Chapter Three

Willamette River, Oregon

April 11, 2275

It's been a rough day. My nerves are shot. I sit on the bench by the patrol boat's gunwale, my view of the brown river partly fractured by my cracked glasses. The muggy air is made worse by my muddy wet lab coat, but at least an evening breeze cools through my thin, damp hair. The captain offers a smoke, and as he lights it trembles in my hand. This must be what they call, 'post-combat shakes.' I never thought I'd get that. I wish I had my diazepam tablets.

Along the east bank we pass the jagged brick and steel ruins of Pre-War Harrisburg. From behind the barbed wire fence of the city's inhabited zones, herds of jumpsuited workers watch us warily. How many of them want me dead?

The captain pushes up his green Republic Patrol cap and squats by my side. He's clean shaved, his face tight with sun-blasted vigor.

He sips from his mug and as if reading my mind says, "Don't worry, sir. We'll sort the Wolves from the sheep."

"The Worldborn aren't sheep," I reply tersely. I peek at Valerie to make sure she heard, hoping I scored points for defending her kind. But across the deck I see her sitting, staring dog-tired out at the trees of the west bank, and I doubt she's paying attention. My comment wasn't purely for her benefit, however. Aside from the captain, the whole crew of seven is Worldborn.

"It's just a saying, sir. But the Wolves are turning them against us," says the captain.

"Only a few," I say. "Most Worldborn are good, decent, salt-of-the-earth types. It's only the mental defectives that are being led astray."

"'Mental defectives' can't operate jamming equipment, sir. Mental defectives know their place." The captain leans close and I smell coffee on his breath. His whisper carries almost subliminally over the motors' thrum. "If you ask me, it's the smart ones we have to worry about." And with that, he gives Valerie a knowing glance.

I want to sock him in the mouth, but I keep my voice low. I don't want Valerie knowing what her peers think of her.

"Lieutenant Mauritius is a hero," I say bitingly. "She defended Fort Kriger. She saved my life!"

The captain nods. "Which means she thinks she's as good as us. How long before she thinks, 'It's not fair that my mom and dad are stuck grubbing on a farm. Why can't they be citizens too?' And soon that'll lead to: 'Why does any Worldborn have to be penned up? Why can't we be like the NCR?' And then those Wolves will whisper in her ear, and the next thing you know, her and her kind will be storming Villard Hall."

I glare at him. I'm the Director of the Advanced Weapons Laboratory; my IQ is 161. He's a patrol boat captain; his IQ probably isn't much above 130. A few well placed words and I could sink his career. On the other hand, he did save our bacon.

"I'll take that under advisement," I say coldly and turn away. He shakes his head and returns to the bridge.

Nursing my cigarette, I watch Valerie. She's taking deep sips from a Vault 9 canteen, her slender brown throat pulsing with every swallow. When she notices my stare, she gives a weary half-smile and gestures with the flask. I nod, and she closes it and tosses it underhanded. When I fumble the catch, her laugh is a grinning sneeze, white teeth gleaming in a dark face.

I pick it off the deck, open its neck and peer inside. Germs are in there. Valerie's germs. I drink the warm water greedily.

Though she's always tried to downplay it, she's the darling of the Liberal Genetics Party: an intelligent Worldborn with no family history of mutations. She's made me proud. Her bravery today has advanced the cause.

But the captain's words rankle in my brain. I imagine Valerie probably does wish her parents could be citizens, but surely she knows that's unfeasible. They're modestly-intelligent laborers; if we made exceptions for them, then we might as well give citizenship to every Worldborn. And then who would do all the work?

I consider asking her what she thinks, but no. We're officially friends today. I don't want to risk that. And besides, I know her loyalty to the Republic is unshakable.

***

It's nearly nightfall by the time we reach the docks outside the University of Oregon. People call the campus 'the city within the city,' and that's a fair enough description, though the surrounding ruins of Eugene are largely uninhabited. None of the bombs hit here directly, but two hundred years of exposure and scavenging have left the former metropolis little more than a sprawl of hulled-out derelicts.

The University is a bastion of civilization in the center of all that mess. It's stately halls are well maintained, its lawns and gardens well manicured. In its dormitories live over three thousand citizens, the vast majority the descendants of Vault 9. I am one of them. This is my home.

Valerie and I step off the boat onto the wood planks of the dock. Behind us the crew carry Corporal Adler to an ambulance. The wrecked Mr. Virgil they load into a pickup truck, where he'll be driven to my laboratory at Cascade Hall. I feel a pang of guilt for not repairing the Mr. Handy unit right away--he's my best friend, after all--but I know I'm too tuckered out to do it properly. He's currently switched off, so it's not like he'll be stuck waiting. And besides, I still have that meeting with the NCR team.

