The eleven o'clock chime sounded, and Father sighed. Reaching for his pillbox, he tipped out the mid-morning dosage into his hand and regarded the medication, the half a dozen capsules and tablets which, while more than just sugar pills and placebos, were not much more. All they were doing was keeping him from dying quite so quickly. He poured himself a glass of chilled water and swallowed the pills one by one.
How ironic, that he, who had never been exposed to radiation, who had been shielded and protected from carcinogens all his life, should wind up getting cancer anyway. A genetic flaw, a legacy from one or both of the parents he had never known.
Thinking of his parents inevitably reminded him of Kellogg, their murderer. Sending him and X6-88 out to find the survivor from Vault 111 had seemed like a good idea at the time, but so much had gone wrong. He had reports…well, calling them reports was giving them too much credit. Rumor, gossip, third hand accounts, was what they were. Some said the trader, 'Ashcan Carla' was dead, others that she was alive and well. Kellogg had strangled her half to death in front of witnesses; he had stabbed her while rascally drunk, he had sexually assaulted her. X6-88 had tried to stop him, and Kellogg had stabbed him too, or hit him in the head with a shovel, or poisoned him. X6-88 had also been drunk, and had helped Kellogg kill her. X6 was dead, or dying, or brain damaged and unfit to do anything but haul water and chop wood. At least one of those had to be true, because the Courser's chip was offline.
The only thing all the reports agreed on was that Kellogg was now dead. He was dead, and Father was no closer to finding his successor than he was before he had sent Kellogg and X6-88 out there.
Ordinarily, he would have assigned Kellogg the job of finding out what happened, but irony was at work once more. With Kellogg dead, there was no one he could recall within the Institute who had the stomach for working outside and the ability to follow the leads back to the truth. Synths were capable of many things, but they were constructed to be unimaginative, biddable, obedient, and only just smart enough to do the work they were assigned. Investigative work required imagination, analytical thought, the ability to work independently, and a certain savvy that couldn't be programmed in. Or could it?
He toggled the intercom. "I want to see all the department heads and their first tier staff, in fifteen minutes."
Very shortly, he had Justin Ayo, Clayton Holdren, Madison Li, Allie Fillmore, and Alan Binet around a conference table, while their junior counterparts arrayed in seats behind them. "What I need is someone to act as a field agent," Father told them, "someone with a very specific skill set." He explained what he was looking for, but not why. They did not need to know.
Yet they asked anyway, or more precisely, Justin Ayo did. "Father, sir-isn't this the sort of task you give to Kellogg?"
"Kellogg is dead," he replied. "The Courser who accompanied him is either dead or incapacitated. His chip is no longer functioning."
"Dead?!" A shockwave of murmurs spread throughout the room.
"I am not asking any of you to undertake this. You have put your intellectual gifts to greater, more rarefied uses, and I would not ask you to risk your lives or your health. This task requires a blunter, sturdier instrument, yet also more intelligent and independent than our synths. Paradoxical, I know, but the first department who comes up with a successful solution will have their departmental budget increased by ten percent. Come up with it today, and it will be twelve and a half percent. The departments lacking in initiative will have their budgets cut by five percent. You are dismissed." Even meetings as short as this one tired him out, and he would have to lay down for a few hours afterward. Death was catching up to him step by step.
Binet returned with an answer before three that day. "Right before the war, the Institute as it was then, was conducting a study of depression and its effect on the brain. They advertised for test subjects to undergo an experimental treatment, but in reality all those who responded had their brains scanned, everything they knew, everything they were, was recorded. Memories, personality, ethics, behaviors-."
"Get to the point, Binet," Father commanded.
"Ah. Of course, of course. Among the respondents was a police detective by the name of Nicholas Valentine. He was a very good investigator, by all accounts, with over a decade's experience. He'd been depressed ever since his fiancee was murdered. They not only took a brain scan, they took blood and tissue samples as well. There weren't enough stem cells in those samples to create a recombinant matrix, of course, since he was fully adult. That was why the Institute needed yours."
"I am aware of those facts," he told Binet. "You're working up to telling me that there is enough to create a synth of him from the existing matrix."
"Yes."
"There is a reason we do live brain to brain memory transfers. Implanting recorded memories into a synth cortex rarely, if ever, works," Father pointed out.
"There's the beauty of it," Binet's smile flashed. "I ran the numbers, and there's a better than eighty percent chance of success, because making a synth of Nick Valentine has already been done once, and it succeeded. About a hundred years ago, when the Institute was trying to bridge the gap between artificial intelligence and true cognition, they created a number of prototypes. The first Nick Valentine synth is still out there somewhere. By all accounts, he's badly damaged but at least minimally functional and working as an investigator."
