Chapter 14: Workshop of the Wasteland
Dawn's pale light seeped into Vault 9X's main chamber, filtering through high, narrow slit windows and casting long, thin beams across dented metal floors. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of light, like drifting motes of memory. The repaired reactor thrummed steadily at the far end—no longer a threatening growl, but a confident pulse, as though the vault itself had drawn a breath of relief. Adam Rook stood before the network map etched onto a steel holotable, its surface flickering with the vault's schematic overlays. Nia hovered beside him, arms folded, eyes sharp beneath her dust-cracked hood.
He traced a finger across the map's lower levels. "Hydroponics bay here," he said in a hushed tone, deliberate. "If I can get water flowing again, we'll have fresh greens and nutrients." He tapped another node. "Weapons forge—likely stashed pre-Fall barrels and plating. We'll need defensive tools if anyone hears the reactor hum."
Nia leaned in, her breath visible in the cool air. "And the med bay?" she asked, gesturing to a third marker. Adam's gaze shifted to a sealed door mid corridor—its plating dented but intact, the label faint.
"That's where we found the cryo pod," he replied. "She survived the collapse, but we'll need to stabilize her once she wakes fully. If she has pre-Fall knowledge—or just basic medical skills—it could accelerate our repairs." His voice carried weight; this was no optional rescue, it was strategic necessity.
Together, they studied the lines branching from the central hub. Each corridor was a lifeline—and a trap: rusted vent shafts, collapsed stairwells, and flooded sections lay between them and every wing. Their path would not be linear.
Nia tapped a collapsed conduit near the hydroponics marker. "We'll need tools—sandwich plates, tubing from the maintenance bay, spare clamps. The infrastructure's shot."
Adam nodded, then paused, his hand hovering over an unlit segment of the map. "What about this?" he murmured, pointing to an unpowered shaft labeled MATERIAL TRANSIT. The map's power line to it glowed faint—starved, dormant.
Nia's brow furrowed in the map's reflection. "I saw that in the schematics, but it was offline after the meltdown. I never dared check it."
Adam's pulse quickened. "If that shaft still leads to storerooms, we might find unused caches—power cells, spare parts, maybe even pre-Fall seed banks." His eyes gleamed with a rare spark of excitement. "Better than scavenging the more exposed wings first."
Nia met his gaze, weighing risk. "Transit shafts are narrow and pitch black," she warned. "Collapsed easily—could be trapped."
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the sweat, the tight wire work, the patched shielding. We've faced worse. He glanced at the humming reactor, then at Nia. "We'll route secondary power through the hydro locker to light the shaft. Move slowly. No hurry."
She nodded tightly. "Cold steel and open doors. I like it."
Adam straightened, feeling the vault's steady heartbeat beneath his boots. Ahead lay three critical wings—and the unknown promise of the transit shaft. He clenched his gloved fist.
"Let's start with the material transit. If that yields supplies, everything else gets easier."
With renewed purpose, they stepped away from the holotable, the vault's hum trailing behind them like a silent drumbeat, and toward the darkened corridor.
Into the Transit Shaft
The corridor walls bore flaking paint and rivets protruding like tired teeth. Footfalls echoed. Adam carried a compact LED lamp rigged to his gauntlet, casting a pale halo. Behind him, Nia's shuttered gaze swept corners, listening for shifting metal or unwanted company. The airflow was stale, thick with dust, with faint chemical tangs of old coolant leaks and oxidized metal.
They turned a corner and found the access hatch to Material Transit. It was rusted, hinge pins frozen. Adam knelt, applying lubricant from a small syringe, then a wedge. A groan of protest as bolts gave way. He pried it open. Inside lay darkness.
He secured a rope line from his belt to Nia's waist. "Stay near," he murmured.
They descended a ladder shaft. Rungs blurred under their lamps; the air cooled. At the bottom was a narrow tunnel, maybe two meters high, three wide. Rails ran along the floor—rails for material carts that once hauled supplies between wings.
Adam flicked on his lamp over his shoulder; Nia did the same. The lamps cut through darkness, but ahead lay shadows and mystery. Electrical trunks and cable conduits ran along the walls, many severed, many bare. Water dripped somewhere. The echo was deep.
They stepped carefully across the rails. At one fork, a cart rail switch lay half-rusted. Adam bent to inspect; his hand brushed a small crate half buried in dust and debris. With effort, he dug it free. A vault-sealed supply box, its clasp intact. He pulled it open. Inside: spare power cells—three compact units with triple-layer casings—plus a bundled roll of insulated wire, clamps, and brittle tubing. A pulse of triumph glowed in his chest.
Nia exhaled behind him. "Jackpot."
He grabbed the items, tucking them into his pack, careful not to jostle. Lights flickered overhead—residual wiring jerked alive for a second. The hum of distant machinery responded. Then silence.
