Chapter 1: It’s all over
“...but the cry-ing, and I cant get o-ver cyr-ing o-ver yoooou! Yeah. Soooo, Th-a that wh-was the inkspots…yea...”
The radio somewhere within earshot cut off again with the same snap and buzz that started the end of the song. Jon Noonien-Singh took a sharp breath in and nearly jumped awake. His eyes opened wide to take in the foreign surroundings, and he quickly found that was a mistake. The ozone layer was gone from this world, wherever it was. He instantly knew he wasn't on Earth anymore. Not his Earth at least, given the somewhat similar smell under-toning it all.
“Fuck.” He growled as he near slapped his hand over his eyes. Augment senses were overturned, and thus proportionally sensitive. He honestly didn’t remember the amount of flash bangs and concussions he went though against his own kind. Or bullets. There was no point in counting those things.
Taking a deeper measure of his soundings without his eyes for a moment, he smelled the rot and decay of a tomb world, something he only imagined in sci-fi. And his worst nightmares for how the Eugenics Wars would end. He heard the dead wind whistle and rattle over dead bones nearby. What exposed skin he had felt the heat of not only the unfiltered UV rays of the planet’s main star, but the heat of gamma radiation from a concentration of it down the hill from him. He could also hear the mutated abominations that clustered around it, their sickly sounds. How in the hell did he get here, he thought.
Maybe the presence he felt appear behind him in a snap could answer that. Thankfully that put the morning sun mostly at his back. He opened his eyes and saw a madman standing ramrod straight and regally.
He had not so short brown hair just beginning to go where it truly wanted to. There was a whimsical look in his eye and smile, and the man was wearing what looked like PT gear tailored to fit. The sweater was mostly red, with the shoulders black, the color terminating at odd angles just before it swept down his chest. His pants looked like joggers, properly cuffed around simple but sturdy looking boots, instead of elastic bands to wrap around an ankle.
There were four golden pips on his collar. Jon pegged what he was wearing for a uniform instantly, however ridiculous it looked. Four pips was probably a decent rank. He had to blink for a moment, as he began to see five pips, figuring the UV exposure to his eyes caused actual damage that had to repair. The crazy looking man smiled coyly. Jon knew then he was being dicked with.
“Oh don’t mind me. Just stare all day and say nothing.” He said.
Jon cooly replied, not wanting to provoke someone potentially with cosmic power, “Who are you, and what do you want with me.”
The man huffed, near indignant. He said, “Predictable, but pertinent questions, so I’ll give it a pass. I am Q.”
Jon wasn't going to let this conversation be so one sided like it was. He said, “Just plain old Q then. Alright.”
He chucked precisely twice. “I am far from plain, Second Lieutenant. Do you see these pips? That makes me a capeton in some circles, and thus your superior officer. I order you to show me some respect.”
Jon scoffed precisely once, “And what exactly are you a capeton of, Mr. Q, sir.?”
He shook his hips a couple times while boasting, “Of Starfleet, the proudest, most rambunctious little group of mortals to ever exist.”
Jon said, “They never met Marines.”
Q matched Jon’s previous scoff, “Oh yes, a bunch of drunk Jarheads that think stealing army tampons is an adventurous date, who have done nothing to advance torus-field geometry, or inter-dimensional bar brawls! Now that was a date, and they still don’t know how that star did what it did. I still don’t know, and I helped do it!”
Jon broke his guard for a moment to laugh. If Q wanted to smite him he probably could, and would have done so already. He said, “Hey, I was not drunk, she needed the tampons, and I didn’t even have the chance for all that fun sounding bullshit, because now I’m here. That brings me to my second question you haven't answered yet, what do you want with me, plain, old, Q?”
Q smiled sly, letting him have the lick. He certainly earned it, and this nice little retirement he was being put on. He said, “Some timelines needed corrected.”