The vehicles' microfusion engines hum faintly as they drive away. The halogen lamppost above shines too bright for my eyes, and so as we walk down the dock I don't realize at first that the figure standing at the end is my Aunt Aimee.

When Valerie recognizes her, she jolts to attention and salutes. "Lieutenant Mauritius, reporting for debriefing, ma'am."

"At ease, lieutenant," my aunt says. "Report to the Collier Infirmary. You look like you've had a bad day. They'll look you over. You can debrief to Major Dahl."

Valerie looks surprised. I too thought we'd go to Villard Hall together. "Yes, ma'am!" she says finally.

"And lieutenant?"

"Ma'am?"

"You did good work today. You held the fort and brought my nephew back in one piece. Thank you. I have a feeling we'll be adding a second bar to that insignia of yours."

Valerie manages a weak smile. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

Aunt Aimee is smiling too, but it looks stiff on her lined face. Something's bothering her.

As Valerie walks slowly, nearly limping out of the light, I consider running up and giving her a goodbye hug. Not just as an excuse to put my hands on her--even if only through her combat armor--but also because she looks like she needs it. Her day was worse than mine. But I hesitate, and then she's far enough away that it'd be weird. And besides, I don't want her to think I'm a pervert.

Instead, I say, "Good night, Lieutenant! And thanks again!"

In the darkness of the University lawn, she turns and waves languidly. "See you later, Dr. Polakowski. I would say it's been fun, but . . ."

"Call me Marty," I say.

She laughs a little and nods. "All right, then, Marty. You can call me Val. Good night."

When Valerie is out of earshot, Aunt Aimee turns to me. Her nose is an aquiline beak. Her fierce brown eyes are penetrating like a hawk's.

"Why on Earth did you go to Kriger?" she snaps. "You're one of our chief scientists. We don't need you risking yourself in the field doing grease-monkey repairs. That's what your techs are for. You know, the people who work under you!"

"Gee, Auntie Am, I just wanted to--"

My aunt scowls in the direction where Valerie went, though the shine from the lamppost now fogs her from sight.

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"It was because of her," my aunt says accusingly. "No, don't lie. I've heard all about your little crush, and I saw how you were just then. What do you expect will come of this? Do you want to marry her? Ha! Wouldn't that be something? Polluting your genes with some jumped up farm girl."

I stare at my aunt, horrified. I know she's a traditionalists, but this is too much. "But Auntie Am, she's a citizen! She passed the IQ test!"

"If you call a 132 'passing.' Three points lower and she'd be an Army-Class enlistee." She grips the muddy sleeve of my lab coat and tugs. "Come on, let's get you to Villard. We don't want to keep the Deans waiting. Now, anyway, Mauritius is a clever girl and a good soldier--and don't get me wrong: I think she's earned her citizenship. Barely. But she's also made powerful enemies today."

"Wait, what?" I say. "She's a hero! She saved my life!"

My aunt looks at me askance, with a hint of a smirk. "From what I understand, you had a hand in that. That counter-jamming you did was quick thinking, by the way. But anyway, there are a few among the Deans that were hoping she'd lose the fort. I know, it's crazy, but they really want to discredit the whole idea of Worldborn officers. But she won, so now they're going to redouble their efforts to get rid of her."

"Pure Vaulters," I say. They're a party of political dinosaurs. Fringe, but they still swing their weight. "I spoke with one on the boat,"

She nods. "The military's full of them. Poor girl's going to be watched like a hawk. Best thing for her would be to disappear for a while."

We both go silent as we cross the cracked, Pre-War asphalt of the Riverfront Bridge. A nighttime fog has rolled in, blurring the slowly sweeping spotlights of distant sentry towers. Two guards on the bridge's far end stand to attention as we pass. Both my aunt and I nod our appreciation. The Wolves are sneaky; even here in the capitol, we must remain vigilant.

That's a maxim Aunt Aimee has recently taken to heart. Since her promotion to colonel, she's done a lot to bolster the Republic's defenses, mostly overseeing the renovation of old forts and the laying down of mine fields. It's not work she enjoys.

In her prime, she led soldiers in both Viking Wars. She's got a lot of ribbons and tin on her forest green jacket, but I think earning all that undid her. She won battles, but became known for recklessness. The Deans don't like 'reckless,' so they reassigned her to what amounted to desk duty. Also, they never forgave or forgot what she did during the manhunt for Dr. Julian Manfredi--my father.

