Fallout - Chapter 139: All Systems Go (Patreon)

The Commonwealth. Banks of the Charles River.

Forty meters beneath this spot lay one of the Commonwealth's pre-War public works projects, the Boston sewer system.

It was built to last.

The Boston sewer system had been designed from the beginning to survive a nuclear strike. Its walls were poured from the highest grade of pre-War reinforced concrete and were more than two meters thick.

Three interwoven layers of steel reinforcement ran through them like bones, locked together in overlapping grids.

It was also deep enough.

Forty meters of rock and soil could block most threats.

Radiation and bitter cold stopped here. The deadly radiation from the surface was weakened layer by layer by the thick earth until only harmless traces remained. Even the freezing temperatures of a nuclear winter couldn't penetrate this far underground.

No matter how violent things became on the surface, this place remained unmoved.

It had effectively been a ready-made nuclear shelter. If the U.S. government of the time had been even slightly more competent, it could have saved countless lives.

Yet the tunnels remained as silent as a tomb.

Even the dust had long since settled.

Most of the people who fled into the sewers after the bombs fell died from radiation levels that were hardly any lower than those aboveground. Their deaths also created enormous numbers of feral ghouls.

Even after two hundred years, the ghouls' sheer numbers allowed them to dominate the sewer system, despite it being an environment where mirelurks should have held the advantage.

When pre-War municipal engineers designed this system, they had accounted for war, floods, and earthquakes.

Most of the sewer network remained intact even after the nuclear strikes. There wasn't a single crack in the walls, the structure hadn't shifted, and the ventilation, drainage, and emergency lighting systems all continued operating within their intended redundancies.

The one thing they hadn't accounted for was pollution created by their own people.

Mass Fusion was a perfect example.

On the surface, the company proudly championed nuclear fusion and claimed it was creating a clean, limitless future for humanity.

Behind the scenes, however, it generated enormous quantities of nuclear fission waste and had spent years secretly dumping it through the sewer system into Lake Quannapowitt.

And the sewer system's maintenance zones had lain silent beneath the Commonwealth for two hundred years.

Until today.

Inside one of those maintenance areas, the lighting was dim. Only a handful of emergency lamps remained, casting weak yellow light across the walls.

Suddenly, a circular opening nearly two meters wide appeared in the center of one wall.

Three thermobaric bombs arranged in a triangle detonated simultaneously.

Directed thermal energy punched through the entire wall in an instant.

The wall melted open.

The concrete around the edges glowed dark red, its surface coated in a glassy sheen.

The steel reinforcement inside had been cleanly melted through.

The air filled with scorching heat and the choking smell of ozone mixed with burnt iron, sharp enough to sting the nose.

A figure stepped through.

Danse.

His T-51 power armor was no longer gleaming. Every armor plate was smeared with dark red and black-brown blood.

Danse had led the squad deep beneath the Commonwealth through the drainage system, encountering large groups of feral ghouls throughout the sewers.

They had howled through the narrow tunnels, dragging their rotting bodies toward light and living flesh, their nails scraping against the walls and floor with a piercing shriek.

Three hours of nonstop shooting, close combat, and steady advance.

Every side passage could produce another wave of enemies.

Every straight stretch of tunnel became a slaughterhouse.

Even through his helmet, Danse could faintly smell rotting flesh, rust, and damp mold.

He ignored it.

Instead, he opened a complete pre-War municipal blueprint of the sewer system, displaying their current location alongside every known underground structure.

The coordinates matched.

This was the Institute reactor's discharge outlet.

Before the war, those scholars who claimed to be "responsible for the continuation of humanity" had secretly intercepted part of the city's main sewer line underground and quietly dumped radioactive coolant into the city's infrastructure.

No permits.

No public notice.

Just like the way they quietly abducted people from the surface after the war.

"Hold position. Take a short break here."

Danse's voice came through his helmet, slightly lower than usual.

Several fresh gouges across his left shoulder plate still gave off a faint green glow.

They had been left during the last encounter, when a Glowing One had lunged at him from the side and torn through the armor's outer coating.

