Fallout - Chapter 98: The Meeting (Patreon)

10:00 a.m.

The Prydwen officially entered the Commonwealth.

It crossed the mountain ranges from the west and continued slowly eastward. Its enormous hull cast a moving shadow over ridges, ruins, and wasteland as it advanced across the sky, slow but unstoppable.

The moment it entered Commonwealth airspace, the Prydwen's onboard broadcast system transmitted a brief message across the entire region at maximum power.

"People of the Commonwealth. Do not interfere. Our intentions are peaceful. We are the Brotherhood of Steel."

The Prydwen continued eastward, accompanied by several Vertibirds, the roar of their rotors echoing through the sky.

Across the Commonwealth, people looked up.

From the windows of ruined houses, residents pulled aside filthy curtains and squinted outside.

Along settlement walls, people rested their hands on their weapons and craned their necks to watch the enormous vessel pass overhead.

The bolder ones simply climbed onto their rooftops, shielding their eyes with their hands as they stared at the "iron birds" flying alongside the airship.

No one cheered.

No one fled.

They simply stood there with their heads tilted back, watching the massive vessel slowly carve its way across the horizon.

Overall, though, quite a few people were almost welcoming.

After all, an airship that enormous couldn't possibly have come all this way just to steal their Tatos and corn.

...

Meanwhile, on the rooftop of a high-rise west of Boston.

Jace held a pair of binoculars, tracking the enormous airship moving slowly through the distance.

Sturges stood beside him with binoculars of his own. He watched for a while, frowning, then lowered them.

"They're still using hydrogen? Don't they know what happened to the Hindenburg?"

Jackson stood on the other side and gave a dismissive laugh.

"That's just an outer shell to impress people who don't know any better. The real lift comes from the nuclear-powered system underneath. That outer gas envelope is less about buoyancy and more like an aerodynamic fairing."

Nate stood beside Jace, watching the airship in silence for a moment before speaking.

"It looks like a mobile command center combined with an aerial strike platform."

He tilted his head slightly, puzzled.

"But I don't understand why they built it like that. On a forty-thousand-ton airship, does the small amount of lift from hydrogen really matter that much?"

Preston stood at the back of the group, flipping through a file they had compiled earlier.

Without looking up, he said,

"Seems to be a Brotherhood tradition."

He turned a page.

"The records mention that the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel near Chicago originally set out in a formation of large airships. Maybe it's some kind of tradition they've carried forward."

Jace did not join the discussion.

He raised his binoculars again and carefully studied every detail of the airship until his gaze settled on the enormous white lettering along the hull.

PRYDWEN.

Prydwen, meaning "beautiful ship."

There was no mistake.

This was Maxson's personal flagship, the Prydwen.

Jace lowered the binoculars and activated the Type 92's built-in communicator.

...

Boston Airport.

Danse stood at the edge of the runway, watching the massive airship gradually descend overhead.

A Vertibird touched down nearby, kicking up a violent gust of wind. Dust and gravel flew everywhere, rattling against his power armor in a rapid series of sharp impacts.

His communicator suddenly came to life.

"Danse."

Danse immediately recognized the voice and paused.

"General?"

"I need to ask you a favor," Jace said calmly over the communicator.

"As leader of the Minutemen, I'd like to request a meeting with your senior leadership. I want to confirm the Brotherhood's intentions."

Danse was silent for a moment.

Images of the Minutemen's robots flashed through his mind.

That river of steel marching in formation outside Cambridge Police Station.

"General," Danse said quietly, "I'd advise you not to come in person."

"Why?"

"Because..." Danse carefully chose his words. "The Brotherhood today isn't nearly as compassionate or tolerant toward the people of the Wasteland as it was under Elder Lyons."

Jace's voice came through again, still calm and steady.

"A lot of conflicts can be resolved by talking. Right now, the Minutemen are the only faction in the Commonwealth with enough standing to deal with you directly."

"Besides, if negotiations really do fall apart, we're not helpless."

Danse opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, but ultimately said nothing.

After several seconds, he replied,

"Elder Maxson himself is leading this expedition."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then Jace responded thoughtfully.

"So it's Arthur Maxson. No wonder this airship bears that name."

...

On the deck of the Prydwen, the entire Brotherhood force had already assembled.

Metal power armor boots struck the deck in perfect unison, producing a heavy, rhythmic sound.

Flags snapped in the wind.

Everyone stood at attention facing the bridge, awaiting orders.

The bridge doors slowly opened.

Arthur Maxson stepped out.

