Fallout - Chapter 100: The Treaty of Olympus (Patreon)

After touring the Prydwen, Jace did not immediately disembark.

He stood in a passageway on the airship's main deck, with quite a few Brotherhood members still nearby. Several Scribes and senior Knights were sorting equipment not far away, occasionally glancing at the group of "visitors" from the Wasteland.

Jace seized the opportunity.

He turned toward Maxson and spoke at just the right volume for every Brotherhood member nearby to hear clearly.

"Elder Maxson, I formally invite you to visit the Minutemen's robot factory."

His tone was calm, carrying just the right amount of confidence and pride.

"It may not compare to your airship, but I think you'll find it interesting."

The moment he finished speaking, nearly every Brotherhood member nearby stopped what they were doing.

Several Proctors exchanged surprised looks.

Maxson's brow shifted slightly.

He knew exactly what Jace was doing.

This was not merely a polite invitation.

Jace was helping him.

During their private conversation earlier, Jace had already laid Maxson's predicament bare. Protector Casdin had hollowed out his authority in the Capital Wasteland, leaving him without either reputation or real power, forcing him to come to the Commonwealth and build a new foundation.

Few within the Brotherhood knew the full extent of it, but several senior Proctors had at least some idea. No one dared say it openly, and many were still waiting to see how things would unfold.

Now, in front of those core members, the leader of the Minutemen was publicly inviting Maxson to visit one of their most important industrial facilities.

To everyone watching, it was a powerful gesture of trust and respect.

It told them plainly that Maxson had established himself in the Commonwealth, that the Minutemen were a reliable ally, and that this expeditionary force was not stranded without support.

That kind of public backing was invaluable for stabilizing uncertain morale.

Maxson gave Jace a long look.

He dispensed with unnecessary pleasantries and simply nodded.

"All right."

...

That evening, Maxson arrived as promised.

His entourage was small, but every person with him headed one of the Brotherhood's core departments.

Proctor Ingram of the Order of the Shield, chief engineer responsible for power armor maintenance and the operation of the Prydwen's nuclear reactor.

Proctor Teagan of the Order of the Sword, quartermaster in charge of distributing the Brotherhood's supplies.

Proctor Quinlan of the Order of the Quill, head of intelligence analysis and technology recovery, responsible for identifying and evaluating recovered pre-War technology.

And finally, an old acquaintance.

Paladin Danse.

The group met Jace outside the Rock Sales and Service Center in East Boston.

Teagan looked up at the dilapidated old building, obvious skepticism in his voice.

"Here?"

"This is the place."

Jace pushed open a rusted fire door, revealing a gentle ramp leading down toward an underground parking area.

He walked to the wall and pressed a concealed switch.

A low mechanical rumble came from deep inside.

The heavy false wall slowly slid apart, revealing a broad freight ramp descending underground.

"Follow me."

The group entered the first underground level.

Both sides of the passageway were covered with silver-gray protective metal panels. The floor was clean, orderly, and made from non-slip alloy grating.

"This was originally a pre-War underground military shelter," Jace explained as they walked. "We renovated and modified what was already here."

Past the first airlock was a roughly ten-meter-long radiation decontamination and defensive corridor.

Laser emitters lined both walls, red beams crisscrossing into a dense net.

Concealed automated turrets in the ceiling slowly tracked across the corridor, ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble.

"This is our first-level security system," Jace said evenly.

"Without an authorization code, or if someone tries to force their way through, the entire defensive system activates immediately."

Teagan silently pulled out a data pad and began taking notes.

Quinlan crouched to examine the plate on one of the laser emitters.

"RobCo Industrial Security RL-3."

He adjusted his glasses, sounding impressed.

"Rare to see original equipment still functioning."

Beyond the defensive corridor, the space opened dramatically.

This was the robot storage area.

The underground chamber was nearly half the size of a football field and packed with completed robots.

Protectrons.

Mr. Handys.

Eyebots.

Every unit was secured to a charging station. In the dim space, green indicator lights blinked steadily, showing that all systems remained in stable standby.

"These are reserve units," Jace explained.

"The maintenance corridor and repair workshop are on the right. Routine servicing, repairs, and model modifications are all handled there."

Between the shelving rows, several technicians in gray uniforms were carefully inspecting the leg joints of a combat robot.

The group continued downward to the second level, the factory's operational core.

The entire floor was divided into three clearly defined sections.

First came the facilities wing.

Dispatch offices, equipment maintenance areas, and the central ventilation control room lined the long corridor.

Several pre-War terminals inside the offices were still running, their screens continuously updating with surveillance footage from throughout the factory, energy consumption data, and equipment status reports.

A large structural diagram of the facility hung on one wall, with different colors marking the function, designation, and access level of each section.

"This is the factory's central dispatch hub. Production, maintenance, security, ventilation. Everything is coordinated from here."

The equipment maintenance area made even the usually composed Ingram stop walking.

Rows of specialized tool racks, complete sets of precision maintenance equipment, and neatly categorized pipes and mechanical spare parts filled the space.

The organization and professionalism were on par with the engineering bays aboard the Prydwen.

