A/N: The default FO3 game shows docking stations for the bipedal Protectrons, but not for the game's other robots. I've assumed they must exist somewhere and were just omitted for reasons of laziness. Heaven knows, those of us who have lived in the Megaton apartment you get for defusing the bomb would be glad to be able to tell Wadsworth to go power down for a while.

Massingbird is a real last name, believe it or not.

22

There was nothing special in that room, either. There was another unsecured terminal, but this one just had a few games on it and a couple of research-type notes that I didn't understand. I took Jarod's note with me (the paper was in fine shape, even after this long) as I went to paw through the storage room. A lot of what was in there looked to be backups and spares for the lab equipment. I didn't know what most of it was, so I didn't touch anything if I could avoid it, and then only with the towel. Then I took the note into the lab.

This was the biggest room in the vault, bigger than any of the bedrooms and certainly three times as big as the entry way. Counters and machines lined the walls. Some of the counters had complicated glass things on them. I couldn't tell what most of the machines were for, but some were floor to ceiling with buttons and lights and intake slots. There was a Mister Handy robot docked to a power station in the corner, but it sat with its head in the cradle and all of its arms neatly folded, evidently powered down. There were a couple of stools standing around, and a chair at the single desk in the corner where the terminal was.

Fawkes stood in front of one of the counters with a binder open in front of him. He seemed to be reading it. As I watched, he turned over a page with one giant finger.

"Fawkes?" I said.

He turned, carefully stepping forward so that the laser's backpack didn't take out any of the glassware. "Yes?"

"Didn't find much," I said. "Nothing that's likely to interest the BOS, unless they really want a new coffee maker."

"Highly unlikely," said Fawkes dryly. "If there is anything to be found, it will be here."

"I got the password for the terminal," I said, and held out the paper. "I don't know to say the word."

Fawkes's slit-pupiled eyes scanned the note. "Plangent," he said. "Jarod Lamont must have enjoyed words for their own sake."

"Like you," I said. I set the paper on the counter beside the binder. "What are you reading?"

"Notes," Fawkes said. "There is extensive documentation here. Perhaps years' worth." He turned his head a fraction, indicating the shelf above the counter. Other binders stood in a long row. He had taken down the first without disturbing the others, something no other super mutant would be patient enough to do. "This is the first. I hope there is something more definitive in the computer's memory."

"Do you want to look at it? I can't hardly understand the words they use in the diaries," I said. I knew he could use the keyboard. It was about all he'd done for most of his life before the Vault Dweller came along and let him out of old 87.

"I can teach them to you," said Fawkes. "But today I think I had better try it first."

"It's all yours," I said.

Fawkes picked up the chair and set it to one side. He knelt in front of the computer, turned it on, and began to poke at the inputs one finger at a time.

"I will activate the robot," he said after a moment. "We may need to stay the night here, and it will be just as well to be rid of the dust."

From the corner of my eye I saw Three's lips twitch at this fastidiousness. Then he blinked rapidly and turned to me. "Gary stay the night?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "You heard him. It'll take even Fawkes a long time to read it all. Would you rather sleep outside?"

Three nodded fervently. Fawkes pressed another key. There was a soft hum as the Mister Handy's docking station lit up. All four arms unbent neatly, and then I heard a click and the round head levitated upward. There were a few more clicks as the unit sorted itself out, probably running an internal diagnostic.

"Greetings!" it said. "My name is Massingbird. How may I serve?" The voice was one I hadn't heard before on a Mister Handy, sort of a nasal sound with odd consonants, as if it belonged to someone who had trouble moving their lower jaw. It belonged far north of here. I wondered if it had sounded familiar to one of the scientists.

"You got a cleaning routine?" I said.

"Yes, Madam. Dear me, what a lot of dust there is in here! I must have been powered down for a very long time."

"Probably a hundred years," I said. "I'm afraid the Drs. Gunderson died a long time ago."

"Yes, I have data on those events," said Massingbird. He seemed calm about it, but then, not all the Mister Handy units have advanced enough AI to act like they have feelings. "Shall I initiate the cleaning routine now?"

