Fallout - Chapter 140: The Energy Conservation Order and the Laser Excavator (Patreon)

The Institute. Lounge Area.

The Institute's BioScience Department was located on the western side of the atrium.

Starting from the central fountain and following the green floor markings for about two minutes, past rows of transparent cultivation chambers, would bring you to the entrance of the lounge.

The lounge itself wasn't large, only about thirty square meters, and sat against the outer wall with an entire side made up of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Beyond the glass were the atrium's artificial lawn and fountain.

The designers had deliberately placed the lounge there so researchers could look out at something green while drinking coffee, giving their eyes and nerves a chance to relax.

But at the moment, there wasn't much worth looking at outside.

That afternoon, the Energy Dispatch Center had issued an order.

Atrium lighting was to be reduced from eighty-five percent of standard output to seventy-five percent.

No announcement.

No explanation.

It simply got darker.

Ten percent wasn't much. The difference was subtle enough that most people wouldn't consciously notice it.

But it was enough to make the window lose much of its purpose.

Several white plastic tables and chairs were arranged neatly throughout the lounge, their surfaces marked with the Institute's four departmental colors.

The automatic coffee machine in the corner was still powered on. A small blue indicator light blinked steadily on its side.

Because of the energy restrictions, however, the heating element in its water heater had been limited to less than sixty percent of its rated output.

The water no longer became hot enough to brew the coffee grounds properly.

As a result, usage of the machine had dropped by eighty percent over the past week.

Most of the time, it simply stood there in silence, its lonely blue indicator blinking like a beacon no one cared about anymore.

At a table in the corner sat a young woman.

Rosalind Orman.

She was around twenty-five years old, with light brown, wheat-toned skin and distinctly Latin features. Soft cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and well-defined brows that weren't overly sharp.

Under the Institute's cold white lighting, her complexion carried a warmth that stood apart from everything around her, as though someone had mixed a trace of sunlight into a place where it didn't belong.

She wore the Institute's standard off-white, high-collared research uniform, with a narrow band of pale blue around the collar.

The color of Advanced Systems.

A cup of synthetic coffee sat untouched in front of her.

It had gone completely cold, and a thin oily film had formed across the surface.

Her eyes were fixed on two folders that had been returned to her that morning.

A bright red stamp covered each one.

Rejected.

There was nothing ambiguous about it.

Sitting across from her was a young male researcher.

Brandon Volkert.

A junior researcher in BioScience, also around twenty-five or twenty-six years old. His research uniform carried the department's identifying green trim around the collar.

He leaned slightly forward with both hands resting on the table, watching her with cautious concern.

He was courting Rosalind.

Among the Institute's younger generation of researchers, that was hardly a secret anymore.

Brandon's father, Dean Volkert, was a veteran Institute scientist who had spent more than thirty years in BioScience and participated in the development of several key Synth technologies.

He had seniority.

Connections.

Influence.

But Brandon never tried to use his father's name for his own benefit.

He simply sat there listening to Rosalind, trying to figure out how to comfort her without making her feel as though he pitied her.

"It's okay, Rosalind."

Brandon kept his voice soft and gentle.

"People will recognize your talent eventually."

Rosalind tapped one finger against the tabletop.

It wasn't particularly loud, but there was restrained force behind it, like a spring that had been compressed to its limit.

"I don't understand."

Her voice wasn't loud either, but she was speaking a little faster than usual.

That was what happened when she tried to keep her emotions under control.

Her tone stayed level, but the spaces between words shortened, as though each sentence were fighting to escape before the next one.

"Is that tiny amount of energy really so important?"

She looked up at Brandon.

"I can accept them rejecting the plasma weapon proposal. That really would consume a lot of power."

This time, her palm struck the table hard.

"But why did they reject my laser weapon optimization proposal too?"

Her frustration was starting to show.

"We could increase the lethality of those blue lasers several times over. The technical solution already exists, the theoretical validation passed, and every parameter says it's feasible."

"We don't need new equipment. We don't need additional power generation. All it takes is a few simple parameter adjustments to the existing resonator structure."

(Note: The Institute's blue-beam laser weapons use a cold-energy focused beam. The laser turrets in Nuka-World's Galactic Zone use a similar principle. Both fire blue lasers, but the difference in destructive power is enormous.)

"And then they tell me, 'Proposal rejected due to energy constraints.'"

"Energy constraints."

She repeated the words as though chewing on a piece of bitter gum.

Brandon opened his mouth to respond.

Then realized he didn't have anything useful to say.

Because Rosalind was right.

The Institute's energy shortage had been growing steadily worse.

Director Holdren of BioScience had emphasized it more than once during departmental meetings.

No unauthorized adjustments to air-conditioning temperatures.

Lighting schedules for the cultivation chambers had to be followed exactly.

Any nonessential laboratory equipment had to be shut down outside working hours.

