Where had the Institute obtained this genetic sample?

A genetically pure human being who appeared after the war, untouched by either radiation or FEV contamination, was almost unimaginable in the Wasteland.

Two centuries of nuclear radiation had blanketed the world. Nearly everyone born after the war carried at least some traces of radiation damage or FEV-related mutation in their genes.

There was only one plausible explanation.

The genetic source had come from some isolated, uncontaminated Vault.

But what kind of Vault could have produced someone like this?

Before he could think any further, the laboratory door was thrown open.

A communications soldier stood in the doorway, visibly anxious.

"Colonel! Urgent transmission!"

The colonel's thoughts were interrupted.

He frowned, motioned for the technical officer to leave, then strode toward the communications room.

A screen inside was already lit.

A scout appeared on the display, backed by a shaky night-vision feed and the blurred darkness of the distant sky.

"Sir," the scout said through a layer of static, urgency clear in his voice, "we've detected the Brotherhood of Steel's airship, the Prydwen, approaching the Commonwealth."

The colonel's expression darkened instantly.

"When will it arrive?"

"Based on its current speed, tomorrow morning."

The colonel slammed a fist onto the metal table with a dull bang.

"And you're only finding it now?"

The scout flinched slightly, though his voice remained steady.

"Sir, the Institute has been interfering with our sensors for the past few days and generating large numbers of false contacts. Dozens of fake signals appear on our radar every day. Most of our personnel have been tied up identifying which ones are real. By the time we located the Prydwen, it was already approaching the edge of Commonwealth airspace."

The colonel's breathing grew heavier.

He remembered the reports from the past several days.

Strange signals constantly appearing on their sensors.

Sometimes east.

Sometimes west.

Sometimes several directions at once.

"Then get out there and reconnoiter them," the colonel said, his voice icy. "Determine the size of their force and how many Vertibirds they've brought."

He paused, his tone sharpening.

"Most importantly, find out who's leading them this time."

The communications soldier saluted and ended the transmission.

The colonel stood alone before the screen.

The reconnaissance feed switched to thermal imaging data transmitted by satellite.

At the edge of the display, an enormous heat source was moving slowly.

The Prydwen.

Its fusion reactor burned like a brilliant point of heat.

The colonel stared at it, his expression black with anger.

...

Meanwhile, inside the Minutemen's underground base.

The communications room was silent.

Only the soft hiss of static from the speakers echoed through the enclosed space.

Jace stood before the communications console with his arms folded, staring at the speaker.

Preston stood to his left.

Nate leaned against the wall, still wearing his T-51 power armor, his helmet tucked beneath one arm.

Josie sat in the corner, staring at the communications console without blinking.

The static suddenly cut out.

Then a clear voice came through.

"This is Recon Squad Gladius. Go ahead."

It was Danse.

The voice on the other end was noticeably filtered by the communications system. It was being transmitted from an airship at high altitude, and the signal was so clean that it hardly sounded like something one would hear in the Wasteland.

"Paladin Danse, this is the Prydwen."

"At ten tomorrow morning, the Prydwen will enter Commonwealth airspace. Have your squad arrive at Boston Airport ahead of time and prepare to receive us."

"Elder Maxson will deliver an important address upon arrival."

The channel went quiet for a second or two.

Then Danse answered, his voice carrying a peculiar mixture of relief and something heavier.

"Understood. Recon Squad Gladius will be waiting at the airport on schedule."

"Very good. Ad Victoriam."

"Ad Victoriam."

The transmission ended.

Static returned to the speakers.

Jace turned toward the others.

"They'll be here at ten tomorrow morning."

Preston nodded, a hint of regret in his voice.

"Our preparations are basically complete. We just didn't have much time. Another couple of days would have made things perfect."

Nate straightened and rolled his neck, producing a faint crack from his joints.

"Plans never survive contact with reality. What we have is enough to handle the situation."

Josie frowned slightly.

"Isn't secretly listening in and plotting against them going a little too far?"

Sturges immediately reassured her.

"Don't worry. I built this bug from modified Synth components and copied the Institute's technical style exactly. Even if the Brotherhood finds it, they'll blame the Institute. There's no way they'll trace it back to us."

Only then did Josie relax.

Jace clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.

"All right. Time to get ready for the welcome."

He turned toward the enormous map of the Commonwealth.

Four factions were marked across it.

The Institute, hidden beneath the ruins of C.I.T.

The Enclave, entrenched deep within the Glowing Sea.

The Brotherhood of Steel, approaching through the western night sky.

And the Minutemen.

Four factions, all crowded into this one small corner of the Commonwealth.

Jace looked at the differently colored markers for a moment before speaking slowly.

"I hope Maxson enjoys the welcome we've prepared for him tomorrow."