Chapter 11 Robco Industries

Wallace broke the quiet of the crackling fire with the loud ripping of old wallpaper, once, then again. His secret project ready to be seen by his grandfather at least.

The boy’s young eyes gave something away as he walked across the workshop. Staring at the dusty crates beneath the empty bench. He kept glancing at it while he gave Robco the first of his ideas sketched out in detail, and to scale.

Robco smiled, impressed with his grandson’s obvious talent for far more than drawing. “Very clever Junior.” The older man put his arm around the boy and drew him in close, sensing something had been stirring in the boy’s mind.

“So this goes…” They spoke in familiar shorthand. Each drawing, explaining in turn, refining the ideas further. “Yeah, we can do that I think.” The bright boy of no more than eight smiled, then recoiled slightly. Looking down at his canvas shoes. A prepared explanation in his mind. He gave his grandfather the second drawing. Instantly Robco recognised whatever the boy had drawn, and hadn’t expected it.

“Ok, just hear me out.” Wallace spoke almost apologetically, mixed with the certainty of a sharp mind. “If we had time I’d help make another, but we don’t and you said that it was mine and I could do whatever I want with it.” The boy leant in to whisper, just not quietly enough. “Someone’s gonna cut his arm off Pop Pop. You always said Dad would give a stranger the shirt off his back and I’m like dad. Plus he’s only borrowing it, I don’t need it right now, he does.” Any objection Robco may have had vanished in that moment, all bar one.

“You’ll have to ask your mother, but it’s alright by me.” The older man turned away from the boy as his voice broke. “You know I think if your Dad was here, he’d do the same damn thing. He’d be real proud son, real proud.” His face lit by the workbench, John could see what the boy couldn’t. He hadn’t turned away to simply hide the sadness in his eyes. Robco wore the same mixed expression he had in the coffee shop, during the interrogation that ended in him held hostage with his own gun.

“John, wanna see something neat?” The boy shifted awkwardly as John pretended not to have been listening. John walked over to the empty bench. Already thinking of how to reject whatever the boy had in mind without hurting his feelings.

Wallace dragged a heavy, green, wooden box out. Brushing the dust from it, opening it slowly. The weight of sentiment heavier than the box itself. He stood having retrieved a long, dark tan, leather coat. Nearly identical to the one Robco wore out in the old world.

“This belonged to my Dad, it's mine now, but I want you to take it on your quest, it will help.” Wallace held out the heavy coat, his small arms straining under the weight. “Try it on.” John took the fine coat, it weighed more than he would have guessed. He started to put it on, hoping it wouldn’t fit.

Being stored away hadn’t harmed the coat. It still felt supple, the black fur lining still soft. “Feel the sleeves, they’re lined with chainmail! You know, in case someone tries to…” Wallace mimed someone trying to cut off John’s arm and giggled awkwardly.

If it hadn’t once belonged to Wallace senior John would have gladly accepted the fine garment. It didn’t exactly fit. Tight across the back and arms, especially around the pipboy. But not enough to refuse it.

“Who’s ready for dessert?” Louisa shouted, quickly approaching from the house. John wasn’t fast enough to get her dead husband’s coat off. Wallace looked pensive, knowing this might be tough for his mother.

“No, we’ll come in Lou, you go on back insi—” Robco’s words came too late. But he moved quick enough to catch the tray of sweet smelling, piping hot, bowls Louisa would have surely dropped otherwise.

Neither man spoke, Wallace tried but his mother held her hand up to stop him. The still grieving widow looked around the workshop as she composed herself.

She saw her son’s drawings. Saw how the design of John looked like the barbarian comic book hero the boy loved. Saw how his keen intellect had seen the problem of someone hacking off his new friend’s arm. A thought that crossed her mind too, but most of all she saw her son. Her brave boy trying to help, like the stories she’d told him of his father. Stories that left a lot of things out.