"How many dedicated maintenance personnel do you have?" Ingram asked.

"Thirty full-time technicians. Including recruits rotating through technical training, we usually have around sixty people available for technical work."

Ingram fell silent.

The group stepped onto an elevated maintenance walkway six meters above the production floor.

From there, they had an unobstructed view of the entire manufacturing area below.

The production wing.

The heart of the factory.

A complete robot assembly line stretched across the workshop.

A conveyor ran from one end to the other, flanked by neatly arranged robotic arms, welding equipment, and assembly fixtures.

The beginning of the line connected directly to the parts warehouse.

Behind sliding doors, row after row of shelves held robot components, ammunition crates, and fusion cores.

At the other end was the quality-control section, equipped with finished-unit testing platforms, calibration equipment, and an engineer's terminal used to record each robot's factory specifications.

At that moment, the production line was manufacturing Minutemen Tankbots.

The same machines that had left such an impression on the Brotherhood Knights at the airport.

A half-finished robot frame was secured to the conveyor while several mechanical arms worked on it at once, welding and laying wiring.

Sparks flew.

The joint motors produced a steady rhythmic hum.

Teagan stood on the elevated walkway, staring down at the assembly line.

Then he lowered his head and wrote four words heavily on his data pad.

"Production capacity is sufficient."

Finally came the research wing.

The dormitories were neat and orderly, with dozens of barracks filled with identical rows of bunk beds.

Duty rosters and technical training schedules hung on the walls, making it obvious that the Minutemen had established a regular system of technical education and assessment.

Nearby stood a lecture hall that could seat fifty people.

Several unfinished equations were still written across the blackboard.

What interested the Proctors most, however, was the integrated workshop farther inside.

Robot workbenches.

Power armor stations.

Weapon and armor repair benches.

Everything was there.

Quinlan walked over to a disassembled T-60 suit and examined the exposed servo motors and hydraulic lines.

"You can repair power armor independently?"

"Routine maintenance and modifications aren't a problem," Jace answered honestly.

"But for the core power armor frame itself, we still have to rely on salvaged units."

Quinlan nodded, his expression growing more serious.

At the far end of the workshop was the advanced R&D laboratory.

A large holographic projector stood in the center, surrounded by data-analysis terminals.

A whiteboard on the wall was covered in complex design sketches that appeared to depict the joint structure of a power armor suit.

"This is our R&D center," Jace explained.

He did not mention the specific projects underway, such as improvements to the Type 92 Powered Suit or the Union power armor.

Even without those details, what they had already seen was enough to force the Proctors to reassess the Minutemen's technical capabilities.

Finally, the group reached the third level.

The factory's central command hub.

At the heart of the circular control room stood a massive holographic projector.

It currently displayed a complete map of the Commonwealth, clearly showing the Minutemen's territory, settlement distribution, and the status of their various outposts.

Independent terminals around the room controlled the factory's electrical grid, ventilation, production lines, security, storage, and other systems.

"This room controls every major system in the factory. It can also function directly as a tactical command center for operations across the Commonwealth."

Jace casually tapped a terminal.

The holographic display immediately changed to a three-dimensional model of the factory.

All three levels, every functional zone, every corridor and access route were clearly labeled.

Quinlan stared at the holographic system in surprise.

"A pre-War military tactical holographic system? Most units of this model were destroyed after the war."

"Good eye. Very few survived, but every once in a while you find something that got lucky."

Quinlan said nothing more.

...

Once the tour was over, Maxson stopped Jace before he could leave.

"General Jace," he said quietly, but still loud enough for everyone present to hear, "there's something I need to say."

Jace looked at him and nodded.

He had the Minutemen personnel leave the control room, leaving only himself, Maxson, the three Proctors, and Danse.

The heavy door slowly closed, shutting out all sound from outside.

Maxson remained silent for several seconds before speaking.

"This expedition to the Commonwealth was not my decision."

The three Proctors froze, stunned.

Teagan immediately spoke up.

"Elder!"

"Let me finish."

Maxson's voice was steady, but Jace could hear the exhaustion beneath it.

"Casdin forced me out."

The moment that name was spoken, the atmosphere in the room changed.

Casdin.

One of the veteran leaders of the Brotherhood's eastern forces.

A man who had always opposed Elder Lyons's humanitarian approach and stubbornly clung to the old Brotherhood doctrine of technological supremacy and acquisition by force.

"I made a serious mistake," Maxson said quietly.

"To reunify the Brotherhood and end the factional split, I accepted the Brotherhood Outcasts back into the fold."

"And to appease them and preserve the appearance of unity, I elevated Casdin into the Elder Council and allowed them to discredit Elder Lyons's ideals and reputation."

His hand slowly clenched into a fist.

His voice carried both bitterness and regret.

"I destroyed everything Elder Lyons left behind with my own hands."

Everyone in the room fell silent.

Teagan's frown deepened.

Ingram remained expressionless, but her fingers tightened unconsciously.

Quinlan lowered his head, lost in thought.

"The Capital Wasteland is a powder keg now," Maxson continued.

"Casdin keeps consolidating power and building his strength. Civil war could break out at any moment."