When I was three, my father caught my mother in bed with another man. He beat her to death. It was a crime of passion, but my mother was well liked; my father had many rivals. The court sentenced him to death by lethal injection. My father escaped the next day.

Aunt Aimee was real close to her sister, and against orders stormed off with her company to track him down. A lead told her some Worldborn were behind his jail break and this led her to a nearby plantation. From what I understand, she questioned the farmhands harshly. Too harshly. Some didn't survive. I'm not sure of all the details, but the Deans launched an investigation. She was nearly court marshaled.

It was all for nothing, though, because she never found him. No one did. My father has been missing for twenty-three years.

No big loss there, I guess, but my mother is someone I wish I knew. I don't remember her at all, but between my grandparents and Aunt Aimee, I know I would not only have loved her, but liked her as well. This isn't quite the case with my aunt: I love her, but I hesitate to say I 'like' her. She can be a bit of a witch sometimes.

When we finally reach the wrought iron gates of the capitol building, Aunt Aimee and I are discussing my frequently submitted idea for building dirigibles.

"But Auntie Am, they'd be untouchable! How can they shoot down things that are a half mile in the air? We can bomb the Wolves and Vikings back to the Stone Age! And the NCR! They won't be able to push us around anymore. Yes, I know, they have vertibirds, but only a few. And we can put lasers on our airships and, Bzzt! them out of the sky!"

My aunt makes that familiar groan that lets me know what she thinks of that. It's a moot point, since both the President and the Deans had shot down the proposal eight times. Not enough resources, they say. Anyway, I drop the subject because mentioning the lasers makes me think of that assassin's head exploding. I did that. I killed him. The memory of that cooked meat smell heaves my stomach a bit.

We climb the marble steps. Guards open the ancient oaken doors. We step inside, cross the well-furnished vestibule and enter the long hallway beyond.

Above, ornate brass fixtures flicker a yellow light that filters through the ubiquitous dust that permeates the air. Portraits of long-dead Presidents, Deans and Directors watch us from ornately carved frames which hang evenly spaced along the floral-wallpapered walls. A protectron robot standing in an alcove swivels as we pass--a single reminder of modernity. Villard Hall dates to the late nineteenth century, nearly four hundred years ago, and possess the same musty gravitas that other old, stately buildings seem to share.

Such as my lab. That is my true home. I wish I was there and not here.

My aunt has to review some munition production reports, but before she leaves me she says I should clean up first. After all, it wouldn't do for the Director of the Advanced Weapons Laboratory to go before the Deans looking like he lost a fight with a septic tank. Especially not in front of some smug NCR scientists.

I make a call on my Pipboy, and in the Hall's locker room take a quick shower. By the time I get out, a servant's left me a pack of cigarettes, my spare glasses and a fresh change of clothes to replace my mud-soaked ones. After a few minutes of worrying over my hair to make it look thicker, I decide I'm ready. Just a one stupid meeting, and then I can turn in to bed.

The Dean's boardroom is in a sub-basement, but still above the Vault. The old elevator car creaks worrying as it descends, and then the doors open. I walk down another hallway, turn a corner. Two guards with tri-beam laser rifles step aside to allow me to enter.

The room's well lit and bigger than you'd expect for being underground. Especially now, since it's surprisingly empty.

President Cage, looking as jovially decrepit as ever, sits stooped at the end of the long, wooden table, alone except for my grandpa, the Chairman of the Deans sitting beside him.

As I smile and wave to my grandpa, I notice the redheaded lady already standing by my side.

"Ah, Director Polakowski," the president says in his old man warble. "So glad you could join us. I understand there was a bit of an incident along the Willamette. Oh, my, yes. Hee, hee. But I'm glad you've emerged unharmed . . ."

But I'm barely paying attention. My eyes are on the lady. I guess she's a few years younger than me, maybe twenty, twenty-one. She's a real cute package, with a bob of orange-red hair framing a heart-shaped face sprinkled with little gold freckles. Behind her narrow horn rim glasses her wide eyes are a striking green flecked with brown that reminds me of the University's forest gardens in early autumn. Beneath her lab coat, her vault-blue jumpsuit is tight enough to show off round breasts and ample curves.

I'm staring at her. The president's still talking.

". . . an envoy from the NCR."

The lady gives me an adorable overbite grin. I try and fail not to blush. She holds out a hand, and an awkward moment passes before I remember to take it. Her grip is surprisingly firm.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Director Polakowski," the lady says in a melodious Californian accent. "I'm Dr. Peaceman, from Vault City. We need your help."