The squad immediately began tending to their power armor.

Dried blood was scraped away piece by piece.

Any seams that might have been damaged were sealed with strips of sealant.

They all understood what was at stake.

Radiation levels throughout the area were far above safe limits. If radioactive wastewater leaked inside the armor, an ordinary person's skin could ulcerate and necrotize within hours.

Once the exterior was cleaned and the armor's seals were confirmed intact, Kyle took a drink through the hydration line built into his helmet.

As he drank, he glanced toward a Minutemen veteran nearby.

The man was carefully wiping dark red stains from his knee joint with a scrap of cloth, moving as though he were polishing something valuable.

"You don't have mirelurks in your sewers around here?" Kyle asked.

The veteran thought for a moment without stopping what he was doing.

"We do, just not many. They only stay in the shallow tunnels connected to rivers and lakes."

He continued wiping.

"Go any deeper and it's all feral ghoul territory. The mirelurks don't dare come down here. Different where you're from?"

Kyle shook his head.

"The sewers in the Capital Wasteland are crawling with mirelurks, especially beneath the National Mall. There are so many they come at you like a tide."

"Back in the Capital Wasteland, Elder Maxson sent people in every month to clear them out, but it never did much good. A female can bury dozens of eggs at a time. You just can't wipe them all out."

The veteran stopped wiping and looked at Kyle.

"So you guys must eat meat every day."

Kyle gave a bitter smile.

"It tastes all right, but there's almost no fat in it. Eat too much and you start feeling hollow inside. Weak, too."

The veteran folded the scrap of cloth away.

"Still, I never thought the Brotherhood would come crawling through sewers with us."

Kyle paused.

"It's Elder Maxson's order."

"I know it's an order."

The veteran glanced at him. There was no challenge in his eyes, only straightforward curiosity.

"I'm asking whether you wanted to come."

Kyle was silent for a moment.

"If the Paladins are coming, then I'm willing to come."

The veteran didn't ask anything else.

He simply nodded and tucked the cloth back into his pouch.

Their brief conversation faded into the damp air.

Soon, the only sound was water dripping from the vaulted ceiling and striking the standing water below.

Steady.

Repetitive.

Like some ancient, tireless clock.

Once the break was over, the squad continued down the sloping passage.

The incline grew steeper.

The standing water rose from their ankles, then gradually reached their waists.

Along one side of the passage was another pipe sealed off by an iron grate.

Danse reached out and grabbed it.

The hydraulics in his power armor engaged instantly.

With raw force, he tore the entire iron gate from its mountings.

It crashed into the sewage with a heavy splash, throwing murky water everywhere.

Inside the pipe, the wastewater reached their knees and flowed at a steady pace.

The air carried the harsh smell of rust, motor oil, and chemical runoff, sharp enough to burn the nose.

Danse stepped into the sewage first.

Gray-black water splashed beneath his boots as he ducked down and led the squad into the main pipe ahead.

They continued for some distance before finally dropping from the pipe into a deeper section.

The coolant outlet for the Institute reactor's cooling system.

The walls had changed.

Danse stopped at the bottom of a sloping passage and looked up.

The light from his power armor swept across the wall.

It was no longer concrete.

It was red brick.

Mortar held the bricks together, their surfaces covered in thick, damp moss. Black deposits that had dried decades ago filled the gaps between them.

These were among the oldest sewers in the city, built in the late nineteenth century.

The newer concrete system had later been expanded around them, like a fresh shell wrapped around old bones.

The water here was faintly warm.

The heat came from the reactor coolant the Institute had been dumping here continuously for two hundred years.

The coordinates on Danse's visor kept updating.

The number beside the directional arrow continued falling.

"This is the right depth. The Institute is straight ahead."

The squad continued forward.

Danse raised one arm and clenched his fist, holding the signal for two seconds.

A soft hum followed.

The surface of his armor began to change.

A faint shimmer spread outward from the seams and covered the entire suit, blending it into the background until only the vaguest transparent outline remained.

