Chapter 10: Static and Sparks
The Ops Bay's low hum was broken only by the crackle of static from the infirmary's speaker. Dawn's pale light filtered through cracked vents, catching dust motes drifting in the stale air. Adam Rook crouched at the radio console, the worn metal floor cold beneath his boots. Every element in the bay seemed suspended in anticipation—rimmed digital gauges blinking, coiled cables hanging like vines, and the occasional hiss of pneumatic pistons adjusting the panel height.
His gauntlet's HUD glowed faintly green, overlaying the immediate surroundings with schematic outlines and vital statistics. With measured precision, he cycled through frequencies: standard distress channels, high-band emergency nets, and encrypted private codes left by the vault's original engineers. Each click of a tactile button felt amplified in the near-silence, a reminder of how precious quiet could be. Adam paused, absorbing the implications of multiple pings.
Then, through the static, a voice: distant, fractured, urgent. "Any survivors of Outpost Nine… repeat… survivors report…" The phrase shattered into white noise, but Adam looped it—time-stretching the clip, isolating its spectral profile. He played it at slower speeds, shifting pitch and reversing segments to glean clearer phonemes.
His gauntlet intercepted the signal, mapping its waveform. Two separate triangulation pings appeared on his HUD: one anchored at the vault's external antenna, the other hundreds of kilometers away in the northwest desert ridge. The coordinates flickered on his reticle, tiny points of data against a backdrop of rusted hardware. He paused, absorbing the implications of multiple pings.
Adam frowned. If the stronger ping had been dual—as if someone near their antenna was rebroadcasting it—someone could be relaying a pre-recorded SOS. But the dual-source signature told a different story: this was a universal broadcast, transmitted and echoed by multiple repeater nodes. It wasn't a targeted hail to Vault 9X; it was a general distress call.
He exhaled slowly, lips parting in a silent breath that fogged the HUD's lower lens. The transmission's ambiguity was dangerous: a genuine SOS from stranded survivors, or a carefully constructed lure designed to draw every hidden enclave into a trap. His gloved hand hovered above the PTT mic—each second dangerously close to breaking protocol. If he keyed it, the vault's secure frequency would betray their location instantly. He remained crouched for a moment, letting the stillness wash over him before responding.
Somewhere beyond the soundproof casing, out in the desert, the listener waited. Friend or foe, Adam couldn't risk discovery. With a flick of his wrist, he toggled a filter to remove the broadcast's automated repeat, isolating the faint background hiss—distant wind, the faint groan of shifting metal, perhaps the scrape of scavenger boots across sand. He scrutinized the noise for any clue, but found only static. He stood very still for a second, listening to the hum of the vault's machinery around him. It was a grim reminder that, for better or worse, they were alive.
The console's LEDs blinked in protest, hungry for power he could ill afford to give. Adam's jaw tightened; every nerve under the gauntlet prickled with residual charge. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to a place already teetering on collapse. With one deliberate motion, he shut down the amplifier, severing the broadcast's reach through the vault's systems. The silence that followed felt heavier, laden with unanswered cries echoing across empty sands. Yet in that quiet, Adam made his decision: Vault 9X would hold its secrets—and its safety—above all else.
Nia entered the Ops Bay with measured steps, boots ringing against the bare metal floor plates. The vents' low hum filled the space around her, punctuated only by the faint beeps of the console. She paused beside Adam, the glow of the radio panel casting a pale circle on her face. Shadows danced in her eyes as she studied the console's flickering readouts. "You sure that wasn't meant for us?" she asked, voice cautious yet edged with vulnerability. Her question hung in the air, weighted by unspoken possibilities.
Adam didn't turn his head. His posture remained rigid as he swept one hand across the array of switches and knobs, fingers brushing the worn metal as though they carried the memory of every past decision. The gauntlet's HUD reflected off the console's sleek surface, revealing signal graphs that writhed like living things. He sighed quietly, feeling the stale scent of recycled air and dust fill his lungs. "It's a general SOS," he said finally, voice measured. He rotated the amplifier's dial down, the green LED shifting to amber before fading out. "Replying would broadcast our location. If it's genuine, sending help might do more good than harm—but this signal could be a trap. We can't risk it."