They advanced deeper. The rails ended at a collapsed tunnel. Metal beams and masonry had caved in, blocking the route. But the side wall showed signs of forced cut before collapse—pre-Fall damage perhaps. Adam strained to find a crawlspace, saw a shaft opening overhead, small vents. He and Nia wedged through the gap, half sliding, half pulling themselves through clawing dents. The tunnel beyond stretched away.
They emerged into a material depot: storage racks, crates, barrels, parts scattered, tools rusted but recognizable. Faded stencils identified "Cryo Components," "Filter Media," "Battery Banks," "Spare Valves." Adam inhaled sharply. The possibilities were real.
They worked fast. Nia stood guard while Adam pried open crates: power regulators, backup filters, vacuum pumps, spare clamps, metal mesh, sealed sample packs. In one crate, he found a stack of seed canisters—wheat, leafy greens, protein algae—glimmering unexpectedly. In another, plastic tubing still supple amid ruin.
Their haul grew. The weight pressed on packs, on backs, but the promise outweighed burden. Nia nodded: "Let's get what we can, then retreat before collapse worsens."
They backed toward the entrance. The shaft groaned. In sections, dust rained. Adam gripped Nia's arm, they moved faster, pulling crates, supporting each other. There was a deep groan: a section of ceiling trembled. They ducked under a beam just as it cracked. Rock and metal rained. Their lights flickered. Then stillness.
They skidded down the ladder shaft, climbed, pushed shut the hatch behind them. Their breaths ragged. In the corridor above, dim light welcomed them—faint but alive.
Med Bay Revival
They strode to the med bay, packs loaded. The overhead lights there flickered erratically, as though struggling to support new load. The faint whine of vacuum pumps and broken life support systems sang behind cracked observation panes.
Inside, the cryo pod stood quiet. Its canopy open, glass shimmering faintly in the stale air. Beside it, a medical bed held a motionless woman, sheets drawn to her chin. Her scrubs were worn, the IV line lifeless.
Adam knelt before the pod's terminal. Dust caked the surface; fingerprints from prior reopenings. He tapped commands; the display blinked POWER CELLS: OFFLINE in red. The pod's circuitry lay dead, its backup reserves drained long ago.
He glanced at Nia, who tightened her grip on her shotgun. "We've got to get this powered. If she survives, she can help us map systems, tell us what structure we're in."
Nia nodded. "I'll cover you." She backed toward the corridor, scanning shadows.
Adam rose, crossed to a row of decommissioned life support units along the opposite wall. He pried open one panel, exposing banks of capacitors, coils, wounded circuitry. Sparks drifted as he stripped insulation with a salvaged knife, cursing under his breath when metal shards bit his gloves.
Back at the terminal, he held capacitors and wiring. He assembled a rudimentary power conditioner: twisted loops of wire, capacitors bridging current spikes, diodes scavenged from old circuit boards. The scavenged torch (converted to a low-heat soldering tool) glowed as he melted leads across terminals. Sweat trickled down his temple; his hands shook slightly.
Nia's soft footsteps echoed in the corridor. She returned with a portable panel—one of the surge regulators from the depot crates. She placed it beside the pod console. "Plug this in too," she said. "Take load off your work."
Adam nodded. He brought the last connection. A soft hum rose, trembling at first. The pod's console blinked: SYSTEM BOOTING… INITIALIZING MEDICAL CYCLE. Nia exhaled, relief sharp and brittle.
The canopy hissed, hydraulic arms gliding the glass shut. Inside, subtle blue lights glowed. Mechanical lungs exhaled and inhaled. The environment stabilized. Then:
ENGAGING INJECTOR SEQUENCEADMINISTERING STIMULANT DOSEBEGIN WARM UP
Adam pressed his palm to the glass. "Come on…" The IV pump beside the medical bed somersaulted to life—tubing primed, fluids flowing. The woman's chest rose slightly. Nia let out a low whistle just behind him.
Adam tapped a sensor on the bed rail. The vitals flickered—weak, irregular, but alive. The pod's ambient systems regulated temperature, pressure, oxygen mix.
The woman moaned, head lolling. She blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. "W-where…" Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
Adam crouched beside her. "You're safe. You're in Vault 9X." He spoke soothingly, careful.
Nia stepped closer, placing a hand carefully on the bed's edge. "I'm Nia. This is Adam."
The woman's brow furrowed. Her eyes focused on Adam. "A-Adam… N-Nia…" Recognition glinted. Then confusion. She tried to push up; knees shook. Nia steadied her.
"Easy," Adam said, touching her wrist to read vitals. "Don't try to push just yet. Cryo recovery takes time."
Tears glinted in her eyes. "I… I'm… Alicia. Medical lead… Project SANCTUARY…" Her voice broke.
Adam exchanged a look with Nia. "Project Sanctuary? You worked here before the collapse?"
Alicia nodded slowly, trembling. "We tried to save people before the bombs fell. I… I don't know how long I was frozen." She closed her eyes, a tremor of grief passing. "Tell me… what year is it?"
