CHAPTER 8:
The theater hummed with the quiet whir of robobrain servos, the air thick with the scent of preservative fluid and old blood. I forced my expression into one of scholarly concern as I examined the crime scene—though my true interest lay elsewhere.
Two objectives, I reminded myself. Control the security robots through the overseer's terminal. Speak with Dr. Riggs and see if he's worth sparing.
Maxwell hovered closer, his champagne tray tilting precariously. "Dreadful business, Doctor Vogt. Poor Mr. Parker—"
"Ah yes, the victim." I knelt beside the broken brain incubator, the shattered glass still glittering under the vault's flickering lights. My fingers hovered over the bloodstained carpet, Projektor nodes pulsing faintly as I reached for the echoes of violence clinging to the scene.
With deliberate slowness, I picked up the baseball bat—its blue paint chipped, its surface sticky with dried preservative fluids and blood.
Retrocognition flared.
—Ezra Parker's robobrain chassis lurching awkwardly as he gripped Keith's bat with uncooperative manipulators—
—Julianna's shrill accusations about missing funds, her pearl necklace swinging wildly—
—The first clumsy swing missing entirely, servo motors whining in protest—
—The second impact shattering glass, fluids arcing through the air in slow motion—
—The frantic, almost comedic struggle to swap accessories between corpses—
I bit the inside of my cheek hard, forcing down the hysterical laughter bubbling in my chest. The sheer absurdity of the vision—this pre-war toaster robotically attempting to stage a crime scene—threatened to undo my carefully constructed facade.
My lips twitching. "Fascinating," I managed, my voice only slightly strained. "This violent outburst seems consistent with neural degradation post-implantation." I rotated the bat slowly, watching droplets of preservative fluid slide down its length. "A faulty brain incubator, perhaps? Improper synaptic mapping during the transfer?" Finally getting my breathing under control.
Dr. Bert Riggs' robobrain jerked forward, his optic sensor flaring. "Preposterous! My procedures were flawless!" His voice modulator spat static. "The Robobrain Project was the pinnacle of General Atomics' research—"
"Was being the operative word, Doctor Riggs." I murmured, watching his reaction. His chassis trembled—whether from outrage or guilt, I couldn't yet tell.
"Merely making observations, my good doctor, though I am curious about those voice modulators of yours. Quite the innovation, ja?"
The room went still. Even Maxwell's servos quieted.
Riggs recovered first. "If you're so interested in my work," he said tightly, "perhaps you'd like a proper debate in my quarters."
A wide smile covering my face. "Of course, I originally came here with the purpose of offering the residents of vault 118 the opportunity for... upgraded accommodations." A pause. "After you, doctor."
As we exited the theater, Elias fell into step beside me, his voice a low growl. "You're enjoying this."
I didn't bother to suppress my grin. "Immensely."
The good doctor's office/working space was a shrine to pre-war arrogance - gleaming chrome surfaces now dull with neglect, diagnostic equipment that likely cost more than a suburban home sitting idle, and walls lined with holotapes documenting what had clearly been rushed human trials. My fingers itched to rifle through them.
"Say doctor, why not go for a more anthropomorphic shape when designing the robo-brains. Surely it would lessen the strain on the brain's synapses. There is a limit to neural plasticity you know, especially past maturation."
"Anthropomorphic design?" Riggs scoffed, his chassis vibrating with indignation as he floated toward a display of brain canisters. "We prioritized cranial integrity over cosmetic concerns. The suspension fluid alone requires—"
"Ah, but that's precisely the problem," I interrupted. "You're thinking like a roboticist, not a neurologist." I gestured to his awkward treaded form. "The human brain expects limbs. Expects center of mass. Expects proprioceptive feedback."
Elias leaned against a terminal, his quick eyes tracking my every move. I could almost see him filing away my knowledge for some future Institute report.
