Fallout - Chapter 113: Undercurrents (Patreon)

The discussion in the workshop continued.

Jace stood before Desdemona, pulled the towel from around his neck, and casually wiped the oil from his palms.

Desdemona tore her gaze away from the hoverbike and looked at Jace.

She drew a deep breath, as though taking in all the pressure, struggle, and uncertainty of the past several years before slowly letting it all out.

“General, we’re honored to join the Minutemen.”

There were no grand declarations of loyalty or unnecessary embellishments. Just a simple statement. But behind those words lay the end of more than a decade of upheaval and wandering for The Railroad.

...

At almost the same moment, deep underground two hundred kilometers away.

The Institute.

This underground fortress, built from tens of millions of tons of steel and concrete, maintained constant temperature and humidity year-round. Its lights never went out, completely insulating it from the desolation and chaos of the Wasteland above.

Justin, head of the Synth Retention Bureau, stood ramrod straight in Shaun’s office.

His back was rigid. A fine layer of cold sweat had formed across his forehead, trickling down his temples and onto his collar, leaving a small dark stain.

Shaun sat behind his desk, hands clasped on the surface before him.

The desk lamp cast a soft, warm white glow, illuminating one half of his face while leaving the other in shadow. His eyes were hidden in the darkness, revealing nothing.

“The operation failed.”

No questions. No excuses.

Justin had rehearsed those words countless times in his head, carefully considering every word and adjusting his tone until he was certain there was nothing wrong with them. Only then had he dared to speak.

Shaun gave no response.

The few seconds of silence seemed to stretch endlessly for Justin. In the quiet office, he could hear his own heartbeat with startling clarity.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like an ominous countdown.

Then Shaun finally spoke, his voice carrying an almost indifferent detachment.

“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t the first time.”

Justin froze.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then silently closed it again.

It was true.

He had overseen countless operations against The Railroad. Every one of them had been meticulously planned, the intelligence checked and rechecked, the routes mapped out with precision.

Yet the result was always more or less the same.

Every time, the Institute managed to reduce a Railroad stronghold to rubble. And every time, The Railroad somehow resurfaced, like weeds that could never be completely uprooted.

Those Railroad agents were like cockroaches in the Wasteland. You never knew what crack they were hiding in or when they would crawl out again.

More baffling still, in recent years The Railroad’s success rate at rescuing Synths and evading Courser hunts had risen to an absurd level, far beyond what the Institute could tolerate.

It wasn’t because The Railroad itself had become stronger.

It was because they always seemed to know what the Institute was going to do before it happened.

Justin couldn’t help recalling the raid from the previous year.

They had surrounded and attacked Railroad HQ beneath the Slocum’s Joe in Lexington. In its central control room, they had discovered records concerning a special Assaultron.

P.A.M. Predictive Analytic Machine.

It was the ultimate strategic simulation system developed before the War by the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency, which had poured an astronomical amount of funding into the project and assembled some of the finest mathematicians, logicians, and computer experts of the era. It had taken years to complete.

Before the Institute launched its raid, The Railroad had quietly transferred the machine elsewhere. When Justin and his team stormed the control room, all they found were its records.

After reviewing those files, the Institute’s leadership unanimously concluded that P.A.M. had been little more than a cash-grabbing gimmick dreamed up by the pre-War military-industrial complex.

Before the War, the Pentagon handed out tens of billions of dollars every year to countless projects like this. They looked cutting-edge on paper, but in reality were little more than high-tech junk designed to milk government budgets with impressive-looking data.

According to the records, in 2077 P.A.M. predicted that full-scale nuclear war would break out on November 23.

The U.S. government used that prediction as the basis for its entire emergency preparedness plan. Personnel evacuation, supply stockpiles, relocation of critical institutions. Everything was arranged around the expected doomsday date in November.

But the Great War actually erupted on October 23.

A full month early.

That single month of error was enough to wipe out the once-powerful U.S. government in one blow. The evacuation plans, supply stockpiles, and relocation routes designed around the November deadline all became worthless scraps of paper.

A cutting-edge system built at enormous expense had failed to predict even the most important detail: when the disaster would happen.

That was why the Institute had never cared much about P.A.M.

If they could recover it, good.

If they couldn’t, it hardly mattered.

Shaun’s voice pulled Justin back to reality.

“How is the contingency plan progressing?”

Justin immediately snapped back to attention. For the first time, a trace of relief entered his voice.

“Very smoothly. M7-91 has successfully infiltrated the Minutemen base.”

“He disguised himself as a Railroad agent and slipped in with the evacuation group. No one suspected a thing.”

Shaun gave a slight nod and tapped one finger against the desk, producing a crisp sound.

“What about M7-67?”

“Stable. His cover remains flawless, with no abnormalities. M7-91 is preparing to make contact with him.”

Shaun leaned back in his chair, his gaze settling vaguely somewhere in the air. He seemed deep in thought, yet at the same time almost completely absent-minded.

“Tell them not to make any rash moves.”