Adam swallowed. "Twenty years after the fall, roughly."
Her face creased: disbelief, sorrow, release. "Twenty years…" She whispered. "Thank you."
Nia placed a cautious hand on Alicia's shoulder. "Drink some water. Then we'll explain everything." She lifted a canteen, held it to Alicia's lips. Alicia drank slowly, painfully, but fully.
Adam turned back to the pod's terminal. "Now that she's online, we need to reroute power to environmental controls—air quality, temperature stability. And give Alicia a proper berth. With her awake, she might tell us where sealed labs were, where critical systems lie."
Nia nodded, cautious optimism lighting her face. "And we'll watch for surprises."
Alicia's hand trembled as she clutched at the sheet, eyes flicking between them. "Vault 9X changed a lot while I slept," she whispered.
Adam paused in the doorway. The hum of cryo cooling faded; ambient fans clicked. Alicia lay propped, breathing more steadily, her eyes tracking the door. Nia stood guard. He slung his pack heavier now with the depot haul.
"I'm heading to the hydroponics bay next," Adam said over his shoulder, voice echoing in tiled walls. "I need to see if I can get nutrients flowing. Stay here. Rest. I'll be back soon."
Alicia managed a nod. "Please be careful." Her voice was thin but urgent.
Nia rose, shouldering her shotgun, posture tight. "I'll stay. Any change, you'll know."
Adam gave a curt nod, then slipped into the dank passage beyond the med bay. The door hissed shut behind him. The trio's sanctuary was sealed—quiet, fragile—but alive.
The Green Tomb of Hydroponics
Past flooded corridors and dim emergency junctions, Adam descended two levels. Water pooled in the halls—brine lapping at gear, steam rising in the cold gloom. The corridors led to a heavy hatch. He pried it open and stepped into the hydroponics bay—a muted world of decay, where life once bloomed.
What had been a vibrant greenhouse—rows of green crops, humming water jets misting young shoots—was now a tomb. Broken pumps, shattered grow trays, collapsed racks, dead vines. Overhead skylights cracked, shattered; only narrow slits admitted sun. Dust motes danced in the thin light.
The air was pungent with rot and stale water; the scent of organic breakdown. Adam's boots rang on cracked tiles; roots and debris snagged, tripping him. He carried his lamp across the central zone. Broken sprayers, severed tubing, rusted valves lay strewn.
He followed the beam until it caught the bay's central pump unit: a hulking, half-buried machine, twisted with corrosion. The control panels were scorched but present, labels faded. He knelt, touching actuator ports. His eyes flicked to the exo-frame limb strapped to his pack, and a grin cracked.
He unlatched the actuator joint, freed it, cleaned grit from its pistons. The copper rod shone faintly. He wedged it into the pump's vacant actuator port. Then he scavenged scrap plating, bolts, zip ties, lengths of tubing. He fashioned a mounting bracket. The fit was imperfect, heat warps, but close enough.
He strapped it in, tested with his hand. The rod slid. Good.
Next, he scoured destroyed trays for clear tubing. He found segments still pliable. He fashioned a foot-pump linkage: one end fastened to the actuator rod; the other looped onto a bent steel pedal plate. He tested: pressing the pedal extended the rod, capable of pushing fluid.
He said quietly, to the bay itself, "Let's get you alive again."
He crouched near a half-buried reservoir tank, scooped in filtered brine (pre-tested, partially desalted). He filled the pump intake. Then he gave one steady press on the pedal. The actuator rod slid, driving fluid into one grow tray. Liquid trickled through roots and soil, into a collection trough. The sound: faint drip. A whisper of life.
He opened a rust-sealed cabinet in the corner. Boxes lay stacked: dormant seed canisters—Wheat, Barley, Leafy Greens, Protein Algae—and canisters of powdered nutrients: N-PK-Micro Mix. He gathered them carefully, arms full, careful not to shock them.
With seeds and nutrients in hand, he returned to the pump, primed nutrients into tray loops. Each pedal pushed water-laden solution across rows. The ambient light glinted on powdered fertilizer as he dusted seeds over damp soil.
But fatigue gnawed. His torch beam flickered on a fragile sprout—the first green shoot clawing from sludge, slender but alive. He smiled despite dry throat.
He packed the seed cans, nutrients, tubing into his pack with care. He gave the system one last charge of filtered brine, watched flow. A steady drip now, not trickle.
He pocketed his tools, slung on his pack. The hydroponics bay was fragile, a skeleton of innovation, but with actuator drive and seed in hand, the green heart of Vault 9X might beat again—one pedal, one drop at a time.
He turned to the corridor exit. The bay's silence followed—broken grow trays, dead vines, the distant hum of restored current in shafts. But the promise was there, hidden in every drip, every seed, every bulb of potential.
He exited. Behind him, the vault held its breath, waiting.