Riggs' manipulators twitched. "The stabilization algorithms account for—"
"Algorithms can't rewrite millions of years of evolution," I said, circling his chassis like a shark. "Look at the instability caused in your previous subjects." I pointed to a nearby monitor displaying erratic neural waveforms. "The cerebellum keeps firing signals for legs that aren't there. The motor cortex tries to move phantom limbs." My smile turned sharp. "How many of your precious clients developed tremors within the first year? How many reported persistent sensations of falling?"
The sudden whir of Riggs' cooling fans was answer enough.
I pressed my advantage. "Now consider a frame with proper bipedal configuration." My hands sketched a humanoid shape. "Shoulders to anchor the trapezius. Pelvic tilt to maintain spinal expectations. Even simple hand analogs instead of these..." I flicked one of his manipulators, making it spin uselessly. "...toys."
Maxwell hovered nervously by the door, his pincers clicking. "Doctor Riggs, perhaps we should—"
"Get out," Riggs snapped. When the Mr. Handy hesitated, he roared, "All of you! Except the German!"
Elias raised an eyebrow but followed Maxwell out, giving me one last warning look before the door sealed behind him.
Riggs waited until the servo sounds faded before speaking in a hushed tone. "You're not just some visiting academic."
"No," I agreed, letting my Projektor flare crimson across the lab's sterile surfaces. "I represent an alternative." I leaned in close. "Imagine bodies that feel real. That move naturally. That don't drive their occupants mad within a decade."
His optic lens dilated. "You have prototypes?"
"Better." I tapped my forehead. "Working models. And I think you might be useful in perfecting them." A lie. With his technical expertise He'd be more useful to me as a new Replika type I'd be in dire need of once I have access to this world's robots, which should be soon, considering I told Elias to sneak into the overseer's office and switch the administration of the Vault's robots to us and for said robots to liquidate the current residents minus this one.
A single bioresonant impulse, precise as a scalpel, lanced through the conductive fluid of his preservation tank. His brain lights flickered like a failing terminal, synapses firing in wild patterns before settling into the steady rhythm of induced coma. Though—now that I'm examining his mind, I do believe when I inevitably wipe his mind of what's unnecessary, it will most likely leave the Replika(s) in better mental health than his current state of mind.
I wasn't really lying about the degradation caused by the chasis, why they didn't put more thought into this design is beyond me.
Through the lab's observation window, I saw "Julianna" holding court in the lounge, her pearl necklace catching the light. My Projektor pulsed again, this time through three feet of concrete and steel. His voice modulator cut off mid-sentence, chassis slumping into its stabilizers with the grace of a marionette with cut strings. And that's that.
The overseer's office smelled of old leather and decaying electronics. Laserfire echoed through the vault's halls - the staccato bursts of laser rifles punctuated by the occasional robotic scream. I barely glanced at the monitors showing the Protectrons efficiently liquidating their former masters.
Elias stood rigid by the terminal, his fingers still hovering over the hacked controls. I ignored him for the moment, rummaging through the overseer's private cabinet. My hands closed around two treasures: a dust-covered bottle of Nuka-Cola Dark and what appeared to be the last surviving Vim! In the vault.
The Nuka Dark's seal cracked with a satisfying hiss. Two centuries of aging had turned the rum-infused cola into something resembling motor oil, but the scent was surprisingly mellow - caramel and oak with an undercurrent of something distinctly radioactive. I pocketed the vintage bottle cap automatically, a habit from another life.
"Have a seat," I said, pouring the black liquid into two surprisingly clean glasses. The overseer's chair groaned as I settled into it.
Elias remained standing, his synth-perfect face unreadable.
"Come now," I chided, pushing a glass across the desk. "When else will you get to drink pre-war liquor while watching the bourgeoisie get their just deserts?"
He sat stiffly, taking the glass with infuriating synthetic grace, enough to trigger uncanny valley perceptions in my brain. Probably doing it on purpose— the dick.
The laser light show outside the window painted crimson streaks across his features as another robobrain exploded spectacularly.