He wore his signature heavy dark-brown leather coat, with an off-white fur collar draped across his shoulders. The gear-and-sword insignia on his left arm caught the sunlight.

He walked to the center of the deck, stopped, and swept his gaze across everyone assembled below.

Then he spoke.

His voice carried throughout the entire airship through the onboard broadcast system.

It was a young voice, but one filled with unquestionable authority.

"Brothers and sisters, the long road we have traveled has been filled with hardship.

"Every one of you has exceeded my expectations by reaching the Commonwealth so quickly. You knew nothing of our objective or our destination, yet you accomplished this feat. More importantly, not one of you questioned your orders.

"Now that this vessel has assumed its combat position, the time has come to reveal our purpose and our mission.

"Beneath the soil of the Commonwealth lies a cancer known as the Institute, spreading rapidly like a malignant tumor. Before this disease reaches the surface, it must be cut out.

"They are conducting dangerous scientific experiments that could bring about the second destruction of the world in modern history.

"The scientists of the Institute have created a weapon more dangerous than the atomic bomb. They call it a Synth, a mechanical abomination capable of independent thought while disguising itself as a human being.

"Giving machines free will is not merely offensive. It is dangerous.

"Like atomic energy, if such power cannot be controlled, humanity itself may face extinction.

"I will not allow the Institute to continue these experiments.

"Therefore, the Institute and its Synths are enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel. They must be destroyed swiftly and without mercy.

"This campaign will come at a terrible cost. Blood will be spilled.

"But in the end, we will save humanity from its greatest enemy.

"Humanity's own capacity for evil."

Maxson raised a clenched fist to his chest.

"Ad Victoriam!"

Every soldier raised a fist at once and shouted in unison, their voices exploding across the sky like thunder.

"Ad Victoriam!"

...

After the speech, Danse met Maxson inside a temporary command room at the airport.

He briefed the Elder on the situation in the Commonwealth, describing everything he had encountered there, the rise of the Minutemen, and finally Jace's formal request for a meeting.

"Elder," Danse said, with an unusual note of earnestness in his voice, "the General of the Minutemen is different from the other faction leaders in the Wasteland."

"He's willing to communicate. He's willing to cooperate."

"If possible, I'd ask that we avoid violence when the meeting happens."

Maxson glanced at him.

He did not answer immediately.

He simply remained silent, apparently weighing the matter.

After a long while, he finally spoke.

"There are many advantages to communicating with local powers."

The tension in Danse's chest immediately eased.

...

That afternoon.

Jace led his force to the outskirts of Boston Airport.

The Minutemen's underground base was not far from the airport. After passing through several stretches of ruins, the airport perimeter came into view.

The Prydwen hovered above the airport, held in position by a massive harpoon anchor. Its enormous hull cast a broad shadow across the ground.

Jace walked at the head of the column.

Behind him, thirty Tankbots advanced in a perfectly ordered formation. The grinding of their tracks merged into a low, rhythmic rumble.

Every robot had its weapon systems active, and their optical sensors glowed red beneath the sunlight.

Ahead of the robot formation walked several figures in T-51 power armor painted in the Minutemen's gray-blue colors.

Nate and Preston led them, followed by several veteran Minutemen.

Jace wore his matte-black Type 92 Powered Suit, standing out sharply between the gray formation of robots and the blue-painted power armor.

Elder Maxson was already waiting at the airport entrance.

He stood in the middle of the runway with a platoon of Brotherhood Knights in T-60 power armor behind him.

They stood fully armed and alert, but showed no overt aggression.

Maxson himself wore red-and-black T-60 power armor, the distinctive paint scheme reserved for an Elder.

The two forces faced each other across the runway.

On one side stood thirty Tankbots equipped with heavy weapons, silent and perfectly aligned, their barrels lowered but ready to rise at any moment.

On the other stood a platoon of elite power-armored soldiers, heavily armed and well trained, their eyes behind their visors studying the opposing force just as carefully.

Jace and Maxson stepped forward at the same time and stopped face-to-face in the middle of the runway.

Jace studied Maxson.

The red-and-black T-60 had been extensively modified. Its joint motors were noticeably quieter than those of the standard model, suggesting significant internal optimization.

Maxson studied Jace in return.

The matte-black armor did not match any known model of power armor. It was remarkably agile, yet the thickness and angles of its armor plating suggested excellent protection.

Both men reached essentially the same conclusion.

The man standing opposite him was no easy opponent.

If a fight broke out, victory would be uncertain and the cost would be far too high.

Jace extended his hand first.