Jon nodded, silently urging the man to continue. When Q didn’t, Jon took a hard, blank, stare and said, “Levity aside, friend, I’m none too happy about being pulled away from the work I was going to do. Sure the last of thosebastards got to space, but I was sure as shit going after them. They didn’t know what I derived while being bombed by them, while I was storming them, killing them,surviving them, and wouldn't have even seen the anti-matter device being rammed up their frozen asses.”
Q continued his smile, “Your trek across the stars. Zephram Cohrane figures that out, and Captain Kirk finally kills Khan, with a photon torpedo, after of course making a cardinal mistake.”
Jon didn’t hesitate, “Trusting an Augment. The Augment.”
Q didn’t either, “And marooning him afterwards. Kirk wasn't a shoot first hot head until his later years, despite the perceptions. I actually met him once, while following Captain Sisko around. The man was ramrod straight with regulation up his ass. Survived by them for so long it made him cocky, and was almost done in upon their second meeting.”
Jon hushed his tone, “So am I just not allowed to see my own ambitions out? I fought all that war, did all that killing, and here I am.”
Q said, “Here you are. I’m sorry, and it’s not often I truly mean that. The moment you take the Humans of Earth to space, is the moment you run into the Borg far earlier than you should. Humanity and the entire Alpha Quadrant is assimilated at worst, destroyed at best, with not even a temporal division to fix things because it never existed. You die to them every time. The Borg never actually get you though, like they got Picard slash Locutus depending on the day. The Queen was of course correct about your biological perfection. In every timeline you slip though the cracks, you make a final sacrifice, and never see your people destroyed when the Borg rebuild from the losses you caused faster than they can rebuild from their own losses. Your mirror counterpart manages to defeat them, again at significant cost, and sometimes giving their own life in the process.”
Jon said, “Mirror counterpart?”
Q felt generous today, and explained at length, “Timelines where you properly rebel, instead of merely defecting to the other side. Quote unquote, ‘Starfleet timelines’ are always paired, with alternates of that pair. An odd quirk even the Q can’t explain, that’s why you humans in particular are so interesting, despite your banal commonality otherwise. You lead the Terran Empire, those Empires led by you. You win against the Borg by being a fundamentally different, more logical person. More willing to trade blood for time and strategic victory in a most Augmentedly calculated way, others blood. The Vulcans nearly brought back religion because of it, for Surak the Second’s sake, your child by the way. There are of course also timelines where Khan wins, then runs face first into the Borg. The Klingons actually save the day in that case, after of course the Augmented resurrection of Emperor Kahless kills Emperor Khan in a duel for bringing the Borg to their doorstep in the first place, naturally, then leads a Grand Alliance in exterminating them like they were common tribbles. Kahless obviously respected the Terran’s warrior history and culture, their service during the Great Crusade, and Earth becomes the seat of a Galactic Empire. He even marries Khan’s daughter and heir to seal the deal. Humanity commands great respect in that case. Certainly more than other Terran timelines.”
Jon decided not to try and process everything he heard. At least that bastard died in every scenario. He said, “This may be a stupid question, but how many of me are there?”
Q sagely nodded, “Indeed a stupid one, but asked with a certain understanding, to an entity that understands. An infinite amount, but relatively few. Its not often Dr. Noonien-Singh lives long enough to aid his son. Khan thought about a second generation in every timeline, but always had his own doubts about himself, despite his outward bluster.”
Jon nodded in understanding, “He only pulls off a second generation with the Dr. at his side. He only trusts himself to try in that scenario. The Dr. was superior, even to us. He was our creator, after all.”
Q smiled, “And he always dies, after you. You were always the first, though no one except Khan knew it. It’s why your eyes are different. It’s why he hated your rebellion against him in a way that made him sloppy, and thus those under him sloppy.”
Jon said, “It was always listed as a ‘defect’ in my file, but honestly any little imperfection or scar is worn with pride. Khan himself encouraged it, even if he wanted them factually acknowledged for what they were. ‘Augments are Human, and Humans are imperfect, even if superior.’ So I was an experiment, on top of already being one, and Khan pegged me as the first and favorite like he was. That's an existential crisis. Like this fucking rock we’re on.”