By now Louisa stood in front of John, he couldn’t meet her eyes. He half expected her to slap him, and would have forgiven her instantly. His own grief for his father still sharp.

She reached out, running the back of her hand down the fur lined lapels. Then to John’s surprise she hugged him, or rather hugged the life he brought back into her husband’s coat. John hugged her back, as best he could in the tight, armoured sleeves. They stayed there for as long as she needed, the closet thing she had to heart beating in the coat she made for the father of her child.

“He’s only borrowing it Momma, he needs it right now I don’t.” Wallace broke the silence again as his mother hugged him.

“Louisa I can’t take this. It’s beautiful, but it should stay here, with you guys. If anything happens to it out there...” John trailed off, wondering what would happen if someone did try and cut his arm off.

“No. Wallace is right, you need it and if his Dad was here he’d do the same.” She wiped a tear from her eye before it fell and smiled. “Besides, can’t say I’ve ever heard of a one armed barbarian.” She laughed, so did everyone else. Even John, although he wasn’t quite sure why.

John moved Louisa’s bench into the centre of the workshop at her request and laid the long, leather coat out flat. The family shorthand started again as drawings were passed round. Each half sentence answered on paper and passed again. While they each tucked into the steaming hot bowls of dessert. Hot, sweet, crunchy on top and gooey within, filled with chewy bits. Topped off with rapidly melting white blobs that had a hint of alcohol to it.

“What is this stuff?” John mumbled, his mouth near glued shut.

“Bread pudding with dried mutfruit, topped off with clotted brandy cream.” Louisa said, rightly pleased with work. “Made from stale bread, old fruit, and off milk. Good isn’t it.” John nodded as he finished his first ever dessert well before anyone else. Wallace sensed his mother’s eyes linger on the coat a little too long and sought to distract her.

“Want to see a magic trick? Pop Pop, you’ll like this too.” Wallace placed the upper half of the shiny blue vault-suit flat on the workbench. He took his mother’s slender hand and put it under one of the impact protection pane on the chest. “You trust me right?” Before Louisa could answer Wallace pulled a hammer from behind his back and brought it down hard on his mother’s hand. Everything shook on the table as Louisa jerked her hand to her chest, bracing for the expected pain that never arrived. “Magic!” Wallace announced, waving his hands dramatically.

“It’s an impact protection pane.” John said, taking the opportunity to explain something to them for once. “The harder you hit it, the harder it gets. Saved me a lot of trips to the Med deck.”

“See, magic! Newton’s third law, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, not this stuff!” The boy’s excitement transferred to his mother and his grandfather as they each took a turn hitting the Vault-suit. Not really accepting the law breaking material till they tried it. Robco repeated John’s words to him.

“It’ll keep the boy safe.” He nodded gratefully. Louisa began running her hands along and inside the smooth, strong high tech fabric. Then she ran her hands along the rough spun, borrowed shirt John wore, understanding why he still wore the suit underneath.

“Take off your shirt and pants John.” She caught herself just as she spoke. “I don’t mean it like that, or maybe I do.” Louisa’s mood had lifted.

“Gross.” Wallace didn’t sound amused. John quickly removed the shirt and pants. Pleased to be rid of an itchy neck for now at least. But not being able to hide the sense of weakness that he couldn’t dress in normal clothes.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea or two.” Louisa half whispered as she approached him, tape measure in hand. “If you’re gonna wear one of my coats, it’s gonna look correct.” She set to work with the measuring tape, reading off numbers as Robco took note.

She let her hands linger. Grinning with flirtatious glances as she measured his biceps, chest, waist, even the pipboy. And most awkwardly his inner thigh. John knew Louisa wasn’t really flirting with him. More amused at the muscular man in a near skin tight suit flinching bashfully.

Slowly, respectfully, the boy alongside his mother set to work altering the fine leather coat to fit John’s broader frame. Most importantly to obscure the rare, and therefore precious, jet black pipboy on his arm. First they reversed the coat revealing the secret design hidden within.

