Chapter 13: Heart of the Vault
Adam's boots crunched against the salt-stained concrete as he carried the two full canteens through the yawning vault entrance. Morning light slanted in behind him, catching motes of dust in its beams. The hiss of the sealed door closing echoed off steel walls; the low hum of auxiliary lighting thrummed through the corridors—just enough power for them to see, not enough to waste. He paused, letting the echo die before he took the next step; sound, he had learned, could betray as easily as footsteps in the shifting dunes.
He set the canteens down beside the solar still's basin, where the final drops of distilled water gathered, glinting like liquid crystal. Nia was already there, kneeling beside it, cupping a metal cup under the spout. Clean water dripped steadily, each bead a small triumph. Adam crouched, pulling a small handheld tester from his belt. Wires from the still's coil trailed behind him, tracing a thin network leading back to the reactor fragment in its sealed cage. He dipped the sensor into Nia's cup, watched the readout blink from red to orange—then green.
"Safe," he said, voice soft but firm.
He turned fully to face Nia, whose elbows rested on her knees. Relief flickered across her face: hope shuttered and now cracking open. She lifted the cup with both hands, fingers trembling, inhaled the steam rising before the first sip. The scent was pure—no brine, no sulfur, no taste of metal. Just water.
Adam watched her swallow, throat flexing; the clean water's promise visible in the way her shoulders eased. He allowed himself a quiet, almost guilty smile. This—this moment—was everything. No firefights. No desperate races for fuel. Just water, pure, free. For a few breaths, the world felt still. His mind drifted to the steel corridors ahead: workstations waiting for power, circuits waiting for repair, secrets buried in the lower levels. But those could wait. For now, the vault was theirs in peace.
Nia set the cup down, her hands lingering over it for a moment as if she wanted to memorize its shape. She looked up at him, eyes bright. "Never thought I'd taste water like that again." Her voice was wistful, almost fragile, as though she was speaking of a dream. She glanced up toward the flickering lights overhead. "With this… God, we can build anything."
The truth of her words settled heavily in Adam's chest. He nodded, heart steady at her tone. He hefted the second canteen and handed it to her. "One step at a time," he said. "First—water. Then we fortify this place."
She accepted the canteen, her expression a mix of gratitude and guarded optimism. Together, they rose, carrying canteens and the fragile glow of hope into the silent halls beyond. Dust motes drifted through the light; metal girders overhead cast long shadows. The passing of time was audible in distant drips, the soft whine of old machinery, and the trough of low wind through cracks in the vault's outer shell.
They entered a large bay—part machine shop, part relic cathedral of industry. The air smelled of rust, oil, stale coolant. Workbenches cluttered with half-finished components, cracked visors, discarded bolts. The floor was littered with metal shavings, glass fragments that caught light. Some benches bore scorch marks where welding had been attempted long ago; others had tools hung, long unused.
Adam moved with purpose. He swung a torch in his hand, its small flame flickering when he lit it, casting distorted shadows. He swept its beam across tool racks; the metal glinted where rust was thinner. He found a plasma cutter, its casing dented but mostly intact. He lifted it, inspecting the fuel reservoir. Half-full. The trigger mechanism creaked, but when he pressed it, the arc sprang alive—briefly, cleanly. Not perfect, but usable.
He stashed it in a patchwork canvas pack. Then a scavenged wrench set, its metal teeth still sharp despite corrosion. Coils of insulated wiring, copper cores exposed in places but still resilient. Each item he lifted, he tested—bend, tension, spark, smell. Sensory check: sound of twist, smell of burnt insulation, metallic taste on tongue when he rubbed copper wire (always careful). Good.
Nia remained at the entrance of the bay. Shotgun over her shoulder, alert. Her boots tapped lightly on concrete. She watched his haul with a mixture of admiration and concern.
"You're collecting trash," she observed, arching one eyebrow as Adam stuffed another piece of alloy into the pack.