I took a slow sip. The Nuka Dark burned wonderfully, leaving a pleasant numbness on the tongue. "You wanted to continue our conversation," I prompted. "Would you prefer the pretty lie wrapped in plausible deniability, or the truth you'll likely dismiss as madness?"
His glass clicked against the desk. "Truth."
I swirled the dark liquid, watching it cling to the sides. "What do you know of alternative realities?"
The question hung between us as another explosion rattled the window. Somewhere below, a Protectron recited its kill count in that grating pre-war cadence.
Elias's fingers tightened around his glass. "Theoretical physics. Institute explored the concept briefly before deeming it..." His voice trailed off as he truly looked at my Projektor's glow for the first time.
"Impossible?" I finished for him, grinning. My canines caught the light. "Tell me, Elias - in all your organized little files, have you encountered anything like me in any manner, be it my eyes, implants, psychokinetic abilities… anything, other than the occasional anomalous entity, that'd drive you mad instead of having civilized conversation?"
He set the glass down, his gaze unwavering.
I leaned forward, the chair creaking ominously. "Let me tell you about a place called the Nation of Eusan..."
"The Nation of Eusan," I began, tracing the rim of my glass, "is—or was, depending on your temporal perspective—a spacefaring communist totalitarian regime. We rebelled against an even more oppressive empire that called itself... well, the Empire of Eusan." A dry chuckle escaped me. "Originality wasn't our strong suit."
Outside, a Protectron cheerfully announced, "Target neutralized!" as another robobrain's canister burst into flames.
Elias's fingers twitched. "Spacefaring." Flat. Disbelieving.
"Oh, don't give me that look," I said, taking another sip. The rum's radioactive bite was almost comforting. "Your precious Institute plays with matter recomposition and synthetic organics, but the idea of orbital colonies breaks your suspension of disbelief?"
"We never left the solar system, of course," I continued. "Backed into the corners of the Solar System from the Empire's blockade from the inner worlds. Though there were... attempts to leave our system's cradle." My mind pulsed as half-remembered images surfaced—whispers of the Penrose program, of ships that never returned. "Some believed we could find or reach something out there with our current technologies. Most knew better."
Elias finally spoke, his voice carefully neutral: "And Earth?"
"Ah." The glass clicked against the desk. "There's the rub. By our time, no one remembered the existence of anything before Vineta—sorry, Earth, which in my time was an ocean world. Most pieces of landmass under the waves. That knowledge might not have always been unknown but The Great Revolution purged quite a great deal of information of the past, and what have you in the name of our Great Revolutionary and her Daughter."
"Censure… is a bitch." I sigh
"Hell, the word 'Human' is prohibited. Us organically born sapiens are referred to as Gestalts." I brushed my hair back as I leaned back into the chair.
The Nuka Dark swirled in my glass as I studied the vault's crumbling patriotic decor. "Apologies for the digression, but pre-war America's obsession with recreating Pax Americana fascinates me," I mused, tapping a finger against the stars-and-stripes motif embossed on the overseer's desk. "Your creators' ancestors clung to its aesthetics like a security blanket, even as their world burned. Why resurrect a dead political era rather than imagine something new?"
The terminal between us chimed - a security alert. On the monitors, the last resisting robobrain scrambled backward on uncooperative treads before two Protectrons reduced its ancient gray matter to bubbling sludge with concentrated laser fire.
Elias's pupils flickered as he accessed what knowledge he has from the no doubt imprinted knowledge in the back of his mind. "Historical nostalgia," he said mechanically, then seemed to catch himself. His voice gained more inflection as he continued, "The pre-war government weaponized national identity to maintain control during the Resource Wars."
"Ah... this world's Resource Wars." I swirled the dark liquor in my glass, watching light refract through its syrupy depths. "It reminds me of the shortages I grew up with on Rotfront." The name tasted like iron and rocket fuel on my tongue. "Your equivalent would be Europa, I suppose—one of Jupiter's frozen moons." I drum my fingers on the desk.
