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(Villard Hall, University of Oregon. Location of Vault 9, Capitol Building of the Scientific Republic of Oregon)

The Scientific Republic of Oregon has thrived for over a century, but lately it has faced many challenges. Vikings raid the coast. Wolf Clans invade from the mountains. And to the south looms the New California Republic, a massive, expansionistic nation that seeks to absorb its neighbors.

Relations with the NCR have thus far been warm, but some fear this friendship may come with a price.

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(Dr. Martin Polakowski, Director of the Advanced Weapons Laboratory)

Dr. Martin Polakowski is a citizen of Oregon. The Director of the Republic's Advanced Weapons Laboratory, he's responsible for salvaging and maintaining pre-war combat assets. It's work he enjoys. It's a good life.

But one day a woman from the NCR arrives, speaking of the lifework of a father Martin never knew.

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Chapter One

Kiger Island, Oregon

April 11, 2275

The armor is intact, but the shots banged loose some of the neural network's diodes. I solder them into place and realign the surrounding micro-Tesla coils. Mr. Virgil's mechanical claw reaches over my shoulder with a dual-triode vacuum tube--a good call, since the one by the ancillary processor looks a little fried.

I switch on the boot sequence and shut the access panel. The sentry-bot's red eyes flicker back to life. Its wheeled tripod feet twitch. Its weapon-mounted arms bend and twist as it runs a servo-systems test.

"Initialization complete. Processing self-diagnostics. Please stand by."

"The lasers are useless," Lieutenant Valerie Mauritius says. She's watching the combat robot with one of her sharp little frowns. Soot streaks her cheeks.

"Aren't you being a little harsh?" I say. "They burned their sails, didn't they?"

"And not much else." She waves a brown hand at the busy hospital tent across the courtyard. "Four of my men would be alive right now if we'd had a minigun instead of a Gatling laser."

I begin to protest, but I see the reigned emotion behind her dark eyes and don't want that unleashed on me. And she does have a point.

Beyond the sandbag defenses of the perimeter walkway, the morning sun glints off the half-sunk hulks which cluttered the muddy water of the Willamette River. Smoke still clings to the muggy air.

The Wolves are getting smart. This time, they not only covered their longboats in mirrored metal sheets, but also wore them as body armor. The lasers still melted through, but it took longer. Too long. Some of their craft beached on the northern tip of Kiger Island, and a few even got close enough to toss grenades over the fort's brick walls. Fortunately Valerie wasn't hurt. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to her.

I try to think of something she'd like to hear. "I wish we had plasma guns," I say. When she doesn't smile or nod her head in agreement, I add quickly, "But maybe I can set the beam frequencies to oscillate. That should help negate heat reflection. It'll only take a min--"

"Just get us miniguns," she snaps. "Vindicators, if you can scrounge the ammo. And more robots too."

"But we don't have more robots! We're doing good keeping what we have working."

"Diagnostics complete. Combat subroutines loaded. Unit at 68% operational efficiency," the sentry-bot interrupts.

"Then get us what you can," Valerie says. "Things that work. This is a frontier military defense. Not a test site for your ray guns."

She scans the fort's crumbling brick walls, and for a moment looks lost and too young for her command. But she then shakes her head and steps down the rusted steel stairway to the ground. I watch her firm backside sway as she walks. Even under the dirty camouflage ceramic plates and woven polymer of her combat armor, she's gorgeous.

Some of the other guys don't think so. She isn't soft or curvy or well-stacked; she's petite iron graced with hard, thin muscles. Her face captures the angry beauty of a war elf. Other girls might be cute, but Valerie is a goddess.

If only she knew how I feel for her, how much I admire her for what she's accomplished.

One of Mr. Virgil's eye-stalks swivels to me, looks at her and twitches quizzically. His hover jet is a warm and gentle growl by my side.

"Confidence, dear boy," he says. "Just step right up and proclaim your intentions."

"But what if she says no?" I ask. "I don't think I could take that kind of rejection. Besides, after this she'll be a war hero of the Republic. Probably get a promotion. What would she see in a wormy little guy like me?"