Nia stepped closer, catching her reflection in the glass of the console. Her brow furrowed as she weighed his words. Outside, in the desert beyond the vault's reinforced walls, countless eyes could be listening, waiting for any sign of life. "But if they're real survivors?" she pressed, uncertainty coloring her tone. "People who might die if we keep this closed?"
Adam finally looked at her. In the muted light, he seemed older, the lines around his eyes accentuated by worry. "We don't know how far this broadcast reaches, Nia. Could be dozens of kilometers, or hundreds. Anyone with the right gear could pinpoint our antenna and come straight for us." He reached for the handheld mic and slid it off the hook. The metal felt cool under his fingertips, transmitting a faint vibrational hum to his nerves. With a single motion, he pressed the transmitter latch, severing the channel. The speaker crackled once more—then fell silent.
"Our plan is simple," he said, returning the mic to its cradle and powering down the transmitter. "Observe. Gather intel. Stay hidden. We don't reply unless we have definitive proof it's safe." Each word was firm, carrying the weight of their grim necessity.
Nia nodded slowly, the conflict in her eyes barely hidden as she tried to accept their choice. Relief washed over her features, but so did a flicker of guilt. "Feels wrong, shutting them out," she whispered, tracing a fingertip across the console's edge and leaving a smudge in the dust. "But… better safe than sorry." She managed a small, conflicted nod as she spoke.
Adam gave a curt nod, expression unreadable. He tapped his gauntlet twice; the internal command let out a final hiss of hydraulics as the vault's broadcast systems sealed. The internal antenna retracted to standby with a soft mechanical sigh. As the Ops Bay settled into a hushed lull, both felt the weight of the silence they'd imposed. It wasn't victory—just a choice made in shadows, guarding secrets that might haunt them yet. Together, in the dim light and muted hum of electronics, they stood silent and watchful.
The infirmary's half-light felt oppressive, as though the very air mourned in quiet sympathy. Adam paused at the threshold, the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the stale hum of recycled atmosphere. The doorway framed the narrow room where their patient lay, still encased in the aftermath of cryogenic stasis. He moved inside, followed closely by Nia. At the center of the room, the comatose woman lay motionless on a narrow metal cot, her once-imperious features softened by weeks of stasis. The tinted glass of the cryo chamber had been removed, but the residue of encasement still streaked her temples. A nutrient drip's tubing snaked from a corroded IV stand to her arm, weaving a delicate web of translucent lines that pulsed rhythmically with each infrequent heartbeat. The machine beside her clicked quietly, the only sound of life besides the steady beep.
Nia hovered at the side of the cot, her slender fingers lightly brushing the touchscreen of the monitor. The display flickered in muted greens and ambers: heart rate steady at a worryingly low fifty beats per minute, oxygen saturation plateaued around seventy-eight percent, and neural activity registering as faint delta waves. Each line blinked slowly, as if feeling its way through darkness, raising Nia's concern. Every beep of the monitors felt like her own heartbeat in the quiet room.
"Still nothing," she whispered, voice a soft ripple in the hush. She glanced up at Adam, eyes reflecting deep worry. "Pulse is steady but she's not waking."
Adam stepped to the foot of the cot, footsteps silent on the smooth floor. He folded his arms as he observed the woman's fragile stillness. Her dark hair was damp with sweat; he reached down, placing a gloved hand on her forehead to measure warmth. Taking the end of a plastic comb from the nearby counter, he gently brushed back a lock of her hair, revealing the pale sheen of cryo-encapsulation residue along her temples. He straightened and spoke softly. "She's stable, but that's not enough," he murmured. His breath misted the cold air. "Cryo trauma can take days to heal. Temperature fluctuations, cellular dehydration, neural shock—all those factors." He glanced at the display again. "Her body needs time to reestablish homeostasis."