"Yes," I said. "Wait on the bedrooms until we've moved the bodies. Jarod's note said they wanted to be buried, and it looks like we've got some time. Is there anything like a shovel in here?"

"I believe there is one located in the storage room," said Massingbird. "Shall I retrieve it for you?"

"That's okay, I'll find it," I said. "You can find me some gloves if you want."

"I have been instructed to store several pairs," said the robot. A slot on one side opened, and a round white glob shot out. Three's hand appeared in front of my nose and caught it. He dropped the pair of wadded-up gloves into my outstretched hand. They were completely clean, free even of the dust.

"Thanks," I said, for both of them. I put the gloves on. They were some kind of stretchy plastic or rubber, but they'd be better than nothing.

Massingbird made a throat-clearing noise despite his total lack of an actual throat. "Have you suffered some injury, Madam? I have access to first aid programming."

"No," I said. "This is pretty normal for me. I'm a Ghoul. A radiation survivor. My friend at the computer is a modified human, so don't worry about him, either." Fawkes raised his head for a second at the word friend, but he went on typing. "Things have changed a lot since you were powered up last."

"So I gather," said the robot. "I'll just begin dusting, then." He made a couple of whirring noises, and things twisted and changed on the ends of two of his arms. One became an open-ended tube, a vacuum suction unit. The other shook out into a big puffy thing like a sponge. He turned toward the nearest counter with his new cleaning tools.

"Just don't throw out my rucksack. It's in the kitchen," I said, and went to get the shovel. "I'll check back in a while, Fawkes. Three, I could use some help if you're interested." I was pretty sure he'd be happy to be back outside. He came along with me gladly enough.

I wrapped the skeletons in sheets from the beds to hold them together and make them easier to carry. Three helped me carry them outside, so it only took us a couple of trips. Once I had them laid out next to each other, Norman beside Yeung Eun and Jarod beside Terry, I started looking for a place to dig. The ground sloped down a little from the stream to the vault's hidden door. That meant there was no worry that we'd contaminate the water if we buried the bodies near the entrance. I told this to Three as I was digging the first grave, the one for Norman and Yeung Eun, after I'd finished clearing the weeds.

"I guess we ought to mark them somehow," I said. "But I don't know what with. No trees down in here. At least we can pile some rocks over them."

"Gary," said Three. After a while he said, "What gary about ggggothers?" He looked toward the clearing where we'd left the dead raiders.

"Yeah," I said, tossing another shovel full of dirt over my shoulder. "I can smell them, which means they really smell. I'd rather just burn them, but the smoke would be visible for miles around."

"Miles," agreed Three, and walked away. I heard him pulling weeds for a while after that while I worked. This was no joke down in the gully, where the grass was higher than his head; and quick as he was, dangerous as he was, he wasn't used to plain dull work.

I piled up some stones to mark where I buried the four from the vault, and then I started digging a ditch where Three had cleared. He watched me for a while, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. The purpose of sweat is to cool you off, so sometimes it's inconvenient that I can't. After a while I got warmer than was comfortable, even down in the permanent half-light of the gully shadow. Eventually I heard Three stand up and head inside. In a minute I heard him coming back, soft footsteps on the dry ground. He stepped down into the ditch in front of me.

"Thistle," he said. I looked up. Three held out a water bottle in one hand. I took it carefully. My gloves were holding up better than I'd expected. They must be made of some synthetic that was tougher than latex.

"Thanks," I said. Then I took a close look at it. "This isn't one of mine. Did you get it from the pantry?"

"Gary," agreed Three. I looked closely at the seal. It had never been opened. The water inside was perfectly clear, still undoubtedly sterile.

"Two hundred years old," I said to Three. "And still good. I wish we hadn't lost that trick." I popped the lid off and took a drink. While I was doing that Three reached out and took the shovel from my hand. I swallowed before I said, "What're you going to do with that?"

Three grinned at me. Then he started digging. I climbed up on the edge of the ditch and sat down so I could watch him. He didn't do it awkwardly. His movements were quick and sure and, I realized after a while, familiar. Because he's doing exactly what I did. He's learned to dig the same way he learned to walk soft.

"Fast learner," I said out loud. I had my rifle close to hand, but nobody had bothered us so far.

