Chapter Two

Gordon knew that he had probably overdone it just a tad in his first meeting with Harkin. The man looked like he was about to dismiss Gordon's words as the ravings of a madman, but he agreed to take a gander at what was being offered and then decide. Gordon would never really know why the ex-Enclave officer trusted him after so short a time, but he took it, and him, up to the mothership.

"I call it the Olympus, after the mythical home of the gods. I thought, 'if anyone saw this, they'd probably call a lot of it magic,' so it seems strangely fitting."

Harkin didn't register that someone was speaking to him; he seemed too dumbfounded by the fact that yes, he was looking down on that speck of blue rock that was the Earth. Then he blinked. "If this ship can do what I think it can, then the name is appropriate. This is a veritable fortress city, beyond the reach of corruption and war. Perhaps the Olympus could help us rebuild civilization. I hope it can"

Gordon chuckled, shaking his head. He should have expected this reaction. "I haven't fully explored the vessel yet, but it seems large enough for our needs. Perhaps the troopers I saw back in your bunker would help complete that task?"

"For a chance at a home so safe it might as well be immune to attack, they'll do just about anything. We have been on the run for some time. Take me back to them; it's time got some proper rest."

***Scene Break***

The former Enclave infantry company proved most amenable to taking up residence onboard the onetime Alien Mothership, and moved in quickly. Thanks to the well-disciplined troops, exploring the ship only lasted three weeks, and they had maps of the ship's corridors three days after that. The Living Quarters became quite packed with people who were glad to finally have a safe place to lay their heads at night. The areas of the ship they moved into, regardless of function, were cleaned of all the trash, bodies, and general detritus in short order.

Harkin had given him the radio frequency the other detachments of his company would expect, and Gordon had put it to use gathering all four hundred seventeen deserters together. Once they had all arrived on board, he tallied them up. They had one full company of infantry, 160 strong; with command and support echelon personnel, Alpha Company numbered one hundred ninety. They had two full platoons of Special Forces, totaling thirty-six troopers, seven officers, and five support. Twenty pilots had deserted with Harkin, and though they had trained in the A/CV-02 Vertibird, Gordon felt confident that they could retrain with the saucer-like Alien spacecraft. The engineers numbered fifty-five, and he set them to work trying to learn the Alien systems. A total of 69 researchers had chosen to join them. Twenty-two were in the medical and biological sciences, and continued in their work for the TSC. The rest had been in power armor, weapons, and other technological fields, which were all very much in demand. Nineteen had once been Enclave Intelligence, and they were organized into a new Secret Intelligence Service, which some had already started calling the Seraphim. The rest were civilian administrators, skilled primarily in keeping industrial processes running smoothly.

Of course, Gordon wasn't satisfied with just these. Harkin had actually hit his goal right on the nose, and to begin the process of reconstruction, they would need more soldiers, more engineers, more doctors, more everything. He directed Harkin to begin secretly recruiting the best minds in the Wastelands and bring them to the Olympus to conduct their research and pursue further education. They had decided to name their new faction the Terran Starship Command.

Harkin had, however, discovered that their generous benefactor was, in fact, a thirteen year old. He was most put out at that, but he still had to respect Gordon's mind. Knowing that he'd have trouble running the TSC on his own anyway, the near-man from Vault 101 asked Harkin to form a ruling council of the heads of each division. One of the more prominent scientists, Dr. Robert Nylus, was tapped to lead the TSC Science Division. Dr. Lauren Nadia was made head of the Biomedical Division, primarily based on her work in reversing Ghoulification. Hans Schmidt, who carried out the founding of the TSC SIS, was a shoo-in to lead it. Harkin brought in a former Major named Stuart Jackson to take command of all their ground forces, and begin designing the training regimen for the TSC Army. Jackson recommended Lieutenant Eric Mallore, a gifted pilot and decent leader, to head the new Air Force. The final member of the Council was Ayumi Tanaka, who became Civilian Affairs Coordinator.