"With an attitude like that, I imagine very little," Mr. Virgil says.

I shove my hands into my lab coat pockets and kick my feet. "Golly, I'd be happy if I could just be her friend."

It doesn't take long to finish the repairs. Mostly it's just system checks with a little part-swapping. Fort Kiger's six sentry-bots are sturdy machines, and I'm less worried about battlefield damage than plain old age.

When the bombs fell, our Vault came with a full warehouse of advanced robots and laser weapons. Two hundred years later, that original cache has dwindled to a few dozen units. Components wear out; cannibalization only delays the inevitable. I keep telling the Deans we need to focus on bootstrapping our industry, but they say that can wait until after the war's won.

I'm not sure it will be. Not by us, anyway.

On the way out I consider stopping to say goodbye, but through the command barracks window I see Valerie by her desk, talking into her Pip-Boy handset. She doesn't look happy, though no doubt it's just headquarters telling her what a swell job she did. She's not the type to bask in appreciation, though no one would say she lacks ambition. Far from it. She studied, passed the citizenship test and became the Republic's first Worldborn officer. And today, she not only won a great victory, but showed that her kind can be just as good as Vaultstock.

The southern gates creak protest as soldiers tug aside the rusted steel. I slip on my fedora, light up a cigarette and together me and Mr. Virgil exit the fort and head down the dirt road towards our waiting speedboat.

The island's little more than a sliver in the middle of the river, but the soil is fertile. Beyond chain-link fences, laborers in orange jumpsuits swing scythes and tie bundles of wheat. Guards with assault rifles patrol along perimeter platforms. The smell of tilled earth makes me think of the simple life.

Valerie's parents work on one of these farms. I've never met them before, but they must be very proud. Their daughter is a provisional citizen. Their grandchildren will be allowed to vote.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"The Mauritiuses, they're assigned to Harrisburg, right?"

"Indeed, sir," Mr. Virgil says as we allow a brahmin-pulled cart loaded with bushels to pass by. "Should we pay them a visit?"

"We could. I wonder what I should say, though. 'Congratulations on your daughter's victory'?"

"That would seem in order. And you do have influence. You could transfer them to less strenuous duties. Perhaps to the University?"

I lift my hat and scratch my thinning hair. "Domestic servants? It wouldn't be fair to them. They've worked in fields their whole lives. They wouldn't fit in with civilized folk."

"Valerie would appreciate it," Mr. Virgil says. "I don't think she gets to see them very often."

I'm about to reply when I hear her shout my name. I turn around to see Valerie jogging towards me. She looks angry and exhausted. She'd probably be red-faced if she wasn't so dark.

"Do you just ignore your PipBoy?" she demands.

I glance at my wrist. I almost always keep it muted. As Director of the Advanced Weapons Laboratory, I'm always getting engineering memos and requisition requests and other annoyances. Sure enough, the message light in the corner is flashing.

"It's from Villard Hall," she says. "I've been ordered to report in."

"Well, congratulations," I begin.

"You're coming too," she adds.

My cigarette droops between my lips. "Me? What did I do?"

Valerie's laugh is more a snicker.

"You're one of their chief eggheads," she says. "You being at the capitol makes more sense than me."

"But the Deans won't be in session for another month!" I hate board meetings. But at least I get to take a boat ride time with Valerie . . .

"I believe this has something to do with the recent emissaries," Mr. Virgil says.

Both of us turn to the robot.

"I didn't inform you, Martin," he says, "because you don't like being bothered by this sort of thing, but I've been monitoring official communiques. It seems the NCR has sent a research team from Vault City. They arrived five hours ago."

"NCR," I grumble. They're a massive country not far to the south. A lot like the Old United States, and just as flawed. I've never been there, but I hear they have no citizenship tests, no genetic restrictions on entering government. Their leaders are elected by pandering to low-IQ mobs.

They make us Worldborn Rights activist look bad. At least we maintain standards.

"They probably just want to kill two birds with one stone," Valerie says bitterly. "Pin a medal on my chest, pat me on the rear and shove me back into the fight. Then you get to deal with whatever the Californians want."