One by one, the rest of the squad activated their stealth modules.

Soft hums sounded in succession.

Twenty suits of power armor gradually turned transparent in the dark sewer, like ghosts fading from sight.

Soon, only slow ripples spreading across the water revealed their movement, accompanied by footsteps so quiet they were nearly impossible to hear.

Helmet lamps went dark.

Their visor optics switched to enhanced night vision.

Then they spotted them.

Laser turrets.

The Institute's automated defenses had been installed throughout the sewer, one roughly every fifty meters, mounted at the highest point of the vaulted ceiling and anchored deep into the brickwork with expansion bolts.

Danse signaled for the squad to hug the wall.

Their power armor's stealth modules reduced their optical signatures to a minimum.

They nearly vanished against the bricks, leaving only faint translucent outlines moving silently through the water.

The turrets' scanning beams swept past them again and again without triggering.

Their red indicator lights continued blinking at a steady rhythm.

After moving farther ahead, another maintenance area appeared.

It was smaller than the previous one, but more sophisticated.

A heavy metal door sealed the entrance. Fresh traces of lubricant ran along its edges, clear evidence that someone had used it recently.

Through a break in the brick wall, Danse could see inside.

Two Gen 2 Synths were crouched beside a thick water pipe, using wrenches to remove its mounting bolts.

The rhythmic scrape and turn of metal carried clearly through the chamber.

Danse watched them for more than ten seconds.

Then his gaze shifted from the two Synths to the pipe they were servicing.

He turned and lowered his voice.

"This is it."

"According to our intel, this pipe will take us directly into the teleporter room on the lowest level of the Institute."

Kyle crouched behind Danse with his plasma rifle braced tightly against his shoulder plate.

The weapon gave off faint warmth.

His voice remained low, but he couldn't completely hide his impatience.

"Captain, let's hit them now."

"Not yet."

Danse looked through the break in the wall toward the pipe deeper inside the maintenance area.

"We need to wait."

Kyle frowned slightly, his finger relaxing away from the trigger guard.

"Wait for what?"

Danse kept his eyes on the entrance to the pipe.

"For the Institute's main force to leave through the teleporter."

"From this point on, maintain radio silence and hold position."

...

Beneath the C.I.T. ruins. Institute headquarters.

Shaun sat upright in a chair, a holographic projection floating before him.

In the image, a brown-haired boy of about ten chased a ball across a lawn.

He ran lightly, his face filled with a pure, carefree smile.

On a white chair beside the grass sat a woman wearing a green short-sleeved shirt.

Her hands were folded over her knees, her body leaning slightly forward as she watched the boy.

Nora.

His mother.

Ding.

The crisp notification for a private communication broke the silence.

In the quiet room, it sounded unnaturally clear, like a needle striking glass.

Shaun opened his eyes.

He gave the mother and child in the projection one final look before reaching down and pressing a button on the armrest.

The hologram disappeared.

The room returned to silence beneath its warm white lighting.

Only the low hum of the air-conditioning system remained.

The lawn.

The boy.

His mother.

All of them collapsed back into a small empty patch of air, like a dream someone had paused.

Shaun didn't lower his hand immediately.

His fingertips remained suspended above the button for roughly two seconds.

Two seconds.

For a terminally ill old man, two seconds was enough time to think about many things.

He remembered the way the boy ran.

It was exactly how Shaun himself had run through the Institute's corridors at ten years old, chasing a marble.

He remembered that his mother had never seen him run.

She had been cryogenically frozen shortly after he was born.

The thoughts rose like bubbles.

Then burst.

Shaun lowered his hand, resting his palm against the leather armrest.

It felt slightly cool.

He cleared his throat.

And became Father again.

Justin's holographic image appeared in midair.

"Father, we've secured most of the Minutemen base. The main factory, warehouses, and power station are all under our control."

He paused, apparently considering his words.

"But we don't have enough personnel to take over the factory equipment or sort through the base's records. We urgently need reinforcements."

Shaun's brow moved slightly.

"What happened to the robots at the base?"