Q bobbed his head back and forth with a sly smile at the underhanded interrogation tactic, “Yes, Earth, just one with a parody for a culture, that blew itself to hell and back with more ordnance than what would make your own petty little US-Soviet staring contest blink.”
Jon said, “Yeah I caught that. So this timeline needed corrected too? Or did you just dump me here with the rest of the trash.”
Q gave an aloof laugh, “Yes it did. There's a broken family down in this Vault. One broken forever because of a planned, and then freak malfunction. A mother was supposed to walk out of here, about this time in this particular line. She was supposed to be left alive. She was. Her cryo-pod malfunctioned, and she died a few years after her husband was shot, baby stolen from his arms.”
Jon said, “Not to sound so heartless, but am I supposed to care about that in this extreme long term survival situation?”
Q gave an almost evil grin, “You care about whatever you want. Someone was supposed to walk out of this vault, cause a whole bunch of ruckus one way or the other, and now, functionally, they have and will. You even have the suit and Pip-Boy.”
Jon had one final question. He could tell this Q had spent long enough on this conversation, “And why help me. Give me all this intel, however meaningless most of it is to me. Why not just dump me and watch what happens.”
Q said, “Oh I will watch, with enthusiasm. But I’m always enigmatic and aloof. So lets try being not so mysterious in the ways I work, more genuine even. Once or twice at least. I leave you one final gift. These sunglasses, for your ‘superior’ eyes. Befitting a rough and tough General. Tah-Tah.”
Jon took the aviator sunglasses and Q snapped himself away in a flash of light. Jon gave them a feel, and they were certainly made of advanced material. No alloy he was familiar with by touch, that was for certain. Probably a design of that Federation or Empire he mentioned. Even the glass wasn't glass, but felt like some kind of transparent metal, probably aluminum or some mix of it. He reckoned it could stop a bullet. If Q was going to go all that way to help him, then he might as well go all they way and give him functional eye protection against the Sun’s harsh rays, and from the wasteland around him.
His last line also certainly meant something. Jon wouldn't know until he knew, he knew. He didn’t have time to consider his esoteric position. Only his immediate physical one. Military instincts kicked in, both from his upbringing and from his time as a Raider. He ears were open, and shielded eyes scanned around and saw no immediate threats within the greenery just beginning to poke out from the shades of brown so long after the exchange that caused it.
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Then he took stock of his person. He got hit with a blast of radiation once, and came out fine, but he didn’t want to test that again. His comfortable blue jumpsuit at least seemed to be blocking the gamma heat from the abandoned APC and surrounding nuclear waste barrels. The APC itself was a mockery of the real thing. It was overly large, bulbous, could only hold 6 total, the turret on top featuring two 40mm guns side by side, and looked liked it was meant from the start to waste material and be a pain in the ass to maintain.
“What the fuck is that piece of shit.” Jon whispered, no Striker it was.
He shook his head and took a look at his Pip-Boy. The arm mounted computer was ingenious for the technology it appeared to be made from. An actual shielded vacuum tube served as some kind of connector, with a sturdy retractable wire. Even a CRT screen, with Dos terminal looking output, and a little cartoon giving him a thumbs up and a wink.
The date read October 23, 2287, just after 0930 hours. It also took a sign of his vitals, perfect health, and even had some algorithm to quantify that data into SPECIAL stats, along with a rating for armor, energy, and radiation resistance metrics. He read at least 10 on Luck, and nearly 30 in strength. No armor or energy ratings, but a couple dozen in radiation, no doubt from his suit. How it was doing this, Jon didn’t know, and perhaps didn’t want to know.