He looked at the Proctors in front of him.

"I am Elder Lyons's adopted son. I cannot stand by and let the Brotherhood tear itself apart."

"The entire Capital Wasteland would pay the price. The innocent people. The people who trusted us. The settlements that have only just begun to live in peace."

The room remained quiet.

Teagan's lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself.

"I had to leave the Capital Wasteland," Maxson said, his voice dropping lower. "I had to leave the capital I helped build. I had to leave the place where the late Elder lies buried."

His voice grew hoarse.

"Do you think that means I'm overwhelmed with grief right now? That I'm filled with regrets I can't even put into words?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"What I find hardest to bear is this."

"When I die, I may not even have a place to be buried."

The words hit everyone in the room like a hammer.

Teagan's expression changed.

He had spent half his life handling logistics and knew the Brotherhood's supply situation better than almost anyone.

The destroyed armory.

Casdin's constant pressure.

All those scattered signs had already suggested something was wrong.

But hearing Maxson say it aloud was different.

Ingram lowered her head without speaking.

Quinlan removed his glasses, wiped them with the edge of his clothing, then put them back on.

His expression remained calm, but something in his eyes had changed.

Danse stood in the corner.

His feelings were the most complicated of all.

First came shock.

He had never expected Maxson to admit any of this in front of them.

Then came respect.

Leaving voluntarily for the sake of the civilians of the Capital Wasteland did, in some ways, resemble the Elder Lyons he remembered.

Then came the faintest trace of bitterness.

You regret it now? Where was this realization before?

The thought passed quickly.

Danse suppressed it.

He simply stood there, neither approving nor condemning.

After a brief silence, Maxson spoke again.

"I've reached an understanding with General Jace."

"The Minutemen are willing to support us, and we will provide equal support and cooperate with them in return."

Quinlan adjusted his glasses.

"I have no objection. The Brotherhood should make use of outside forces when necessary. As long as our objectives align, using every available resource to reduce our own casualties serves the Brotherhood's interests."

Ingram answered firmly.

"I'll follow the Elder's orders."

Teagan let out a long breath, his tone unusually relaxed.

"I certainly don't have anything to complain about. Someone might finally help me solve our logistics problem."

It was the first lighthearted remark anyone had made during the entire conversation.

Teagan handled the Brotherhood's supplies.

His "logistics nightmare" was something everyone inside the Brotherhood knew about.

...

Two days later.

Bunker Hill.

There was no grand ceremony and no elaborate spectacle.

Only a simple wooden table and the constant noise of the busy market drifting in through the windows.

Jace and Maxson sat across from one another.

Both sides had repeatedly reviewed the treaty's contents until a final version was agreed upon.

The core provisions of the Treaty of Olympus were as follows:

First, the Brotherhood of Steel formally recognized the Minutemen as a legitimate independent power. The Brotherhood would not interfere in the Minutemen's internal governance or forcibly impose Brotherhood doctrine and regulations within territory under Minutemen control.

Second, both sides would establish a comprehensive strategic partnership. The Minutemen would provide the Brotherhood with military components, industrial raw materials, and comprehensive logistical support.

Third, the Brotherhood would open selected technical resources to the Minutemen, including energy weapon technology, biological sample data, and pre-War technological documents. The exact scope of cooperation would be determined by the technical teams of both sides.

Fourth, both sides entered into a permanent non-aggression agreement. Neither would initiate attacks against the other's personnel or facilities. All disputes would first be addressed through negotiation, with every effort made to prevent military escalation.

Fifth, the treaty would take effect immediately upon signature and remain valid indefinitely.

Maxson signed first.

Jace followed, adding his own signature.

Both men set down their pens, exchanged a glance, and firmly clasped hands.

Piper immediately raised her camera.

Click.

A black-and-white photograph captured the moment.

Piper later published the image in Publick Occurrences.

She considered several different headlines and rejected all of them.

In the end, she took Jace's suggestion.

The Double-Headed Eagle.

The photograph of the handshake occupied the most prominent position on the page.

Jace wore his Minutemen General's uniform, a simple, practical gray-blue coat without unnecessary decoration.

Maxson wore his signature heavy dark-brown leather coat, its white fur collar resting across his shoulders.

Their hands met firmly at the center of the image.

According to the story, Mayor Kessler bought ten copies of the newspaper the moment she saw it.

Later, through her connections, she paid Piper a substantial number of caps for the original negative.

Kessler had the photograph framed and hung in the most prominent location in Bunker Hill.

Over the following decades, Bunker Hill's leadership changed generation after generation.

But the photograph was never taken down.

It represented the most important turning point in Bunker Hill's postwar history.

A neutral town had become the site where two major powers signed a treaty.

Every generation of Bunker Hill residents and officials proudly told visitors,

"See? The Treaty of Olympus was signed right here."

That one fact transformed Bunker Hill into the preferred signing location for major cooperative treaties throughout the Commonwealth.

It became a landmark of peace and cooperation recognized across the Wasteland.

As for where the treaty's name came from, Piper once asked Jace directly.

His answer was simple.

"No special reason. I just liked it."