"Most were redeployed. The Minutemen's main force probably took them outside the Commonwealth for an operation. Most of those left behind were destroyed by Nate."

Shaun sounded unsurprised.

"Good work. What about the teleporter Virgil built?"

A hint of pride entered Justin's voice, as though he had finally been given the chance to present his achievement.

"We've repaired it. Calibration is complete, and its power output is stable within normal parameters. It's operational."

"Excellent. And the Beryllium Agitator?"

Justin's holographic expression changed slightly the moment he heard the term.

"According to the surveillance feeds..."

His voice slowed.

"The Beryllium Agitator is being kept inside a secure room. Virgil is hiding there as well."

Shaun's brow moved again, more noticeably this time.

"Virgil? He's still alive?"

Justin continued more cautiously.

"The door to the secure room is made of alloy, and its security encryption is far beyond anything else in the Minutemen facility. My Coursers simply don't have the means to force their way inside."

Shaun tapped the leather armrest twice with the fingers of his right hand.

Two soft thuds.

He was silent for a moment.

"All right. I'll send over every available Gen 1 and Gen 2 Synth, along with several scientists."

The communication ended.

Justin's holographic image dispersed into the air like smoke caught by the wind.

The afterimage flickered twice beneath the lights before disappearing completely.

Shaun remained seated.

His gaze returned to the spot where the hologram had vanished.

There was nothing there.

Only air and warm white light.

Yet his eyes seemed focused somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the walls, beyond the earth, beyond time itself.

Then he stood.

He crossed to his desk, sat down, and activated the terminal.

The screen illuminated.

The Institute's real-time status filled the display.

Operational data from every division.

Energy consumption graphs.

Synth inventory.

Communication status.

Numbers and charts moved across the dark background, their cold white light reflecting against Shaun's face.

His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

For one second, he stopped.

Something suddenly felt wrong with his heartbeat.

Had the cancer gotten worse?

It seemed he didn't have much time left.

Then he continued typing.

Group all idle Gen 1 and Gen 2 Synths and assign them to the teleportation queue.

Transfer several nonessential researchers from BioScience and Advanced Systems into the support contingent.

Set destination coordinates.

Minutemen Base.

Underground robot factory.

Teleporter room.

Confirm.

The commands were issued.

Green execution notices appeared across the terminal screen, lines of confirmation scrolling upward before disappearing.

...

Aboveground at the C.I.T. ruins.

A half-collapsed main building stood at the center of the ruins.

Large sections of its concrete exterior had split open, cracks spreading upward from the foundation. At their widest points, a person could fit a fist inside.

More wreckage surrounded the main building.

Broken prefabricated classroom panels.

Wood and metal frames from library shelves.

Everything had collapsed together beneath two centuries of wind, sand, and radioactive dust, forming a silent gray ruin.

But today, the ruins were no longer silent.

A squad of Enclave soldiers in X-02 power armor had erected a dish antenna to the north, south, east, and west.

All four dishes pointed toward the C.I.T. ruins.

Their faces tilted slightly downward.

Not toward the sky.

Toward the ground.

A thick black cable ran from the base of each antenna.

All four cables converged at a central signal-processing terminal, like blood vessels feeding some enormous machine.

Directly beneath the C.I.T. ruins.

Forty meters.

Sixty.

Eighty.

One hundred and twenty.

The Institute.

The signal beams passed through layer after layer of rock, soil, and concrete, like invisible fingers reaching deep underground and touching the hidden city that had remained buried there for centuries.

...

Meanwhile, inside the Institute's wastewater network, Danse's squad waited silently in the old brick sewer.

The water continued flowing slowly around them, carrying warmth and the smell of rust.

The map on Danse's visor showed the Institute's red marker less than three hundred meters ahead.

For two hundred years, the Institute had been right beneath this place.

Now he was standing inside its drainage system, surrounded by its waste and refuse, like a visitor slipping through the back entrance of a mansion that had never opened its doors to anyone.

The entire underground network was silent and oppressive.

Like an enormous tomb sealed for centuries, waiting for the moment everything changed.