"Trash builds the future," Adam replied without looking up. He hefted a spool of insulated wire over his shoulder. "You see a pile of rust. I see patchwork panels, structural reinforcements. I can use this wiring to reroute power from the reactor's dormant sectors." He tucked the spool in, securing it so it wouldn't snag.
She snorted softly, but said nothing. Her eyes nevertheless were following his work, seeing the patterns, the logic, the possibility.
Adam crossed to the far end of the bay where sheets of plating leaned against the wall. Some were dented, others so pitted with rust they looked like dried skin. But a few still gleamed faintly where time hadn't claimed them fully. He touched one, running a fingertip over the surface; it was cold, almost slippery. He tapped it with his knuckle. The sound rang true—solid.
"This alloy could hold up against radiation leaks," he said, sliding a sheet forward and inspecting marks of machining—indentations, stamping. "If I weld a layer of this over the cracked shielding, we'll have at least a temporary barrier." He paused, imagining the reactor's containment field, the places where cracks had threatened to leak. He measured thickness with his eye: a few millimeters here, patches there. Enough if supported properly.
He dragged three sheets onto a workbench, stacking them carefully. Then his gaze shifted to the exo-frame limb. It lay there among machine parts: articulated hydraulics, pistons, joints. Nearly pristine, with only thin film of dust, crusted grit at the edges. Adam knelt, traced a finger along its hydraulic line. He tested the joints by moving them. Greasy, stiff, but not seized.
"This… this is gold." He freed the actuator joint with a sequence of careful cuts—plasma cutter sparking, glowing, painting the metal edges bright yellow. He lifted the joint, heavy in one arm, and slung it across his shoulder like some trophy.
Nia stepped closer into the bay, eyes following that limb. "Tell me you're not building a robot," she quipped, voice low but amused.
Adam smirked. "Not yet. Priority is keeping us alive. Other crafts can come later." He set the limb aside among other salvaged parts, planning in his mind what might be built.
A sudden metallic clang echoed deeper in the vault. They both froze. Nia's shotgun snapped up; her breathing slowed, every muscle taut. Adam instinctively ducked his head beneath a workbench, sliding a small panel partially for cover. Their torchlight sliced through the darkness; shadows leapt, dust fell.
Adam switched off his torch for a moment, letting ears strain through the dark hum of old systems, the steady drip of brine from somewhere leaked, the distant echo of water mingling with concrete. He listened. Heart pounding. Then, nothing—just the hum, the dripping.
"You hear that?" Nia whispered.
"Could be a pipe shifting. Or something else." His tone was steady, though his fingers curled into the grip of a wrench in his pack. "Stay alert."
They waited another beat. Then Adam reignited the torch. Light spilled. Beam caught rust flakes, webs. He crawled forward to peer around a bent doorframe. Shadows danced where pipes had collapsed. But nothing moved.
Relief. He exhaled. "False alarm, I think. Just settling metal." But even as he spoke, he stayed cautious. The vault was old. Old metal contracted, expanded; wind bored through fractures; brine corroded hidden joints. One misstep could bring collapse or exposure to contaminated zones.
He resumed scavenging, more deliberate now. He found a pair of intact welding goggles. He pulled them from a dusty shelf, checked lenses for cracks. Then a canister of cutting fuel—fueled torch fuel, likely volatile. He secured them with care.
On a rusted shelf, he discovered an old tool kit wrapped in oilcloth. He gently unrolled the cloth: inside, precision tools glinted—fine-tipped spanners, insulated pliers, a caliper that when squeezed still clicked. Each tool clean compared to its surroundings. It lay as if the craftsman had placed them down, planning to return, but never did. Adam felt a pang.
"This is exactly what I need." He held up the fine-tipped spanner, turning it in his gloved hand. "Without proper tools, doing anything delicate inside the reactor is dangerous. Improvised tools can slip, lead to arcs, tears, a breach."
Nia surveyed the kit, her expression softening. "You know what you're doing, then?" she asked.