Justin raised his head slightly, confusion crossing his face.

“Have M7-91 first get a complete picture of the base. Every piece of critical intelligence must be verified before they proceed with the next stage.”

“Understood.”

Justin acknowledged the order and turned to leave.

His steps were lighter than when he had entered, but his back remained perfectly straight. In Shaun’s presence, he didn’t dare relax for even a moment.

The corridor outside remained evenly illuminated, while the ventilation system produced its constant low hum, the Institute’s eternal background noise.

Justin stood outside the office and released a long breath.

M7-91 had only just gone undercover, while M7-67 had been embedded in enemy territory for quite some time.

As long as neither of them made a mistake, the Minutemen’s seemingly impregnable underground base would eventually fall into the Institute’s hands.

After gathering his thoughts, he headed back toward the Synth Retention Bureau.

His shoes struck the alloy floor with crisp clicks that echoed through the empty corridor.

...

At the same time, on the surface, inside the Minutemen’s underground base.

A lone figure stood quietly in a corridor off the main hall.

He raised his head slightly and surveyed the enormous underground fortress before him. Light streamed down from overhead, casting alternating bands of brightness and shadow across his face.

To everyone else, he was simply an ordinary Railroad agent.

His records, identity, and personal history had all been meticulously crafted. Every detail could withstand the strictest scrutiny.

No one knew his true identity.

He was an infiltrator sent by the Institute.

M7-91.

He had thought he was mentally prepared for everything, but when he saw the full scale of the Minutemen base with his own eyes, a chill still shot from the base of his spine to the top of his head.

A facility of this scale and sophistication had no business existing in the Wasteland.

Rows of automated production lines stood in perfect order. Mechanical arms precisely grasped, assembled, and welded components, operating day after day without interruption, their movements so smooth they resembled intricate works of art.

Large numbers of combat robots stood neatly along the walls. Sentry bots, Protectrons, and all kinds of modified models were present.

Red optical lenses gleamed faintly beneath the lights. Their armored shells reflected a cold metallic sheen, and some still bore fresh signs of battle: bullet marks, scratches, and blackened scorch marks.

They looked like a pack of sleeping predators waiting to be awakened.

Hidden turrets and sensor arrays were concealed throughout corridor corners, entrances, and recesses in the ceiling. Their camouflage was so effective that without professional reconnaissance training, M7-91 would never have noticed the deadly firing positions.

The barrels of the turrets shifted slightly in the shadows, as though silently examining every person who passed beneath them.

M7-91 swallowed as he assessed the situation.

Even if the Institute committed everything it had, it still wouldn’t be able to crack this fortress.

No matter how many second-generation Synths they sent in, they would only be throwing their lives away.

Even an elite Courser unit would be torn apart by the dense automated fire inside the moment it broke through the outer defenses.

He suppressed his shock, composed himself, and slipped completely back into his cover as an ordinary Railroad agent.

His expression became natural.

His gaze turned casual.

His steps relaxed.

His first priority now was finding the other infiltrator.

M7-67.

He passed several Railroad technicians gathered around the production lines and turned into a corridor leading toward the logistics area. Smooth alloy walls were lined with bright strips of lighting, almost painfully dazzling.

Halfway down the corridor, someone approached from the opposite direction.

The man held a data pad in one hand, entering information as he walked, while several reports were tucked beneath his other arm. The pale blue glow of the screen illuminated his face, making him look even more tired than he actually was.

As he walked, he muttered under his breath. His voice was quiet, but the corridor was silent enough for every word to carry.

“Have those people from the Brotherhood of Steel never eaten eggs before? We’re out of eggs again...”

He sighed helplessly, pulled out a pen, and scribbled a note on one of the reports.

“Looks like I’ll have to make another trip to Far Harbor for supplies. Might as well stock up on some Vim! while I’m there.”

Then he lowered his head and resumed checking the data as he headed toward the warehouse, walking quickly as though pressed for time.

Jace had deliberately placed him in charge of logistics precisely because he was a spy.

That way, assigning armed men to watch him work and keep him from stealing anything was perfectly reasonable. It also prevented people from getting too familiar with him and casually helping themselves to supplies under the excuse that “we’re all brothers here.”

M7-91 recognized him immediately.

M7-67.

Saifu.

M7-91 took a deep breath and walked toward him. Deliberately slowing his pace, he spoke in a casual, conversational tone.

“Do you have any Fancy Lads Snack Cakes?”

Saifu’s writing hand paused almost imperceptibly.

The hesitation lasted less than a second, too subtle for an ordinary person to notice. If M7-91 hadn’t received professional training, he wouldn’t have caught it either.

The next moment, Saifu looked up, wearing exactly the right mixture of confusion and puzzlement.

“...You want Fancy Lads Snack Cakes?”

M7-91 looked directly into his eyes and delivered the second half of the recognition phrase.

“Yeah. We all love them.”

It was a code phrase used exclusively among the Institute’s Synths.