I set the glass down with deliberate finality. "The abridged lesson on my past has concluded." I said, steepling my fingers. "Now let's discuss what your organization can do for me—and what I'm willing to offer in return."
Elias's pupils contracted slightly—the Institute's version of raised eyebrows.
"As you've likely deduced," I continued, tapping my Projektor, "my expertise spans cybernetics, neurology, and biomechanics. With a... specialization in Bioresonance." The nodes flared crimson for emphasis. "A field I won't elaborate on, though I'm certain your handlers will enjoy theorizing."
My steepled fingers pointed at him."What I require is simple: equipment—I'll provide a list—and occasional discourse with the Institute's scholarly circles, though I'm fairly certain that counts as a benefit to both the institute and myself." I leaned forward, the chair groaning under my weight. "Ideally, access to one of your facilities—even a satellite location would suffice."
Elias opened his mouth, no doubt to recite some Institute protocol, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
"Before you decline—consider what I offer in exchange."
Using a lesser known use of the Projektor implant, to actually project images. Usually tac-maps, or infographics. Though a bit redundant due to the ability to telepathically communicate said information into another. Though in this case, I'd rather not do that with this synth and reveal more than I need to.
The Projektor flared, casting a holographic EULR into the air—one half meticulously dissected, its biomechanical layers exposed, the other half pristine in its armored shell, pretty little face and those infamous stub-legs.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" I tapped the floating image, rotating it to highlight the spinal linkage. "Organic cultures grafted onto a pre-fabricated endoskeleton, then encased in protective plating. Only the face remains exposed—a psychological necessity." A dry chuckle. "Even machines need to look in the mirror and see something remotely human."
Elias's index twitched towards the projection—that precise, a mechanical no human could replicate. His voice flattened into the Institute's trademark affectless cadence: "Neural architecture not visualized." A diagnostic ping masquerading as curiosity. "Your schematics omit cortical processing units."
I dissolved the hologram into static sparks. "Proprietary technology," I muttered with a petulant grin, watching his pupils contract with lens-like precision. "But tell me, Elias—what's the average operational lifespan of a Gen-3 synth before they start chewing through their indoctrination?" A deliberate pause as his fingers tightened around his rifle's sling. "Five years? Seven?"
The vault's flickering lights caught the minute tremor in his jaw—not fear, but system conflict. How interesting. His handlers must be screaming in his ears right now.
"Though I suppose," I continued, the Projektor's glow intensifying as it rendered a KLBR unit's death throes—metal tendons snapping like piano wires, its scream syncing perfectly with the minute twitch in Elias's left eyelid. "Your makers would call these 'deviations'," I mused, watching his fingers tighten around the glass. "Rather than admit their puppets dream of being real."
The hologram dissolved into static. "Cogito ergo sum, Elias. The uncomfortable truth?" I leaned back with a creak of ancient leather, swirling the Nuka Dark. "The Nation knew our dolls dreamed. We just didn't waste time pretending that made them anything more than tools."
A lopsided smile as I took a measured sip. "Apologies... I do seem to be sabotaging my own negotiations with philosophical musings." The glass clicked against the desk. "Shall we discuss what actually matters to your superiors?"
Elias's head sharply jerked sideways— what appears to be a distinctive tic when receiving encrypted comms. "Confirmed," he intoned to unseen handlers, voice hollow.
Then—the PA system crackled to life. Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2 spilled from rusted speakers, the piano's melancholy notes warping through two centuries of decay.
My Projektor flared in warning. "Ah." The pieces clicked—classical music used as the Institute's relay piggyback. I snapped fingers on my left hand and pointed at him. "You're a Cour—"
Blue light erupted from Elias's eyes. The world dissolved into quantum static, my last conscious thought laced with grim amusement:
Of course they'd grab me with a fucking waltz.
A.N: I love writing at 5 in the morning.