He flipped though the other menus using the several dials and buttons on the side and around the screen. The device was just large enough to start to be unwieldy, but was still usable, especially for an Augment. Also on the Pip-Boy was a needle gauge for rads, the local equivalent to seiverts, and a tuning nob for radio frequencies. The units weren’t in hertz, simply two scales side by side, increasing by 10 and 100 incrementally. There was a tab at the end of the top row for radio. He would see if any signals survived when he went though the rest of the screens.
The next tab over was his inventory, the Pip-Boy scanning him somehow and registering what he had on him. It broke his possessions down into categories. He had no weapons, his apparel listed his sunglasses, vault-suit, and boots, also their weight, approximate value, and wight to value ratio. There were no entries for aid, no misc items, junk, mods, or ammo. He did notice something strange on the apparel tab however. He was wearing his sunglasses, vault-suit, and boots, but only the vault-suit and boots were tagged like it was equipped, with a small arrow pointing to it. He toggled it with the select button a couple times, and it gave a small error click. If he wasn't wearing it, then it would probably unequip itself in the device’s database.
He scrolled down to the sunglasses, marked as ‘Unknown’ but still with its proper icon. He toggled it, and the inside of the lenses lit up with a green hue to match the Pip-boy. The first thing that popped up was a cartoon version of Q in a suit like his, and giving an apparently trademarked thumbs up. Below him it simply said, ‘you're welcome.’ The interface then flashed to life, and it had a full compass, with bars that represented his health, taken from the Pip-Boy, and for his AP. He wasn't sure what AP was, but saw it also mentioned on his wrist.
“Action Points.” the AP symbol flashed three times. Jon wondered it Q did it, and if he was directly connected to Q using these glasses.
“Yes, and yes, you dolt. V.A.T.S” And some quick words flashed across his hud about how to use the Vault-Tech Assisted Targeting System.
It apparently was to allow people using interfaces like his to be able to hit targets they wouldn't otherwise be able to hit, specifically specific body parts, and used your SPECIAL and weapon stats to determine a hit chance. One could basically hip-fire head-shots from 100 yards away with a pistol, according to the cartoon pictograph marketing claims that scrolled across. Experimental, and thus more expensive, versions could even slow down your local perception of time, allowing you to plan a series of attacks in the middle of a firefight...somehow.
Jon wasn't going to question it. If it worked, it worked, but the fact that the user manual for military hardware was also an advertisement said something about this parody culture. He then tabbed over to the data menu. It had tabs itself for his ‘quests,’ workshops it could connect to, general stats about his travels and trials, one even for crime, then the map of where he was.
Boston, or The Commonwealth according to the title. The terrain was definitely familiar, except for the surrounding mountains, from the maps he looked at, though he only went stateside a few times, and never to Boston. Outlined, but not colored in, was a symbol for the small neighborhood at the foot of the hill he was on. It said Sanctuary, and there was one more for a red rocket down the road. In the lower corner was a date for the last GPS update, and it read about ten years before.
The fact that there were still satellites flying and working, at least as of ten years ago, impressed Jon. It was also a relief, because it read as a map of a devastated Boston, and not one pre-whatever war did this. Probably ‘The Great War’ he reckoned. His intel on the lay of the land was as accurate as it could be, but he still needed information, HUMINT. Humans would provide that, and off in the distance he saw multi-sotry shack manor built up around one of the high voltage towers that ran into the city. He just barely made out someone working away in their moderately sized fields.
He also spied the Red Rocket, and it’s sold concrete construction. Certainly better than a shack, or those falling apart houses. He would make a home there, he decided, at least until he decided how he would proceed. But first he needed to crack this vault open, assess the graveyard in there, and how the vault itself could be useful to him.
Flipping over to the radio tab finally, he was presently surprised to find it near full with different broadcasts, at least ones he was in range of. There was a selection of radio music and radio drama stations, with genre being sometimes deduced by name. The one that had his interest was Diamond City radio. There was a city somewhere in those ruins. He togged the station and the same voice he woke up too stammered out that the next song was sung by Magnolia from Goodneighbor, another town in those ruins.
