Chapter 2 The Grey Man
“Good morning gentlemen.” Inside four of the top military leaders sat round a large table, dressed in gaudy golfing outfits. Alongside the real prize, the one he’d hoped for. Perched on the window sill, wearing an expensive, grey three piece suit, smoking a cigarette. The real power in the room. The man from an agency that didn’t officially exist.
“My name is Burton Blake. P.h.d. in robotics from C.I.T. Masters in neurological engineering from Oxford, Former head of R and D at Robco Industries. Professor emeritus at Vault-Tec U. And CEO of Blake Technical.” Right away he saw his bragging wrangle.
“Very impressive Blake.” Sneered General Simmons. Burton scrambled through his file for a comeback. He found it.
“Oh hardly, not as impressive as your son. Tell me how far did his armour walk him after he was injured?” Burton took a chance, and it paid off.
“Four miles.” Simmons sat a little taller in his chair, puffed up with pride.
“I wrote those protocols.” You’re welcome. “I understand he’s a Paralympic contender?”
“Yes, the two hundred metre sprint.” Simmons replied.
“I also designed the mounting for those prosthetics.” That made him the focus in the room.
“Did you know that one of the first atomic weapons was a landmine. You would bury it as you fell back from a strategic location. A week later it would go off behind enemy lines. The interesting thing about it was the fuse. To keep the primitive electronics warm, they would bury a live chicken with food. The detonator stayed warm, until it went off.” A disbelieving glance shot around the table. “Look it up.”
“An interesting idea, but to me they got it backwards. What if instead of a mere explosion, you could launch a full assault from within enemy territory. What if you buried the finest soldiers. Equipped with the best tech. Built to fight back a full scale invasion.” Burton had them, even the grey man. He turned and placed a steel case in front of each of them. “Gentlemen, I present you with Vault X. The last line of defence against the Reds.”
“We’ve seen pipboys before Blake.” Colonel Higgins scoffed. He’d seen just about everything before. The only one in the room still on operational duty.
“Not like this. There’s a pair of glasses in each case, put them on, and I’ll have light refreshments brought in.” Burton waited till the four around the table put on the black rimmed glasses, then pressed the intercom. “Miss Clara, could you bring us some coffee and pastries please.”
Burton stood to one side as the blonde bombshell walked in. Even the grey man stared. The glasses gave a crude approximation of the power of the device, showing Clara’s figure in slow motion. The lenses, that were in fact screens, displayed the images rendered by the device on Burton’s arm. He could feel it heating up. He used the zoom and freeze frames as Clara bent over to pour coffee into fine cups. Deeply amused with himself as he watched the feed in his own eyes.
“Thank you Miss Clara.” He gave them one last low angle as she left. “That gentlemen, was just a taste. Imagine seeing through the eyes of your sniper cover. Imagine a soldier able to recall and share everything they saw on a mission, in perfect fidelity. A black box if you will.” They saw the value in it, yet remained quietly sceptical.
Burton took the spool of what looked like black cotton from his pocket. He unwound the strand slowly, letting it catch under the flow of the air conditioning. Before long a single strand ran the full length of the table, dancing in the air, just like he’d practised.
“This is a graphene nanoscale monofilament. Lighter than air, stronger than steel. Bullet proof and conductive. Blake Technical developed it for the Velo. The device is made from it, yet it’s far more versatile than that.” From the tray Clara left Burton took a clean pork rib bone and a hammer. He took a pipboy from one of the four on the table, opened the catch and laid it flat. Burton placed the white bone right on the screen and hit it with the hammer. It shattered, leaving the screen unmarked, and confusion in the room.
“This is a bone from that very same pig. Only this one has been treated with graphene.” He held up the black bone, the sheen catching the light. “Miss Clara, can you send in one of my ex wives.”
“Right away Mr Blake.” Clara's voice crackled through the intercom. Burton let the confusion cut with disapproval hang in the air for a moment.
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A ripple of laughter went round the table as the new world clanked into the recreation of the old. “They’re beautiful, cold, cut your throat soon as look at you. And cost a small fortune. Frankly I wanted to call them ex wives from the beginning. Isn’t that right number four?” Burton spoke directly to the faux feminine form. In vintage lighting and replica carpets of The Grand, the bot looked like it walked in from the future.
“Yes Mr Blake. Good morning gentlemen. Atmospheric data indicates showers in the morning followed by a pleasant afternoon.” The synthesised voice and conversation subroutine brought more amusement.
“Number four here is one of our Assaultron Dominator class models. Faster cpu, lighter armour, emergency medical and bodyguard protocols. Am I forgetting anything number four?”