Nia pressed her palm to her chest. "Whatever happened to her out there… we can't let her slip away now," she said quietly. Her voice was steady, but the resolve in her eyes matched the tension in her shoulders. They shared a moment of silent solidarity—two weary guardians bound by the promise to protect a life reclaimed from the abyss. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
Adam nodded and moved to a countertop lined with medical supplies: small vials of electrolytes, neuro-stimulants, and anti-inflammatory serums gleaming under the lamp's pale light. The sterile odor of alcohol swabs and saline filled the air as he selected a syringe and a small vial. Returning to the bedside, he kneaded a bit of gel onto the needle tip—a numbing agent—before attaching it to an IV extension. "I'm going to give her a low-dose stimulant," he explained, eyes still on the patient. He tapped the syringe into the IV port and slowly pushed the plunger, injecting the solution into the nutrient drip. "It should help elevate her basic reflexes gradually. I'll set the timer so it infuses in thirty minutes. Until then, we observe and monitor."
Nia exhaled, tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. "What if she wakes disoriented? Or panics?" she asked, watching the color slowly spread through the fluid in the line. "She could thrash, hyperventilate… that could be dangerous with her condition."
Adam looked up from the patient. He retrieved a small vial labeled sedative from a tray and inserted it into a driver. "Sedatives are prepped if it comes to that," he said softly, clamping the vial in place. "We'll keep her brain circuits stable, not racing. Until we know how this goes, we keep everything controlled." He injected a tiny dose into her IV line, just enough to ease any sudden awakenings. The biopod continued to hum along, steady.
They shared another moment of solidarity—two sentinels against the night, guarding a precious life reclaimed from the void. Outside, the vault's corridors hummed with low power; inside the infirmary, their vigil illuminated a brighter hope against the encroaching darkness. A fluorescent lamp overhead flickered once, casting a restless shadow over the cot.
Adam finally straightened and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. "I'll check on her in a bit," he said. "For now, let's make sure the corridor lights outside stay on steady." He pointed to the panels on the wall. "If anyone comes for help, they need to see we're active here."
Nia nodded and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Be careful," she said quietly, concern lacing her tone.
Adam gave a curt smile. "Always." He backed out of the infirmary, the narrow door sliding shut behind him with a hiss. Nia settled into a chair by the monitors, eyes still on the screens as Adam moved on to the next urgent task.
Ahead lay the Reactor Hall. The passage narrowed as Adam approached; its doorway loomed like a maw in the dim corridor. Faded yellow hazard stripes—once a glaring warning—were almost invisible beneath layers of dust and grime. He paused just outside, adjusting the straps of his tool belt; the metallic clinks echoed like distant thunder in the silence. He took a deep breath, the chill of the tunnel air flowing into his lungs.
With a flick of his wrist, he raised the gauntlet's beam to its highest setting and stepped forward. The light sliced through the gloom, revealing clouds of steam billowing from ruptured vents above. He held his breath as the door creaked open fully, the hiss of escaping fluid intensifying. Cold condensation began to bead on the inside of his visor.
Inside, every sense raced as he crossed the threshold. The fusion core—once the vault's beating heart—lay exposed in a grotesque display of failure. Scorched conduits snaked across the floor, their insulation charred into brittle flakes that crumbled beneath his boots. Jagged metal jutted from the warped containment vessel, edges twisted and torn as if forced open from within. Clusters of sensors hung limply from fractured mounts, circuitry charred beyond recognition like burnt memories.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of overheated steel and the bitter tang of ozone. Traces of cool mist hung around ruptured vents, shimmering where cold air met the beam of his gauntlet. Adam dropped to one knee beside a control rack and began running diagnostics through the HUD interface. Data scrolled across his vision:
Core Status: BREACHED – 0% Containment Auxiliary Capacitor: 16% Capacity Emergency Fans: Functional (running at reduced RPM) Coolant Pressure: 3.8 PSI (critical threshold 5.0)
He exhaled, breath fogging the cold air. The coolant system's reading was alarming; with only 3.8 PSI, any misstep could trigger overheating or a secondary breach. Every nerve in his body tensed: one wrong move, and the chamber could become a furnace of steam and danger. He steadied himself, heart pounding in his chest despite the cold silence.