When Brandon had visited the atrium the previous week, he'd noticed that the fountain's water jets were almost a third lower than they had been the month before.

The fountain had been designed as one of the Institute's signature features.

At full output, the highest jet could reach the fifth glass panel of the atrium dome.

Now it couldn't even reach the third.

Nobody announced the change.

Nobody put up a notice saying the fountain's flow had been restricted.

It had simply grown shorter.

Like a spine gradually bending under weight.

"Power really has been tight lately."

Brandon sighed.

"It's the same over in BioScience. Director Holdren won't even let us run the air conditioning unless we absolutely need it."

Outside the window, the dim atrium looked like a silent wall.

Rosalind didn't respond.

Instead, she changed the subject, the frustration still clearly present in her voice.

"And then there's Evan."

Her finger struck the table again.

"That old academic fossil has rejected twelve of my research proposals in a row."

Brandon fell silent.

Evan Watson.

Chief scientist for the Advanced Systems specialist projects.

He was old, with gray-white hair that was always combed perfectly into place.

Every word he spoke seemed as though it had been measured with a caliper.

Precise.

Conservative.

Impossible to fault.

He handled some of the department's dullest but most important administrative work.

Maintaining safety regulations.

Reviewing research proposals.

Allocating electrical power.

Ensuring that every regulation and procedure was followed.

His favorite phrase was simple.

"Safety first. Remember that."

Brandon knew that, in a certain sense, Evan was right.

Because Rosalind Orman really was a fanatical "genius."

When she worked, she forgot to eat and sleep.

Her head was constantly filled with new technologies, wild possibilities, and experiments based on theories decades ahead of everyone else.

Her mind could leap between ideas faster than ninety percent of the Institute's scientists could follow.

She could submit three proposals in completely unrelated fields in the same week.

Each one would be long, detailed, and overflowing with enthusiasm.

Then all three would be rejected.

Every single one.

Because the distance between genius and madness was very small.

Brandon remembered one particular proposal.

It was the one that had left the strongest impression on him, and the one Evan had rejected most decisively.

Proposal for the Miniaturization of the Molecular Relay.

The summary read:

Modify the Molecular Relay's quantum matter transmission system and alter the reconstruction parameters applied to transported matter.

Use the Relay's quantum manipulation technology to reduce the orbital radius of electrons within atoms, thereby decreasing atomic volume and attempting to alter the volume and density of physical objects.

Below that, in smaller text, Rosalind had added:

"If the Relay could shrink a human being to the size of an ant, or even smaller, the potential applications of this technology would be immeasurable."

Brandon had stared at that proposal for a very long time.

He hadn't been trying to determine whether the idea was feasible.

He had been wondering what sort of mental state Rosalind had been in when she'd written it.

The result, unsurprisingly, had been:

Rejected.

The review comment was even shorter.

"Please stop turning scientific research into science fiction. Evan."

Brandon still remembered nearly laughing when he'd read it.

Even someone from BioScience could picture exactly what had happened.

Evan Watson, the famously rigorous old scientist, had probably written that response, rubbed his temples, flipped the data pad face-down on his desk, then stood up and gone to take a blood-pressure pill.

"Dr. Li doesn't support me either."

Rosalind's voice pulled Brandon back from his thoughts.

"She's directing every available resource into the Phase Three reactor project. All of my experiments have been postponed because of it."

She looked at him, irritation creeping into her voice as though she wanted him to agree with her.

"If we're so desperately short on energy, why won't anyone even consider my proposal?"

"What's so special about that outdated fusion reactor?"

Brandon didn't answer.

He had no idea how to.

Madison Li.

Head of Advanced Systems.

One of the finest energy scientists to come out of the Capital Wasteland.

She had devoted almost all of her attention to the Phase Three upgrade of the Institute's reactor.

Rosalind's energy research proposal had been rejected personally by Dr. Li.

Brandon still remembered what it said.

"Divert personnel and materials away from the Phase Three project and investigate the feasibility of achieving controlled nuclear reactions at room temperature through electrochemical reactions combined with the quantum technology used by the Institute's Molecular Relay.

"Pre-War research in this field never produced substantial results. However, given the advances we have made in quantum technology, this objective may now be achievable."

Review Result: Rejected. Li, M.

The review itself consisted of a single sentence.

"All available evidence indicates that this will always remain a fantasy."

Brandon looked at Rosalind.

He wanted to say something.

"Don't get discouraged."

"Just keep trying."

Something like that.

But he knew those words would be useless.

Rosalind wasn't the kind of person who needed to be comforted.

What she needed wasn't reassurance.

She needed an opportunity.

And in the Institute as it currently existed, no one was willing to give her one.

So Brandon tried another approach.

"Don't worry."

He softened his voice slightly.

"My dad told me that most of Robotics has been reassigned."

"They're going to take control of a robot factory on the surface."

He paused.

"Once that factory's production is connected to the Institute, the energy shortage shouldn't be as severe."