At Harkin's suggestion, Gordon revealed his true identity at the first session of the Starship Council. They had been shocked that the seemingly next best hope of humanity was led by a teenager, but they adjusted to it well enough; each of them was sufficiently intelligent to recognize his genius as a founder, and decided to follow his lead. Gordon did know that they privately resolved to keep a close eye on him. He was only thirteen, after all.

Most of their early efforts were in recruiting and research. As they all reasoned, they had no idea how to work everything on the Olympus, and that had to change before they could do any good with it. Gordon's rather primitive translator was an excellent tool for all the scientists and engineers, once it had been refined by the only actual linguist in their little brain trust, and found extensive use in understanding everything. That still took time, though. It was a good nine months before they had a sufficient handle on all the vital systems to actually risk operations on Earth.

***Scene Break***

In the meantime, Gordon had to maintain appearances. He was only a thirteen-year-old boy on the cusp of manhood, after all, and that meant that he was expected to attend school back in Vault 101. His father had long-since adjusted to the fact that his son had intellectually outstripped him before puberty, but most of the other adults in the place acted rather suspiciously around him.

He had first noticed that behavior at nine years of age, and asked about it. Neither his father, nor anyone else, could give him a satisfactory answer. Some just avoided the questions altogether. Having hit a dead end in interviews, he moved on to his burgeoning skills at hacking, and gained illicit access to the Vault central computer. He discovered there that he and his father were from outside the Vault, and had only been allowed in because his medically-skilled father had arrived just after the last doctor died. Fact: I am from the 'Wasteland,' as they call it. Fact: Wastelanders, in general, are uneducated and wander-prone. Conclusion: the inhabitants of Vault 101 expect me to pick up and leave at adulthood, therefore feel no need to actually try to make me feel at home.

The children his age and younger displayed none of the behavioral anomalies that the adults did, so Gordon reasoned that all contact with the outside world had been officially forgotten, and not spoken of anywhere. The level of protection around those files indicates that the Overseer, or some other authority, has decided to keep the knowledge secret. He likely hopes that not speaking of it will cause the children to not question the utter isolation of Vault 101. Reasons unknown, possibly to maintain power.

Once he was a bit older, Gordon knew that he could get away with quite a bit more by establishing himself as a sort of mad scientist. He could shut himself away in the section with his elevator he had sealed to all but him as his 'laboratory' to conduct experiments that the Overseer would want kept away from other residents, and then fake irradiation or contagious mutations to prevent any casual attempts to access the truth.

But for now, he had to do his homework, ignore the looks from Butch and his gang, and try to stay below the Overseer's radar. Of course, fate had other ideas.

"Gordon! I thought you said we would study together last night. I waited up for you."

Ah, Amata Almodovar, Gordon sighed. He had forgotten their study date in the excitement of a successful test of an early prototype hybrid laser-Alien energy weapon. "I'm sorry Amata. I should have let you know I'd miss last night. I was in what will be my lab and I just got caught up in my work."

She gave him a very peeved look. "I didn't know that I was so low on your to-do list," she said, in a tone more frosty than he had heard her direct at him. "Perhaps you don't value our arrangement anymore. I can think of no other reason for your uncharacteristic memory lapse."

Like any male of the human species confronted with a close female friend questioning their relationship, Gordon said, "Of course I value our arrangement. I like to think we're best friends, and like all such people, we know each other quite well." He paused, wondering how to regain her goodwill, and continued. "I'm free tonight. Let's have that study date before either of us forgets about it again."

He thought that scheduling their event for that very evening would ease Amata's anger at him, but it visibly didn't reassure her much.

"See you tonight, then," she said in a slightly warmer tone. "Five o'clock?"

Gordon nodded. "I'll bring my nice calculator. I know that you like using it." He knew that would encourage Amata to forgive him, as she just couldn't get enough of the advanced calculator Gordon had designed. She was constantly borrowing it, and always begged him to just make one for her, but he had refused. He didn't want the Overseer getting wind of just how brilliant he was from watching his daughter do homework.