Linked metal rings, hundreds of them, lined the heavy sleeves. Thick black fur around the chest for warmth. The lower half dotted with clips, straps, pockets. Rather than being designed to hold one thing, they were movable, interchangeable. Allowing them to secure different things with ease. Weights sewn into the hem to keep the shape.

Louisa quietly busied herself snipping away at the metal links. It took real effort, and not just because of the strong metal. Wallace wasn’t quiet. He was keen to show off the secrets, the clever ideas hidden in the coat. Pointing out rows of small hoops for ammo, hidden pockets, well disguised slits to allow access from outside.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“And then there’s this.” The boy pulled at a metal ring in the hem of the coat, pulling out a chain with sharp edges. “It’s a wire saw, for cutting wood, pretty clever right?” John nodded, wondering how tough wood was to cut.

The boy’s tugging and pulling at the coat, eager to show it off, had distracted his mother as she worked. Resisting running her hand through the fur. Instead making long, plumb straight cuts in the leather with something that would have looked at home on the Med deck.

Wallace returned to his bench leaving John feeling like an apprentice again. In the way, nothing to do. The three strong team set about their familiar routines, techniques and shorthand.

John fed the roaring fire. Returned briefly to the still warm house and took a chair from the kitchen table. Unwilling to disturb the empty bench further.

He sat with Wallace as the boy tied thin, shiny, synthetic cord to loose chain links. Pulling it taught, then weaving to form a belt. He did it with such skill he only needed to glance occasionally at it. His main focus another comic book held up with wire.

The boy used a lighter to heat the tip of a knife then cut a small length of the cord for John, searing the frayed end closed. The boy tied a knot, John copied till he got it right. Slip knots, pull knots, safety knots, he picked them up quickly.

Next he helped Louisa. Under her strict, quiet instruction he operated a heavy punch to put copper rings along the split sleeves. Keeping well back as she fed the coat into the flywheel driven machine that drove stitches through its thick layers.

Last but by no means least, and by far the most suited to his experiences, was the heavy work at Robco’s bench. Eyes and ears protected. The older man repositioned and re-equipped the robotic arms.

He showed John how to operate the cutting disc, nearly identical to Vault equipment. He completed his set task, cutting down an old hammerhead to an edge at one end. Robco let John start grinding the pointed edge, but took over towards the end.

John watched as the older man ground the metal to a fine edge, then repurposed the arms yet again. Effortlessly switching to an ingenious drill bit that not only bored down through the old hammerhead, but cut sideways too. Widening the hole a wooden handle had long rotted from.

Everything going on around John became too complex, too precise, so he did what he could. Straightening up. Taking the bowls back to the kitchen. Pouring drinks, including his own. And gathering up the crumpled paper covered in discarded ideas.

John sat on the furniture by the fire, his fire, tossing in the pre-war wallpaper. Watching the three strong ‘Robco Industries’ at work. Judging by the far more worn furniture outside than in, John thought the scene would be much the same had he not been here.

A different project perhaps, but still the same joy in their work. The same cohesion they shared. Not only with each other but their tools and even the workshop itself. Forgetting entirely were it not for him, there’d be another empty bench.

John searched for something else to experience. Feeling just a little left out. Not wanting to interrupt the finely tuned people powered display of craftsmanship in front of him. The thrill of discovery just as intoxicating as his whiskey and cola. Wallace moved from his bench, John took a coloured pencil from the jar of many. Hoping no one saw, he tried to write on the back of the scrap wallpaper. He could read, he could code, how hard could this be.

He gripped the pencil entirely too tight, pressed entirely too hard, and pushed through the paper. Learning albeit slowly, he leant on the flat, toughened screen of his pipboy. He just about scratched out his own name in wavy, half hesitant lines. Before snapping the point from the pencil.