“I am also proficient in the use of small arms.” A ripple of laughter went round the table. They wouldn’t laugh if they saw her shoot, he thought. “Tell me number four, how much pressure can those claws of yours exert?”
“I am currently able to exert a force of twenty five hundred Newtons. Enough to crush a human skull.” The amusement stopped, replaced with fear and distrust.
“Can you break this in half?” Burton held out the graphene coated bone, no wider than his finger. The triple pronged claws took it, snapping tight and letting out a teeth grinding scratching squeak. The upgraded pistons and chain driven motors hissed and whirred, straining against Burton’s design. “Thank you number four.” The bot handed him the bone, it wasn’t even marked. He passed it to the Colonel, watching as it made its way to the grey man.
“Imagine a soldier with unbreakable bones. Marrow protected from radiation. Able to take greater strain.” Burton moved the pipboy to the left of the table as he paced round, clicking off the lights and drawing the curtains. Projected on the table lay the skeleton of a six foot man, bones black to match the pipboy on the left arm.
“Recovery from this amount of surgery would take years.” Admiral Rhodes pointed out.
“Well you’re half right. It will take years, but there won’t be any surgery.” Burton took a deep breath, knowing it all rested on their reaction. “The devices will be issued to children.” The top brass muttered between themselves. The grey man didn’t bat an eye. Better than I hoped, he thought.
“As the subject grows, so will the device. No more discomfort than growing pains. By the time they reach fifteen the device will be fully integrated.” Burton flicked the projected image to one showing the nervous system. “And that’s when things get interesting.”
“Are these projections accurate?” Higgins asked as he leafed through the briefing packet.
“They’re conservative. At full integration, subjects will be faster than a speeding bullet.” Burton used the reference deliberately.
Burton resisted the urge to give them his price now. His keen instinct telling him they might go for it. However the grey man would need something practical to report back.
He had Clara lead them out the waiting limousine. They took the eight lane road that Blake Technical built for free. Smooth as glass and a perfect test of the self levelling resin he’d designed over a dull weekend. Burton rarely did anything that served only one goal. Like building a Vault inside a natural cave formation.
“Not exactly hidden, is it. I saw two billboards on the way here.” Higgins complained as they drove through the car park and right up to the cave that held the entrance to the first Vault Burton had built.
“This is only a showroom, and a secure warehouse. If the worst came to pass the ridgeline, road, and even the billboards are rigged with charges. You wouldn’t know there’d ever been so much as a road here, much less a Vault.” Burton paused ready to bat away any more questions. None came.
“Two feet thick. Made from a depleted uranium composite that even I don't know the secrets of.” Burton’s Faustian bargain with the absolute monsters at Vault-Tec had limits. “You could set off a thermonuclear device where we stand and it wouldn’t make so much as a dent.” He left them staring at a vast, round door, and typed his password into the terminal.
*Fuk_U_0ld_Man!*
Metal screeched against metal as the stone rumbled beneath their feet. Burton led them through the stockroom, bigger than a warehouse. Shelves stuffed to bursting, at least the ones they walked through.
“We send the bots in first. Assaultrons cut away at the rock, Protectrons clear the rubble. Most of which we process into concrete.” Burton didn’t mention the concrete supply businesses he’d set up on the side. Neither did he mention the stolen files that led him here, to the bounty below the earth. Ultracite. His only regret was that he didn’t get to name it. Blaketonium had such a nice ring to it.
“This is our residential level.” Burton had modelled the design after a hotel lobby. Open, lit with artificial sunlight. Resin floors, polished steel and clean glass. A cafeteria in the style of a diner. The sculpted metal tree with ambient bird song.
The frightened and idle rich loved it, they had a wait list for viewing appointments. Having a place in a Vault had soon become the latest status symbol. Thanks in no small part to articles Burton paid to have written in the gossip rags.
From the corner of his eye, Burton caught sight of the Vault-Tec representative. Martin something, heading right for them. An obsequious, snivelling little man. Dressed in a vault-suit and wearing a lumpen pipboy. Burton despised him, refusing to learn his name. Mostly because he didn’t have any authority over him. Like the crates of H and H tools, part of the deal. The saving grace of both being that they were both an ideal fit for the job.
“Marty!” Burton stepped away from the top brass and smoking grey man, bringing Clara.
“It’s Martin. We have a viewing party in—” Burton interrupted him.
“We’ll be downstairs.” Burton turned away, knowing the sliver of Martin’s authority ended at the lift doors.