The adult population of the Vault already knew that he wasn't one of them, including the Overseer. It was bad enough that some were jealous of his get intelligence. If he pissed anyone off, getting kicked out of the Vault was the least of their worries; the other residents might start saying that he was a mutant and subject him to experiments to find the altered genetic sequence that produced his intellect. Becoming a test subject for these small-minded inbreeds is not high on my list of priorities. It never will be, as far as I'm concerned.

School that day was boring, as usual. He had studied the material Mr. Brotch was covering months ago, and had little trouble recalling it, so he barely paid attention. Note for potential future research topic: the source of my seemingly selective memory lapses. He only interacted with others during class when the teacher actually called on him to answer a question.

Mr. Brotch was one of those who had already adjusted to his greater than average intelligence, and showed it by not asking him to speak in front of the class very often. The tall, black, somewhat sarcastic schoolteacher knew that Gordon had no desire to show off every day as well as the boy in question did. They both knew that he got his fix for that in the class reports and homework assignments. Mr. Brotch was also one of the more intellectually-capable residents of the Vault, and had earned both Gordon's and his father's trust.

The only other individual who could say the same thing was Jonas Palmer, James Goldman's medical technician. He had walked in on father and son discussing the state of the Vault's gene pool, and was rather shocked at how soon they said inbreeding would begin having noticeable effects. Giving the man the answers he was after took more than two hours, most of it in undertones, and left him more than a bit shaken that they had so little time. Note for Civilian Affairs: recruitment of Jonas Palmer for medical training/employment will be easier than predicted. Note for Biomedical: begin planning for breeding Vault 101 residents into the general population after transition of authority. No sense wasting perfectly-good fertility.

The bell rang.

Train of thought thoroughly derailed, Gordon packed up his books and left the classroom. He looked at his Pip-Boy, and saw that he had about an hour before his rendezvous with Amata. He thought it was unlikely to be any more than a study session, but she was his best friend, and it would be perfectly natural to explore their developing hormones together a bit. He also knew better than to think he could get away with much, considering his position.

He smiled at Amata and nodded. She returned both. Then he went back to his dad's apartment; he needed a shower and a change of monotonous jumpsuit for that afternoon. Studying with his best friend usually included dinner, and he wanted to be a bit more cleaned up than usual. He thought that would make her more likely to forgive him.

"Hello, son. How was school?"

"The usual: boring as all get out. I had my homework for today done weeks ago, so there was little point in even going. I'm going to go get showered; I have a study session with Amata at 5," Gordon answered his father.

James Goldman, a man of about one point sixty-eight meters height, looked at his son. "You've been spending a lot of time with Amata, lately. What are you hoping to get from her?"

"I want what I already have with her: friendship and companionship," Gordon responded.

James sighed. He seemed to gather himself, then launched into what he likely considered a somewhat embarrassing topic. "Have you ever thought about how different you are from Amata, Gordon?"

The teenager considered. "I am a good deal more logical than she is, as shown in my higher scores on mathematical and scientific subject tests. She understands how to communicate with people better than I do. I'd have more friends if it was otherwise." He paused, pondering how to put his thoughts to words, then continued. "But if this is what I think it is, then I know she is female, and I male. The two of us becoming more than friends, at least for a time, is highly probable, given our history. I see no problem with that. And before you embarrass me too much, I have already studied the particulars of the process with what little material I have available."

The widowed father sputtered a bit at his son's admission. Given Dad's reaction, I can theorize that he hadn't expected me to actually study the subject. Yet he is also aware of my proclivities regarding knowledge. Reasons for this disparity: unknown. Conjecture based on popular wisdom would attribute this to the innate cultural embarrassment at discussing bodily functions.

The young 'mad scientist' in training was rather puzzled by that thought. Reproduction is, after all, one of the two core physical motivators for all human effort. To ensure the survival of the species, it would be entirely natural to presume that members of the species would have some inherent understanding of the process and be able to put it into action.