“Don’t write, draw.” Wallace said, handing him a fresh pencil. “You need to get used to drawing shapes first then write. Like this.” The boy directed John to make simple lines and circles into what he called stick people. Dots for eyes, curves for smiles. Crude by the boy’s standards but enough to relax John’s grip and teach him in an amusing way.

John looked at the childlike drawing, oddly pleased with the basic representations of him. Complete with a small box shape for a pipboy. Wallace’s dumbed down drawing of himself, the simple shape for the workshop and the even simpler dog. “Now sign it, that makes it art.” Wallace said, writing his name and age neatly underneath.

“Art?” John asked, unfamiliar with the word and no longer concerned with embarrassment.

“Yeah you know pictures and stuff, you put them on the walls to look nice.” Wallace sounded sad again while he pointed at his own, far more impressive artwork. The only things in the pictures in the Vault were lies. He clumsily wrote his own name, better than before, but he still had to laugh when he saw ‘Wallace aged 7 3/4’ neatly written next to the shaky ‘John aged 25’.

“Alright boys, I think we’re about ready.” Louisa had been ready for a while, hovering, sorrow for the man who couldn’t write in her eyes. Pride for her generous, helpful son in her voice.

Laid out on the table was the product of the family's work. The coat. The belt. Custom made holsters for his multi-tool and the gun he’d taken from the raider’s waistband. Fractions of a second before he put a bullet through the man’s neck. He struggled to look at it, but Robco gave a quick glance to let him know he had it covered.

Wallace started first, unable to contain the excitement of revealing his grand ideas. “It’s made of parachute cord.” Wallace said as John ran his hands along the tightly woven, synthetic cord belt. Two exposed chain links at one end for a buckle. Six more individual ones intertwined throughout, horizontally and vertically, to provide anchoring points. “It’s light but it’s real strong.” The small boy held up a single chain link, with a loop of cord attached, gesturing for John to hang it from the hook in the wooden ceiling.

Knowing the boy’s sense of drama, he instead hoisted Wallace from the ground allowing him to hang the cord. “Alright let go.” Wallace said while John still held him up, John did. To everyone’s amusement, besides his mother, he hung from the thin cord. Twirling and giggling, till he dropped a moment later. “Your turn.”

Sensing he may be about to be pranked, and ready to fall on his backside if it amused the boy, John reached up. He took the thin cord in hand, slowly tensing his arms, gradually lifting his full weight off the ground. His muscles grateful for the work.

“See, strong, if you pull here.” The boy pointed to a metal pin secured in the weaving. “It’ll unravel into one single, fifty foot length. You could climb with, tie stuff down, loads of things. And then when you come home I can make it into a belt again!”

Wallace could barely stand still as he waited for John to try the belt on. The first thing he’d ever worn, ever owned, that was uniquely his. It fit well, not too tight. Enough length for him to tie it around his shoulder if he needed to.

“Not bad boy, when you gonna make one?” Robco congratulated his grandson without humouring him.

“Thank you Wallace, this is very clever.” John didn’t humour the boy either.

“Oh and the water cans.” The boy showed John the simple but effective metal bar he’d attached with wound wire. How it secured tightly in the embedded chain, but released easily with a twist. Wallace hooked on a can, then removed it. Then did it again, and again. An idea revealing itself.

He dropped the water can with a clatter. “I need to talk to Betsy.” Wallace all but sprinted back to his bench and began typing rapidly. Green data scrolling down the twin screens. John thought maybe the idea of giving away his father’s coat had gotten too difficult, but he didn’t look upset or distracted. He looked focused.

“Hand me the belt John.” Robco asked as he took the belt, admiring the skill of the boy as he laid it flat. The holsters attached rigidly with steel pins through the chain links.

One side for the pistol he still couldn’t look at and the other for the multi-tool. Each one mounted on thick leather supporting secure pockets, straps and clips. All empty for now.