"A moment. If this is so, then he must be fairly well known."
"Well-yes. The disc jockey at Diamond City Radio talks about Nick Valentine, the synth detective now and then," Binet admitted.
"Then what happens when your Gen 3 Nick Valentine goes out into the Commonwealth and runs into someone who knows the earlier model? You don't think people will find that suspicious, do you?"
"We'll edit his memory, of course, give him a new name, something close enough to be familiar but different enough that no one could confuse the one for the other. As for how he'll look-well, the current Synth Valentine had the standard Gen 2 face. Any resemblance was superficial at best," argued the Robotics engineer.
"How do you plan to explain where two hundred years went and why he's still alive? He cannot be allowed to know he's a synth."
"We'll tell him he was saved the same way you were-cryogenically. He has no memory of it because of cryoamnesia," Binet nodded.
" 'Cryoamnesia'?" Father tinged the word with scorn.
"Yes. It interferes with memory storage. I made it up, of course."
"I am aware of that. Very well, you may create a Gen 3 in the image of Nicholas Valentine and download the brain scan into it. What name do you plan to give it?"
"Jack Hartman," Binet said. "Jack and Nick are similar in sound, and 'Hartman'- -."
" 'Heart' and 'Man', as in 'Valentine hearts'. A play on words. You will keep me informed of your progress-or lack thereof." Father nodded to the door.
Elsewhere:
Goodneighbor was exactly the same as it was before-dirty and rundown, seedy and seamy It also stank, but it showed a spirit and defiance that other communities (for instance, Diamond City) lacked. The first person Raina saw when they opened the gate was Deacon. He was the perfect embodiment of nonchalance as he leaned against a wall, soaking up the sun and warmth.
"Hello," Raina greeted him, while Nick offered the Railroad agent a pleasant nod and a smile.
"Oh, hey," Deacon replied, "What a day, huh?"
"Yes. Makes me glad to be Topside, despite all the dangers," Raina replied. Technically it was still winter, but the weather that day was about as perfect as it got. "So how are you?"
"Oh, fine—but it looks like Daisy wants to talk to you. We can catch up later." Deacon nodded in the direction of the Lucid woman's storefront.
"Sure," Raina agreed. The street was not the best place to catch up on everything, after all. One never knew who was listening.
The Lucid shopkeeper welcomed them with a wide smile. "Hey there! Long time, no see! You said you'd be coming back weeks ago."
"I know," Raina grimaced. "I thought we would make it back before now. What with one thing and another, though…"
"You got that right," Nick agreed. "We've been across the Commonwealth and back since then."
"Speaking of getting things right, you have been getting the shipments, haven't you?" Raina asked Daisy.
"Oh, yes. You've got a nice fat credit on your account. It's all right, hon," The Lucid leaned over her counter to tell an idler on the street, "Could you run on up and tell His Honor that Valentine and Queen are back in town?" Turning back to Nick and Raina, she confided, "Hancock's been pestering me for news of you almost since the moment you left. He really wants to see you again."
"Good," Raina said, briskly, "because I want to talk business with both of you. When would be a good time to meet up and where?"
"Any time is good for me," Daisy said. "I'll just lock up and put the 'Back Later' sign on the door. Now while we're waiting for the Mayor, what would you like to barter for? I got plenty of fusion cells today."
"Oooh, yes. Nick, you need bullets too, right?" Raina turned to her companion.
"Yeah, and I'll take all the coolant you've got." The three set about bartering until Hancock's voice cut through the shop.
"Well, if it ain't the Ace of Hearts and the Queen of Spades. What blew you two, excuse me, three, back into town?" King's tongue lolled happily out of the side of his mouth as the Mayor of Goodneighbor rubbed his ears.
"Raina has a proposition for you," Nick told him. "I'd like to emphasize, that it's a business proposition. And while the three of you hash that out—."
"Nick, that was a terrible pun," Raina gave him a mock-betrayed look.
"Heh, an unintentional one," he said. "While you three talk it out, I'm going to visit Dr. Amari. Raina, I'll catch up with you either at the Rexford or the Third Rail, okay?"
"Of course," she told him.
"A business proposition, huh?" Hancock cocked an eyebrow. "You got me interested right off. What do ya say we take this upstairs to the mayoral chambers?"
"Go ahead," Nick said. "I'm sure His Honor the Mayor will be a perfect gentleman."