He rose slowly, eyes scanning the devastation for anything salvageable. Against the far wall, a line of inactive subreactor banks sat sealed in metal casings. Many panels were torn off, wires severed, but a few still held remnants of life. Below them, a thin stream of pale coolant leaked into a grated trench, shimmering in the beam as it sprayed tiny droplets onto the floor. "This chamber had spoken its truth: Vault 9X's core was dead," he said, more to himself. He forced himself to think beyond despair. In this wound of steel and steam, survival required improvisation.
Adam's mind moved to the next strategy. If the reactor was out, perhaps smaller generators or emergency supplies remained elsewhere. Before he could set up another plan, a sharp hiss snapped him to attention. An overhead valve had sprung open; coolant spurted into the air. He tugged at the valve wheel and twisted it closed, cutting off the spray. The sudden quiet left a ringing in his ears.
He straightened and shook off the annoyance. The Reactor Hall had given what it could. Now to seek other sources of power. With that, Adam backtracked through the corridors, leaving the reactor's ruin behind him.
He made his way to the familiar gray hallway of service tunnels. Emergency lights cast a sickly teal glow as he approached the junction panel at the corridor's end. Yellow hazard tape still marked its worn door, though most of it had peeled away. The panel door hung slightly ajar, revealing a nest of wires behind it.
Adam approached warily. The gauntlet's beam illuminated the tangle: smoke-blackened cables intertwined with thin ribbons of graphene. He knelt and tugged a charred cable aside, exposing two intact graphene-lined jumpers. They glimmered faintly, nearly invisible in the dust-covered panel. Taking a deep breath, he selected the jumpers and clipped them into corresponding ports on the panel board. A soft click echoed as the connectors locked into place. Almost instantly, a calm voice emerged from the HUD:
Allocating Power: Med Bay—40%, Dorms—20%, Solar Relay—10%
Adam wiped sweat from his brow and frowned. Forty percent to the med bay still left too little margin. An unexpected pump cycle could drain it to zero. He needed to secure life support. He slid a finger over the control sliders on the panel, each notch creaking as graphene contacts shifted. The hum of overtaxed circuitry pulsed in his wrist. "Adjusting allocations…," he muttered.
First, he boosted the med bay's share to fifty percent. The HUD updated in green letters:
Med Bay—50%, Dorms—20%, Solar Relay—10%
Next, he raised the dormitories to twenty-five percent, ensuring the sleeping quarters wouldn't fail:
Med Bay—50%, Dorms—25%, Solar Relay—10%
Finally, with a deep breath, he bumped the solar relay up to twenty-five percent, accepting the risk to stealth for a more stable power grid:
Med Bay—50%, Dorms—25%, Solar Relay—25%
He exhaled as the system confirmed. Instantly, the lights in the infirmary above brightened incrementally, bathing the room in a steadier glow. Down the hall, corridor fixtures followed suit, transforming oppressive gloom into dim but reliable illumination. The overhead fans roared to life, drawing stale air and exhaling faint wisps of fresh flow. Even the dormant solar array on the vault's roof shivered at its standby feed as a small current trickled through the relay lines.
Adam leaned back against the wall and sealed the panel housing. The renewed hum of recovered circuits echoed through the hallway. The vault felt alive again: gauges hummed, servos clicked, and machines whirred under the new strain. He gave the panel a respectful nod, grateful for the fragile stability he'd engineered. He could almost hear a faint cheer in the revived circuitry. The soft chime of the gauntlet's low-power alarm reminded him it had limits. He flexed his arm, feeling the heat of its overtaxed circuits beneath his sleeve. For now, it held. He allowed himself a grim smile—consider it a small triumph in the darkness.
He retraced his steps toward the Ops Bay, each footstep echoing through the vault. The weight of the day's decisions pressed on him—decisions that had enforced silence outside to protect life within.