Adam didn't answer immediately. He closed his eyes for a second, mentally mapping joints, wiring, containment walls. "I used to. Before everything—before the collapse. I can still feel in my bones what tolerances matter, what fails first, how metal expands under heat, how fast a crack spreads."
She nodded slowly, seeming to accept what had been unspoken—his past, his skill, his risk.
He found two more pieces of scrap alloy—thicker, curved—and a heavy-duty clamp. He turned back to Nia. "This is enough for now. We can't carry more without slowing down or risking structural collapse deeper in."
"Good," she muttered. "Because I don't like being this far in. Feels… wrong."
He adjusted the weight of the pack on his shoulders. The plates clanged lightly; the limb's actuator joint pressed against his back. He could feel sweat slick beneath his pack straps. "The vault isn't dead. It's just waiting for someone to bring it back to life."
Nia raised an eyebrow. "You talk about this place like it's alive."
"Because it is," Adam said, glancing at the walls, at the faint hum beneath his feet. Lights flickered from generators somewhere below. The sound of machinery cooling, motors in sleep, vents sealed but breathing. "It's built to endure. We just need to help it remember how."
They left the maintenance bay behind. Before entering the flooded corridor, Adam paused by a heavy hatch. He turned a valve, sealing it shut: ancient mechanism that kept water from higher levels, from brine ingress, from corrosive flood. He listened to the hiss as seals pressed. Good.
"We'll come back for more once I know the reactor's stable," he said. "There's enough here to rebuild half the systems if we're smart."
Nia followed him through corridors where water pooled, ankle-deep in places. Briny, cold. Light bounced off shallow ripples, torch beam fracturing over the floor. The smell was coppery, wet stone, mildew. Everywhere metal ribs curved overhead in repetitive arc after arc; rivets long rusted but still holding.
Halfway up the stairs to the reactor chamber, Adam spoke without turning around. "Once I fix the shielding, we can expand deeper. There might be sections we haven't even accessed yet. Storage rooms with clean power cells, or data banks, tools that have been sealed off. Maybe even labs."
"And what then?" Nia asked. Her voice echoed down the stairwell, overlapping with dripping water.
He paused briefly, fingers brushing a pipe, testing vibration. "Then we stop surviving and start building." His voice firm; the words felt like promise.
They reached the main chamber. The auxiliary lights flickered overhead, pale glow against ribbed walls, metal trusses, conduits ending in darkness above. Adam set down his load on a cleared patch of floor. Metal clangs, echoing slightly. He crouched, breathing hard but focused; arms burning with exertion.
He sorted the tools: plasma cutter, alloy sheets, precision toolkit, the actuator joint from the exo-frame limb, wires, clamps. Each piece placed methodically, next to others of like function. He arranged makeshift tool zones—cutting, welding, measuring.
"This will do for a workbench," he muttered. He dragged over a heavy metal crate from one corner, flipped it on its side. Laid a wide sheet of steel across it. The surface rang with a dull clang that echoed. He tested balance: solid.
Nia leaned against the wall, shotgun across her lap, watching. "You're not wasting time, are you?"
"Time is our most valuable resource," Adam replied. He knelt and picked up copper coils they'd recovered, testing each. Some visibly corroded; others with insulation intact. He smelled copper, felt rust flake. "If the reactor shielding fails completely, this vault becomes a death trap. I need at least a patch job before we bring more power online. Just a few weak points sealed."
He slid on the precision toolkit gloves, laid out wrenches and insulated pliers. The tools caught the light, dancing. He tested them one by one: torque, fit, cleanness. He selected the ones least worn, ready.
Adam pulled out a scrap plate and, with charcoal-soot from last night, sketched rough outlines on its back using a charred piece of metal as a makeshift pencil. His plan: panels will cover breach points. The actuator joint repurposed as a clamp to keep the patch secure under thermal and radiation stress.
He double-checked measurements: length, breadth, mounting holes, points of heat exposure. He tested fit against the breach—still small but widening. When hot, heat would expand metal; he needed slack, but not so much that the seal would warp.