The Institute had repeatedly studied a peculiar phenomenon involving Fancy Lads Snack Cakes.

These cheap, excessively sweet cream-filled cakes brought Synths a brief but pure sense of pleasure. Nearly every third-generation Synth seemed to share the same preference.

The Institute’s researchers had proposed theory after theory.

Some believed a component in the cream interacted with Synth neurotransmitters.

Others argued that the sweetness stimulated their reward circuits.

But no convincing scientific explanation had ever been found.

In the end, they could only classify it as an inexplicable instinctive trait.

Saifu immediately understood the meaning behind the code.

The two stared silently at each other for two seconds.

Saifu’s outward expression remained unchanged, but something in his eyes shifted.

He lowered the data pad, quickly glanced left and right to make sure no one in the corridor was paying attention, then spoke.

“That storage room over there is empty. Let’s talk inside.”

He turned and walked toward it first, his movements calm and natural, looking exactly like an ordinary logistics worker making a routine inspection.

The reports were still in his hand, and the data pad was tucked beneath his arm.

Nothing looked unusual.

M7-91 followed silently.

He kept his pace measured and maintained just the right distance from Saifu. Not far enough to look deliberate, but not close enough to attract attention.

The two entered the storage room one after the other.

The door closed softly behind them, shutting out every sound from the corridor.

The lazy, casual expression vanished from Saifu’s face, replaced by tense, cautious seriousness.

“What instructions does Father have?”

M7-91 didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he reached into an inner pocket and removed a metal disc roughly the size of his fist.

Its surface was covered in intricate patterns. The red indicator light at its center was dark, and the device had the cold, precise appearance characteristic of Institute technology.

An Institute teleportation beacon.

M7-91 lowered his voice.

“Mission objective: locate and disable the base’s signal jamming array, then activate this beacon. The Institute’s main force can use it for pinpoint teleportation directly into the base. Once they’re inside, they can seize the Minutemen’s factory in one strike.”

Saifu stared at the beacon, his eyes immediately lighting up.

“Excellent! The main force is finally coming.”

His voice trembled with barely restrained emotion, like someone who had spent too long waiting in darkness and had finally caught sight of light.

Watching the genuine enthusiasm on Saifu’s face, M7-91 couldn’t help feeling slightly moved.

Living undercover in enemy territory meant facing the threat of exposure every single day.

Stay in an environment like that long enough and many people would begin to waver or doubt themselves.

The fact that Saifu had managed to maintain such loyalty and enthusiasm toward the Institute all this time was genuinely impressive.

M7-91 patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t rush. We do this carefully. First, we map out the entire base and pinpoint the command center, armory, and jamming array. Once we’ve gathered and verified all the intelligence, then we make our move.”

Saifu nodded vigorously, the exaggerated motion seeming to emphasize his determination.

Seeing his reaction, M7-91 immediately made him a promise.

“When this mission is over, I’ll personally recommend you to the Minister for promotion to Courser.”

Then something occurred to him, and he casually joked,

“By the way, I heard M7-62, McDonough, has been applying for a transfer into the Courser unit too?”

He gave a disdainful snort, his voice full of mockery.

“He’s old and fat, and he thinks he deserves a promotion just because he has seniority and has spent years stationed on the surface? With that body, he couldn’t even fit into a Courser uniform.”

Saifu smiled along with him, appearing to share exactly the same opinion.

Inside, however, he couldn’t help thinking that his fellow Synth was beyond saving.

He had actually managed to develop a sense of superiority over being someone else’s lackey.

Still...

His timing couldn’t have been better.

The tension that had been stretched taut inside Saifu finally eased a little.

No one knew how miserable his life had been lately.

Jezebel, inside the brain-computer matrix, had been eyeing his third-generation Synth body for far too long.

That deranged electronic brain was constantly waiting for him to make a mistake.

To take over his body, Jezebel had even prepared an entire modification plan in advance, including cosmetic surgery and gender reassignment procedures.

She had also gone out of her way to curry favor with Isabel, waiting for the right opportunity.

All Saifu had to do was show the slightest weakness.

Even a single second in which someone suspected him of disloyalty would be enough.

Jezebel would immediately persuade Isabel to connect her electronic brain to his nervous system, erase his consciousness completely, and seize his body for herself.

Every day felt like walking on thin ice.

It had left him exhausted in both body and mind.

Every time he entered the brain-control array room, he could feel Jezebel watching him.

That electronic brain floating inside a glass tank of nutrient solution would lock its sensors onto him, studying him like a prize it expected to claim at any moment.

On countless late nights, he could hear the faint electrical hum from the remote monitoring array.

It was like a constant reminder.

Your body.

Your life.

Either could be taken from you at any moment.

And now...

Another Synth infiltrator had finally arrived.

At last, Saifu could see a way out.

He looked at M7-91 standing before him, his face full of enthusiasm and unwavering loyalty.

Saifu’s smile never changed.

But inside, he whispered silently,

“Sorry, brother.”

“But you arrived at exactly the right time.”