Maxson took it.

"I am Arthur Maxson, Elder of the eastern branch of the Brotherhood of Steel," Maxson said, his voice deep and clear through the helmet of his power armor.

"Thank you for coming to meet me."

"I am Jace Tan, General of the Minutemen," Jace replied from behind the Type 92's visor, his voice calm and composed.

"Welcome to the Commonwealth."

They released their grip.

Then began the polite exchange of words, each carefully probing the other.

...

Meanwhile, outside the airport.

Two other factions were secretly observing the meeting.

The Enclave and the Institute had independently dispatched reconnaissance personnel, each hiding at different concealed positions and using high-powered binoculars and surveillance equipment to record every movement on the runway.

But when they saw the two leaders shaking hands and speaking calmly in the middle of the runway, both sides reached the same realization.

They weren't going to fight?

That simply wouldn't do.

The Enclave immediately began calculating.

If they could trigger a conflict now, the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel could wear each other down.

The Institute had the same idea from another direction.

If the Minutemen's leader were assassinated right now, the two sides would inevitably turn against each other.

Almost simultaneously, both factions issued orders to their snipers.

The Enclave's order:

Kill the Brotherhood Elder, Maxson.

The Institute's order:

Kill the General of the Minutemen, Jace Tan.

Two elite snipers approached from different directions, both choosing the same ideal firing position.

An elevated highway overpass crossing the city.

It offered an excellent vantage point, with an unobstructed view across the entire airport runway and plenty of cover for withdrawing after the shot.

The Enclave scout arrived first.

With a large-caliber sniper rifle strapped across his back, he crawled through the shadows of the overpass until he found a position with a clear line of sight.

He began setting up his rifle.

Then he heard footsteps behind him.

He spun around.

Another figure was climbing onto the overpass from the opposite side.

The newcomer wore a black trench coat and carried a custom large-caliber sniper rifle of his own.

An Institute Courser.

Their eyes met.

Both froze.

Their hands moved toward the weapons at their waists at exactly the same time.

The bridge fell into a tense standoff.

"Institute?" the Enclave scout asked quietly.

"Enclave?" the Courser replied in an equally low voice.

They stared at each other for several seconds.

Neither moved.

Then, almost in perfect sync, they activated their communicators and quietly reported the situation to their respective superiors.

The responses from both sides were surprisingly identical.

Ignore the other party.

Complete the assassination mission first.

The two disconnected, exchanged a glance, and reached an unspoken agreement.

Temporary truce.

Each would handle his own target.

They moved to opposite ends of the overpass, established their firing positions, adjusted their scopes, and began searching for their respective targets.

Then a gust of wind swept across the bridge.

An empty cardboard box lying near the roadside was lifted into the air, tumbled several times, and landed gently in the middle of the roadway.

Both snipers glanced toward it.

Just an ordinary empty cardboard box.

Nothing unusual.

They looked at each other.

The Enclave scout frowned.

"Why'd you bring a cardboard box up here?"

The Institute Courser froze.

"Wasn't that yours?"

Both men went still.

Neither of them had brought the box.

Then how had it gotten there?

They realized the answer almost simultaneously.

Both turned, trying to dive for cover.

Too late.

Two nearly simultaneous gunshots cracked across the overpass.

The shots echoed across the empty bridge for a moment before fading into the wind.

Silence returned.

A few seconds later, a figure in a green Type 92 Powered Suit materialized from thin air.

Jake Finch.

He walked over to the two bodies and crouched to inspect them.

Both shots had struck the head.

Clean.

Precise.

One shot, one kill.

Satisfied, he activated his communicator.

"Sir, there were two rats on the overpass. Both have been dealt with."

"Copy that. Keep watching."

"Understood."

Jake stood and glanced at the two sniper rifles, then at the bodies.

It was exactly as the General had planned the night before.

Every elevated position around the airport that offered a sniper a clear shot at the runway had been occupied in advance.

He reactivated his cloaking device.

His figure vanished into the shadows of the overpass as though he had never been there.

...

At the Enclave base.

A communications soldier hurried toward the colonel, who was standing in front of a map deep in thought.

"Sir. The scout we sent to the airport has been killed."

The colonel's expression darkened.

"Damn it. That Institute Courser must have done it."

...

Inside the Institute Directorate Chamber.

A communications officer lowered his headset and looked gravely toward the minister beside him.

"Minister, the Courser assigned to the assassination mission has gone silent."

The minister slammed a hand onto the table.

"Damn it. That Enclave scout must be behind this."