"Maybe then Dr. Li will reconsider your proposal."

Rosalind was silent for a while.

Then she gave a bitter little smile.

"I hope so."

There wasn't much hope in her voice.

Outside the window, the fountain was noticeably quieter than it had been the month before.

It was another sign that more and more people had begun to ignore.

In the Institute, even a fountain had to conserve water and power.

...

At the same time, on the Institute's upper level.

Conference room.

An oval conference table dominated the center of the room.

The heads of the Institute's various departments sat around it, each wearing a different degree of concern.

Shaun occupied the seat at the head of the table.

His posture looked relaxed.

He leaned back in his chair with his hands folded on the tabletop.

But no one around the table mistook that posture for genuine ease.

"The Minutemen aren't going to let this go."

Shaun's voice remained even, neither hurried nor slow, as though he were stating a physical law that had already been verified countless times.

"Their General isn't the kind of man who takes a punch without hitting back."

"The teleporter has been fully restored, and all functions at the facility are operational again. The first group of Coursers and Synth units has already assembled around the base and is awaiting further orders."

"Our question is..."

One of the Synth Retention Bureau supervisors took over.

"How severe will the Minutemen's counterattack be?"

"Very severe."

Shaun answered immediately.

"But not beyond our ability to handle."

He was about to continue.

Woo. Woo. Woo.

An alarm sounded.

Not a red alert.

Yellow, one level lower.

But hearing it inside this conference room was still enough to silence everyone immediately.

Shaun turned his head slightly toward the holographic display suspended above the table.

"Report."

His voice remained steady.

A line of text appeared across the screen.

Then a synthetic voice followed.

"Alert. Heavy armored units detected approaching the C.I.T. ruins."

The atmosphere in the room grew heavier.

Shaun's expression barely changed.

"Switch to surveillance."

The text disappeared.

In its place came a live aerial feed from a synthetic raven.

The image shook slightly as the bird circled overhead, but it was clear enough.

On the ground below, a platoon of Brotherhood of Steel Knights in T-60 power armor was advancing in formation.

Two tanks led the column.

Short, heavy hulls.

Thick curved armor.

Twin main guns mounted side by side.

Their tracks crushed rubble and broken reinforced concrete beneath them.

Even without audio, everyone watching could almost hear the heavy grinding of the treads.

Someone around the table drew in a sharp breath.

But the tanks weren't what truly unsettled them.

It was the object mounted on one of them.

A massive silver-white laser emitter.

It was absurdly large.

The focusing lens array alone was more than a meter across.

Its silver-white housing reflected the afternoon sun with an almost blinding glare, looking like something that shouldn't belong in the present age at all.

The conference room remained completely silent for three full seconds.

Then someone finally spoke.

Their voice carried obvious uncertainty.

"What... is that?"

No one answered.

Because not a single person present, including scientists who had participated in the Institute's weapons development programs, had ever seen anything like it in combat records.

Even ordinary laser weapons had been prohibitively expensive before the war.

Within the U.S. military, AER-series laser rifles were issued primarily to elite units and power armor troops.

At the heart of each weapon was an incredibly precise cavity crystal lens barely larger than a fingernail.

Even on the frozen front at Anchorage, where the military had to protect vital oil pipelines from bomber attacks, heavy anti-aircraft guns were still given priority.

Because if weapons like these had ever been deployed as standard battlefield equipment, the U.S. government probably would've had to mortgage the country's entire tax revenue to the military-industrial complex.

Even Mr. House.

Co-founder of RobCo Industries. Its largest shareholder. Chief engineer. Chief executive officer.

Even a man that wealthy had only dared install a single laser cannon on the rotating platform atop the Lucky 38, and even that was intended for missile defense.

Amid the silence, someone finally voiced the only explanation that made sense.

He swallowed.

"That's... a laser excavator."

No one objected.

Because it was the only reasonable conclusion.

Laser excavation had been ideal for constructing deep underground bases and bunkers before the war.

No tool wear.

Extreme precision.

No vibration.

Minimal risk of collapse.

Even the underground complex that now housed the Institute had originally been excavated by C.I.T. using a laser excavator leased from Vault-Tec.

So if the Brotherhood of Steel had brought a laser excavator to the C.I.T. ruins...

What exactly did they intend to do with it?

The answer was so obvious it might as well have struck everyone in the face.

"They're going to dig us out."

Someone whispered the words.

They pierced the silence around the table like a needle.

On the holographic display, the synthetic raven continued circling overhead.

Below, the Knights in T-60 power armor had stopped advancing.

The two tanks rotated their guns outward, standing guard like sentries.

And the laser excavator's silver-white housing gleamed quietly beneath the Commonwealth's afternoon sunlight.

Almost elegantly.

It was getting ready.

Ready to cut open the ground.

Then drag the Institute out from beneath it.

Like pulling a rotten tooth.