“Now these ain’t finished yet, just need to get the weight right on each side first.” Robco handed back the improved belt and John did it up. Tightening the thigh straps to secure the mounted holsters. “Junior, fetch a branch, show John your idea.” Wallace tore himself from his latest bright idea and left the screens, bringing a branch to the work bench.

“You can’t be a real barbarian without an axe or a hammer, now you’ve got both!” Wallace showed him the cut down hammerhead, one side now shaped with a sharp edge. He picked it up fitting it over the wrench. Tightening the grip around a central bar and hinging it over, locking it in place. “The harder you swing it, the tighter it gets!” He brought the modified tool down on the branch, cracking it near clean through with his small arms. John took it and tried swinging it, it felt like a lump hammer, and capable of cracking more than wood.

“You’re gonna need to chop wood for a fire out there.” Robco said, keeping John focused, “Stow it like that, see how it feels.” John slipped the even more functional multi-tool into his left holster. Seeing it’d been designed to carry it this way, something heavy and sharp close at hand.

Robco slipped the raider’s pistol into the other side, giving John no reason to touch it, yet. “How’s that feel?”

“Good, great, thank you, I mean…” John trailed off, not wanting to even show a hint of ingratitude.

“A little heavy on the left and high on the right.” The skilled craftsman didn’t need John to tell him, “We’ll take care of that, you and me will fix up that gun later.” Robco gave him a glance, telling him, letting him hold his questions back a little longer. The distraction of work, fun work, creative work, had stilled the churn of questions in his mind. But it was too late now, the dam wouldn’t hold much longer.

Louisa had been quiet for a while now. She sat, lost in memory, running her fingers through the black fur on the lapels of the now altered coat. John couldn’t take it, he started to give her a well deserved reprieve.

“Louisa I understand.” He whispered, trying not to offend the boy typing away. “I’m sure I can buy a coat, it should stay with you.” She wiped away a tear.

“No, it’s better this way, doing some good rather than sitting in a box.” Something had lifted from the widowed mother. Like she’d spent time saying a fond goodbye, perhaps finally allowed to by her son’s good nature. “Besides you can’t buy a coat like this.” She exhaled deeply.

“Try these first, I made them out of an old soft t shirt.” She whispered the last part, trying to be sympathetic. Louisa stitched the soft fabric into a tight fitting collar and wrist coverings. They felt much smoother than the borrowed shirt as John slipped them on. Achieving the desired effect of hiding the vault-suit and keeping the rough shirt at bay.

Once he’d dressed in the beige trousers and check shirt fully he found it much more bearable. His relief clear to the woman as she wrapped the pipboy in the remaining soft fabric like a bandage.

“If anyone asks, you broke your arm.” Louisa said, looking John in the eye. He’d kept plenty of secrets over the years, although he’d never had to hide the mere existence of the device before. With one last lingering touch Louisa held up the fine, long leather coat for John to slip into.

The precise alterations made it fit perfectly. The extra leather stitched into the back allowed the whole garment to sit properly on his broad shoulders. The hidden chainmail sleeves were now cut under the forearms then laced like the woman’s boots. Flaring them out enough to mask the pipboy outline. While the weights in the hem and cuffs kept the shape as he moved around at its creator's instruction. “Good, it’s not too heavy, too tight?”

“Louisa, it fits perfectly.” John liked the weight, it gave him a sense of protection, of anonymity. He looked like everyone else again.

“Those sleeves will stop blades, not bullets, understand. Try looking at your thing.” She suggested.

“Pipboy.” The boy corrected his mother in a way that made John laugh. The leather strip, once his belt, laced up the slit under his arm. With a little effort he managed to fold the sleeve up on to his bicep, doubling the thickness of the chainmail. It wasn’t uncomfortable, a bit unbalanced, but he could move well enough.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you, for everything, I promise I’ll bring it back.” John meant it, even if he still didn’t quite believe it. Louisa stood in front of him, straightened up her husband’s coat one last time, looked John in the eye and said a single word.

“Correct.”