But he had more important things to think about than the prospect of finding a wife and begetting children with her. He was the leader of the newest and most technologically-advanced faction in the world, and he had a rather specific plan for it. Rebuilding society is not something one just does overnight, no sir!

***Scene Break***

That Friday evening, Gordon returned to the Olympus. He had a great deal of work as Supreme Commander of the TSC, and all of it needed to be done somehow. Too often, he was the only one who could, and even if he wasn't, he knew better than to ignore it. How could he be sure he was making the best decisions without the most complete understanding of the subject matter?

He had been born on the 15th of March, 2259, and his Pip-Boy reported the current date as February 2nd 2273, so he calculated that he had four more years before he could dispense with the teleporter pad in his quarters. He'd had it installed to minimize the risk of his true identity leaking to the rank and file as he journeyed to and from Vault 101. That would take morale out back and shoot it in the head.

His quarters were spacious and almost luxurious. They were normally lit with a soft blue glow that lent an air of mystique to himself, and he rather enjoyed that feeling, even if no-one saw him in it. His bed was large and more comfortable than the one he enjoyed in the Vault. His sitting area had a decorative fish tank, and next to that, a wine rack. He didn't drink, and probably never would, thanks to the detrimental effects on cognitive function he knew it caused, but the aesthetics were nice.

He walked over to his closet, unzipping his jumpsuit as he went. He knew that while the clothes do not necessarily make the man, they certainly help put him in the right frame of mind; that's why soldiers, doctors, and politicians all wore the uniforms they did. His own as Supreme Commander was deceptively simple: the boots, slacks, shirt, and jacket were all black. The only ornamentation were the silver stars on his shoulderboards denoting his rank as a Grand Admiral, the silver wreath on his cap, and the silver badge of the TSC on his chest.

Suitably attired, Gordon exited his quarters and entered his office. Right at the back of the room was his custom-fabricated desk chair and the desk he used. It looked high-tech, much like his organization, and followed the dictum of 'form follows function.' Everything was designed for practical use. In front of the desk sat two chairs, less comfortable than his own to keep any visitors partially off-balance when dealing with him.

He sat down at his desk and activated the computer. Thanks to his programming skills and the Alien tech, it was light-years ahead of anything else produced by man. It was networked to all the other computers on the ship, able to access records from any of them, whenever the need arose. He pulled up the latest batch of reports from the division leaders.

Dr. Nadia has finally cracked the Alien Biogel formula, adapting it to human physiology, with double the effectiveness. Jackson will be pleased with that; better field medicine projected to cut casualties in Phase One by 30%. Commendation for Lt. Tercorian, primary expert on the subject: approved. That man will go far. Orders for Production: convert all Biogel synthesizing to the adapted formula.

Wing Commander Mallore's pilots are still having trouble with the Alien Saucer controls. Perhaps some VR training is in order there. As long as they don't know it's simulated until after any exercise, that might be the best option. Orders for production: procure one or more VR pods; coordinate with Army if needed to retrieve from the surface. Orders for Mallore: begin planning training missions for use with simulators and/or live flight exercises.

Intel: full dossiers on Capital Wasteland factions; right on schedule. Permission requested for deeper penetration of military and economic assets. No; I think our assets would be better deployed to observe other factions in Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware. Have Schmidt begin planning operations for that. We have time for more in-depth analysis later.

Ion Cannon still stumping you, eh, Nylus? Not that I'm surprised; I did take great care to disable that on my way through the ship. It just made me nervous, having that pointed in the general direction of my home. Power armor plans coming along slowly; but I want so much from Science Division that developing our own from scratch might have to take a backseat. Have Intel investigate all pre-War nations that had power armor; perhaps one of their old facilities can furnish us with something we can simply improve to our standards. Have Civilian Affairs begin training a diplomatic service, just in case the armor is not abandoned. Strange sensor readings from under the Atlantic Ocean? Alien logs indicate a base there? This is not good. I'll have to bring the Council in on this one.