The Ops Bay door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Nia stood at the console, arms crossed beneath her padded jacket, eyes fixed on the screens. The dim glow of monitors reflected in her eyes as she watched the static noise indicator. She turned as Adam entered, expression tense and expectant. Before either of them could speak, the broadcast burst through again—a scratchy overlay of static and urgency. Adam's gauntlet detected a familiar pattern in the modulation, confirming it as the same universal distress call: "Any survivors of Outpost Nine… repeat… survivors report…"
Nia's posture jerked slightly; her grip on the console tightened. "They're still out there," she murmured, voice taut. There was no accusation, only the ache of the question left unsaid: were those calls real cries for help, or sirens of danger? Adam kept his gaze on the console's readouts, then at the steel walls around them. In that moment, he felt the true burden of their silence: the line drawn between mercy and self-preservation. He knew that every second they remained radio-silent could mean someone in the desert was breathing their last, but once they spoke, a storm would descend.
His HUD pinged an alert: three thermal signatures flickered across the outer perimeter. He tapped the security feed; external cameras flared to life on the monitors. Tiny silhouettes scurried across the dunes outside the northern gate, weapons slung over their shoulders glinting in the harsh sunlight. A bead of sweat trickled down Adam's temple. He placed a steady hand on Nia's shoulder, feeling the tremor beneath her padded jacket. "We have company," he said softly, voice steady. "Time to test that silence."
Nia snapped into action. The butt of her shotgun clenched in both hands as she slid it smoothly from the rack. With a practiced motion, she racked the action, loading a shell into the chamber. Her hands barely trembled as she shouldered the weapon, training and resolve holding panic at bay. "I'll man the gate," she said, voice resolute despite the warning gleam in her eyes.
Adam stepped closer to the console and pulled up cached schematics of the vault's access points. The three thermal blips moved steadily, now halfway to the perimeter. He tapped the blast door controls, arming the auto-lock sequence and setting a single manual override in case of emergency. The ventilation vents hissed louder, ready to maintain pressure if the doors sealed.
"We hold position," he instructed, voice low and decisive. "No transmission until we identify them." He swallowed a surge of adrenaline, trying to steady himself as the control panel hummed beneath his hands.
Nia exhaled slowly and backed up to the reinforced observatory hatch. She positioned herself, shotgun ready, peering through the thick glass. "Understood," she replied quietly. "I won't pull the trigger unless they breach."
Outside, the distant sigh of vents and the groan of priming steel filled the bay. Adam glanced at the stasis pod monitor—each slow blink a reminder of the fragile life inside. He adjusted his grip on his own pistol, the weight of its cold metal comforting in his hand. The gauntlet's circuits hummed softly; his senses were sharp and ready.
In the distance, the static crackle of the distress call drifted across the dunes. Static sparks flew once more, an eerie prelude to the confrontation they all sensed was coming.
Outside the reinforced glass, the world lay silent and golden under the sun, oblivious to the drama unfolding behind the steel walls. Adam pressed his cheek lightly against the cool panel of the observatory hatch, watching Nia's reflection stare back at him from the dim interior lights. She held the shotgun poised, gaze fixed on the distant dunes. A single bead of sweat trickled down her temple.
Between them came a soft, steadfast resolve. Nia exhaled slowly, whispering to herself as much as to Adam, "Hold steady, Nia…" Her fingers tightened on the stock in a reassuring rhythm. He offered a small nod, unable to risk sound, and their eyes met for a single heartbeat. It was an unspoken promise: no matter what, they would face this together, silent but resolute.
Moments stretched taut. On the monitor, the heat signatures continued their steady advance. Inside the vault, systems hummed steadily—the lights in the infirmary, the quiet beeping of machines, the gentle hiss of air recirculation. In this brief, suspended moment, Adam and Nia became the calm eye of a gathering storm. They did not flinch as the silhouettes finally drew nearer, crossing into the gate's range. Instead, they held their breath, waiting to see what these seekers in the desert would do next. In the silence between static calls, their resolve spoke volumes. In this tense stillness, Adam and Nia stood ready—letting their silent resolve answer the call of the unknown. Dawn's light was slowly filling the vault now, as if the day outside was finally beginning.