A smooth jazz hook brought in the start of Magolia’s song, “I see you lookin round the corner. Come on in side, and pull up a chair. No need, to feel like a stranger. Cuz we’re all a little strange in here…”
Her superior, husky, voice was simply angelic to Jon, and he knew he had to seek out Goodneighbor and meet her. As much as he wanted to listen, the radio made open noise and would give away his position. He switched it off, and took to looking for anything that would help him continue to survive.
He checked the large ordnance crates sitting around the entrance to the vault, 111 by the faded yellow embossing. He broke the seal and lifted the lid. On the inside was another, ‘You’re welcome.’ There was a full set of honest to Q combat gear, local spec. It looked on the lighter side, but anything is better than nothing.
He started with the clean olive drab fatigues. The Vault-Suit was skin tight, and formed an acceptable under-layer, like it was designed for the purpose when not in the Vault. He did have to remove his Pip-Boy for a moment to get his sleeve over it, than rolled it up to place the Pip-Boy back over his under-suit. He untied his boots, and bloused his trousers under them. Back in the day there was some special significance to the practice, with only special forces being allowed to do it. They were still the only ones allowed to blouse dress uniforms in the modern day. It was a cruel irony for the troublemakers that there were many instances, most of them, that they still weren’t allowed because of COUNINT and OPSEC.
Next came plates for his upper thighs, and they had various pouches for pistol ammo and other things, with a holster on his right. He then put on the utility belt. It again had more pouches, along with a canteen and oddly a place for handcuffs, but no other MP markings anywhere. That also said something about this culture. At least it’s pre-war iteration.
The plate came next. It covered an acceptable amount of his vitals, but left some to be desired. It too had it’s magazine pouches. Overall the armor was set up like his kit would be, but the disadvantage is that all of the pouches on the plate were permanently attached with some kind of adhesive, instead of using a carrier with a MOLLE system. While technically it could be modified, but only with materials that he may not be able to find. There was no logistics chain to properly maintain the mint condition armor. He would have to take care of it, and avoid hits, obviously. It lightness also made him uneasy.
Either the armor was paper that he assumed a parody culture would make and issue, or they were extremely confident in their polymer alloy. How they even made such a thing boggled Jon’s mind. A hand held DOS box, with respectable ram for a machine three it’s size in the late 70s, a vacuum tube connector and Bluetooth, then material science 100 years ahead of his own reckoning. The glasses were given to him by a god from the future, so they at least made sense.
The Army helmet was an intimidating stahlhelm design. There was a strap holding a battery in place on its back, and a wire leading into the shell. Inside the helmet were two large muffles to fit over any ear, an active hearing protection system Jon thought, and a note in the top of the helmet.
It said, “Matching helmet made by separate contractor from rest. Hearing protection defective. Here’s some Army scraps like you’re used to, tourist. Q”
Jon smiled, another breadcrumb in his path, and good advice. This Q guy wasn't so bad, he thought. At least in his interactions. He placed the helmet on his buzzed head, and was satisfied with the toggle in his Pip-Boy, and the sound coming though his muffs. He could listen to his radio while walking, without blasting his position to half of this hell hole. Or at least while resting in a hell hole. There could also be a mic on the helmet, or Pip-Boy, making it a full comm system. It would make sense it this was all planned as a kit from the start.
He took what he could from the armor crate, finally strapping shoulder plates on, grabbing the ruck-sack, and moved on to what he hopped would be a weapons crate. He scoffed and chuckled when his hopes were answered. He pulled out a Stoner Armalite pattern rifle, with redwood stock and grip. It had a carry handle, and mounted to it was a short straight scope, stenciled with Van Graffs, two times magnification when he pulled it to his shaded eyes after a full safety check. It was even his preferred scope magnification. It was still open enough he could use it as a short range sight, or as a longer range scope with his eyes. With a high powered scope he broke several shot records, most his own after the first, but he never officially confirmed those kills.
He looked at the engravings. They said, “PROPERTY OF THE NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC GOVERNMENT. 5.56MM. S/N: 555555.”