"Oh, boy," I say deadpan. Even their scientists come across as bullies. They think they can lean on us just because their population's twenty times our size. Well, they may be bigger, but we're smarter.

Valerie and I walk the rest of the way in silence, which isn't too awkward. We've rarely ever talked. Mr. Virgil keeps jerking one of his eyes towards me expectantly, but I ignore him.

Corporal Adler and Private Best are waiting at the shore. Adler is a big, scarred man, past his prime but an experienced soldier of the Viking Wars. Best is a mousy waif of a girl with wide urchin eyes and a mischievous grin.

The speedboat's not some Pre-War rust-bucket, but Republic built. Sleek and shiny and whitewashed. I nestle into one of the leather seats. Mr. Virgil secure's himself into the robot docking station so he looks like a metal octopus toadstool growing from the aft deck.

Much to my delight, Valerie sits next to me. Her armored hip even touches my own. She tugs off her helmet and adjusts the loose bun of her black, kinky hair.

Adler raises a graying eyebrow but doesn't say anything. My crush on Valerie isn't as secret as I would like.

The microfusion motor makes a gentle thrum as we slice through the water. Spray and wind flaps our flag--a yellow 'O' against a green background--nicely on the bow, but they also blast me in the face. I toss my soaked cigarette overboard, wipe my glasses and just barely keep my fedora from blowing away. From her driver's seat, Best locks eyes with me through the rear-view mirror and smirks. I return the good humor with a sheepish grin.

I really should be more friendly with them. Not just because they're my assigned escorts, but because as a member of the Liberal Genetics Party, it's only right I mingle with those I fight for.

Both Adler and Best are Worldborn, Army-Class noncitizens. Middling intelligence, but real salt-of-the-earth types. Sixty years ago, their kind wouldn't have been allowed beyond the fences of their farms, no matter how high their IQs. We've made a lot of progress, but there are still those who fought tooth and nail against Valerie's promotion. I doubt this recent victory will change their minds.

If I'm more sympathetic than most Vaultstock, it's because I know that intelligence doesn't entail moral superiority. Even the most brilliant man can be a beast. But I suppose we all live in the shadow of our fathers' sins.

The boat trip drags on, and after marshaling my courage, I casually shift in my seat and "accidentally" lean into Valerie--just a bit. Our speed bounces us on the river, and as I watch her I find myself wishing she wasn't wearing her combat armor. Maybe a tank-top instead. With nothing underneath.

A year or so ago, when she was in the Academy, she used to go swimming all the time in a navy blue two-piece. My heart would hammer and my breath would quicken every time I watched her graceful, glistening movements, and I wanted nothing more than to hold her and caress her and kiss her all over her smooth dark body.

I never went swimming with her, of course--I'm too pasty and scrawny--but I sometimes sent Mr. Virgil by to take pictures of her with his eye-cameras. I have quite a collection in my room. Mr. Virgil says I'm a pervert, but it's better than nothing.

We're passing by the Harrisburg farms when I notice something awry. Along both riverbanks, a dozen or so Worldborn laborers crouch in the tall weeds. At first I think they're fishing--which is odd enough, since they're suppose to be behind their fence, working the fields--but instead of fishing poles they raise what look to be rifles.

Which is impossible. Laborers aren't allowed firearms.

Valerie shoves me from my seat and jumps on top of me. A muffled explosion rocks us, and I hear Adler grunt in pain. Gunfire crackle fill the air. The motor revs into a high whine, and everything tilts right.

"What's going on?" I ask, trying to peek over the boat's gunwale. A chunk of wood and aluminum explodes next to my cheek. Valerie smashes my head down to the deck. For such a petite woman, she's very strong.

"Keep down, you idiot!" she hisses into my ear. Through cracked glasses I see Best slumped against the steering wheel, half her brains gone through a fist-sized exit-wound. From the the passenger's seat Adler returns fire with his assault carbine while behind me Mr. Virgil blazes out red light with his laser arm. Bullets gouge into the robot's metal skin. More punch holes through the hull of our speedboat, which I can tell is veering wildly towards the eastern bank.

I don't know what else to do, so I shut my eyes and scream.