Nia hovered, watching. "You're turning dead parts into a bandage?" she asked quietly.
"A bandage that will keep us alive," Adam said. He smiled faintly. It was less a joke than a vow.
He powered up the plasma cutter. The arc flashed, bright and white-blue, illuminating his face and casting sharp shadows across the ribbed walls. Sparks danced. He made his first cut: precise. Metal shrieked. He felt the heat through the gloves. He cut the sheet to shape, edges glowing momentarily, then cooling, turning dull.
Then he measured, aligned, tacked into place with welding tips: bracket here, clamp there. The alloy plate pressed against old shielding. Gaps, small, but he planned to weld over them, fill them, seal them. He tightened the clamp—the exo-frame actuator joint doing double duty as clamp and brace.
Hours passed: light shifted, auxiliary lamps flickered. Adam's arms tired; sweat-soaked shirt clung, salt crust at neck. Nia fetched water from the canteen, offered it in silence. He took it gratefully. The shield patch held: no obvious leaks, no sparks escaping. Inside, he could feel a faint warmth where the reactor core lay beyond the wall. Not hot; residual. But enough.
He glanced at Nia. Her face was drawn, eyes bright with tiredness. "How risky?" she asked again.
Adam paused, placing one hand on the patched shielding. The metal felt cool beyond the immediate welds, but he knew when the reactor reactivated more power, radiation might still seep through micro-gaps, heat might stress joints. "There's still residual heat and radiation. Could spike suddenly. If the containment fails, exposure will be serious. But if it holds… we can start rerouting power without sealing ourselves off."
Nia nodded sharply. "Then don't mess it up."
Adam checked his gauntlet's readout: Power Transfer: Nominal. Cooling Systems: Ready. The small interface lights blinked green; temperature sensors along the breach showed stable levels. He gathered his harnessed tools: welding torch, clamps, plates.
He took a breath. The moment of truth. "Let's see if this old reactor still remembers how to breathe," he said, voice equal parts determination and reverence.
He ignited the welding torch, the white-hot arc splitting shadows. The smell of molten metal, ozone. Sparks flew, molten beads of steel glowing orange before cooling to dull gray. He welded the plate over the breach. Rained sparks that hissed where they hit tool crates, where drops of molten metal landed on concrete. He kept steady hands: weld line continuous, overlap strong, avoid cold joints, run bead properly.
Beside him, Nia stood guard, shotgun in hand, but eyes on him. She whispered occasionally, offering water, helping hold clamps, shining the torch where he needed light. Together they worked as though they had done this before, calibrating trust, calibrating movements.
When he shut off the torch, silence fell. The arc died with soft crackle. The smell of hot metal lingered; air trembled faintly from recent heat. Adam patted the patch, listening for any hiss, any sound. None.
He looked up at Nia. Her face was illuminated by the fading auxiliary glow. Relief—cautious, but real—showed.
He exhaled. "We did it."
She offered a small, rare smile. "Yeah. For now."
He gathered tools, cleaned the edges, sealed gaps with weld and alloy shims. All under strict cautious movements: exposure minimal, time measured.
Together, they backed away from the reactor shielding. Adam closed off circuits gradually, needing to run diagnostics, test for leaks, for radiation bleed. He checked meter readings: background radiation in safe range (for now), heat under control, cooling vents operating.
They packed up what they could carry, leaving the bench more orderly than they'd found it. Every tool in place, every sharp edge away, every loose panel secured. The vault groaned slightly as metal cooled, contracting.
Nia collected the canteens. She drank, letting water slide down, eyes closed. "Well," she said at last, "this vault might just remember how."
Adam stood in the heart of the vault, breathing in air cooled by concrete, heavy with the echo of work. He looked out along the ribbed tunnels, into darkness ahead—places they had not yet explored. Possible chambers, labs, storage, tech.
He raised one of the canteens. "To water. To shields. To what comes next."
Nia raised hers too. For a moment, they were silent companions under the vault's vaulting steel, sharing hope.