The serial number was either a joke, or the NCR had in excess of 500,000 rifles in their inventory. That's enough for a good sized army, and a doomsday sized stockpile. It was certainly enough to conquer California and maybe the surroundings areas depending on their logistics. Did this government conquer though? Jon didn’t know. Maybe in ways other than war. The pattern of the engravings reminded him of USG engravings on its weapons.
All nations have their own style for weapon engravings. An observant person could eye immediately what weapon came from which borders, even if they were made as replicas for black ops. It wasn't exactly a reliable deduction, but perhaps putting Republic in their name wasn't ironic like it usually was. Some kind of stable armed democracy existed out there, directly taking it’s cues from the old United States. It probably had many of the same issues, even if it wasn’t as tyrannical as it’s predecessor. That all remained to be seen, however.
He loaded up his kit with mags of the 5.56 rounds. The rounds were just off from NATO spec. 5.56x46 rounds instead of x45. He then picked up his sidearm. A Colt Delta Elite. It was a Browning 1911 pattern, but chambered in 10mm rounds. He loaded up his thigh pouches. He wondered about the over-pressure issues, but decided he wasn't committed to a sidearm like his rifle, and their material science probably solved that issue anyway. He wondered how rare these weapons were. The boon might be a curse when he couldn’t properly maintain his weapons.
He was done in the immediate area, for the next few minutes. There was a better vantage just to the south, one with a small amateur observation post already set. Someone was either watching down into the hills, or the vault given the suspicious angle. Probably both, he thought.
He only had to walk about ten minutes to get though the deadwood forest up the hill. There was a tree here or there with an orange leaf on it, a scrub of greener grass here and there. At the post there was a chair, some dirty looking smokes, a couple cartons of dirty water, even marked as such, and a can of government issued water. He didn’t know if he wanted to trust that, but he had to figure even those in charge would be drinking the same government water in an emergency. You could get away with a lot, but not intentionally poisoning your entire army and populous in one go. Perhaps. He took a hesitant sip, needing a drink anyway. It had a tin taste to it, but didn’t betray any nefarious plots. He knocked the rest back shortly after.
He didn’t even touch the dirty smokes and water, and picked up a pin-up trading card, issued by Vault-Tech. The haul here wasn't his target. He eyed his scope first toward Sanctuary. He saw a dead neighborhood, junk and scrap littered about, but there was also a bulbous robot with three eyes, three limbs, and some kind of rocket power hovering him from dead bush to dead bush.
Jon didn’t judge a threat, but he would be cautious. Intuitively he identified several weak-points. He toggled his VATS and found he had the experimental version. His perception of time slowed to a crawl, and he flipped though the various limbs with the targeting system by intent. The robot’s own ratings were displayed, and showed it was weak to electrical shock, obviously. His deductions of weak-points were confirmed by the targeting software. He toggled the VATS again and deactivated it. How they slowed time with 64kb of ram, it wasn't his business he decided. It just worked.
He placed his scope on the Red Rocket, and saw nothing expect some scrap cars, ridiculous vending machines, other Junk, and a closed garage door. The building still looked solid, at least from what he saw. It’s occupational status and its sturdiness could be subject to change. He then eyed the farm. He now saw five people on the homestead. A small family and their two farm hands. The family was standing by a grave, obviously morning one they recently lost.
From his vantage he saw all manner of checkpoints, positions, locations, buildings, and the edge of a true war-zone that made downtown Boston, muzzle flashes never stopping their lazy sway back and forth along the river-line. One at least every couple of minutes. He wondered what manner of man and beast lay within.
He saw what he wanted to see. His next goal was to check the vault, and then lug his crates and haul down to sanctuary. It would make a good place to stop for an evening. His took a deep breath as he finally let anxiety wash over him. He brought it back under control, naturally, slowly. Jon had his rifle cradled in one arm, his off hand hung lazily at his side, and stood for a moment at the precipice of history.