"Gary because this gary is simple," said Three without looking up.

"Simple isn't the same as easy," I said.

"No," said Three.

By the time he had a big enough ditch dug out, it was late in the afternoon. We dragged the corpses over and tossed them into the hole. A couple of them took more than one trip owing to the effects of the gatling laser. Flies surrounded us and them as we did it, but they were all small and ordinary; I didn't see any of the big bloatflies. Probably they didn't like the darkness down in the gully. I filled in the ditch while Three went to wash up in the creek, and then we went back inside.

Massingbird waited in the entry room, hovering in the exact center. My ruck sat neatly in the middle of the spotless coffee table. The floor was clean of dust and footprints as well. Even the paintings looked cleaner and brighter.

"Nice job," I said.

"Thank you, Madam," said the robot politely. "Your gloves appear soiled. Perhaps you would like another pair?"

"Yes, thanks," I said. I stripped them off and held them out. A three-fingered claw took them delicately as the robot fired off another pair. Three let me catch them this time.

It's hard to read much of any expression on a Mister Handy unit. They don't really have a face. But Massingbird's voice seemed diffident as he asked,

"I beg your pardon, Madam, but I would like to ask a question."

"Sure," I said.

"What happened to Mr. Lamont? He ordered me to power down shortly after Mr. Baring's death. I believe I found an empty bottle of sleeping tablets in his room while I was tidying up."

"I think Jarod killed himself," I said. "He left a note. It's in the lab if you'd like to read it."

"Thank you, no. It would not have been left for me," said Massingbird.

"Excuse my mentioning it," I said. "But that sounds kind of human-like for a Mister Handy."

"Mr. Lamont was my primary programmer," said Massingbird with simple pride. "I understand he was one of the best in his day. He was the one who maintained all of the equipment here, you see."

"I'm sorry," I said. "This must seem like it happened yesterday for you."

"Everything does," said Massingbird. "Do excuse me. I think I will go and prepare supper, if that is all right."

"Um," I said. "Sure. Thank you."

"Not at all. One must keep busy, mustn't one?" The robot rotated slowly in air and moved off toward the kitchen. We passed the door and went on to the lab. Fawkes was no longer at the computer. Now he stood at one of the counters, looking at something that I couldn't see past his body. The lab was as spotless as the entry had been.

"Fawkes? Did you find anything?" I said.

"Yes," said Fawkes slowly. "I certainly did." He moved aside so I could see the counter. There was a black plastic thing there with a lens in the top. It looked like just a box with a slot in the bottom.

"What's that?" I said.

"A very advanced scope for visualization of live cells," said Fawkes. "I've been testing this tailored enzyme on samples of my own blood." He twitched his bald head at the dropper on the counter top. It must have taken incredible delicacy for him even to hold it without breaking it, let alone use it, but he had done it. I guess by that time it shouldn't have surprised me.

"What does it do?" I asked.

"It appears to be delivered by a retrovirus. I believe it was originally meant to cure certain types of human diseases. Dr. Gunderson succeeded in using it to treat a cancer in his liver. It kills some mutated cells and reverses the effect of mutation on a wide variety of cell types, according to the research notes. It could not cure late-stage radiation sickness, like that which killed Terry Baring, but on anything less it is apparently quite effective."

"Fawkes," I said. "Did you just say it cures mutations?"

"Yes," said Fawkes.

"Did it work on your blood?" I said.

"Oh, yes," said Fawkes.

"Holy shit," I said.

"Gary?" said Three, looking from one to the other of us.

"Would it cure you or kill you?" I asked Fawkes.

"I do not know," said Fawkes. "It is possible that my body contains too much of the Forced Evolutionary Virus for it to succeed without being lethal. I would not be surprised. In any case, I would not choose to use it even if it were both harmless and effective. My life is not perfect, but it is the only one I know."

"Yeah," I said. Fawkes knew what it meant to be a super mutant, and everything that went with that, good and bad. (And nobody in their right mind would call being able to survive two direct head shots bad.) Either way, he had never been anything else.

And I...

I swallowed. Would it work on a Ghoul? Could I go back to being Connie Garcia, just like that? Back to having guys look at me, being able to take work from anybody, never wearing gloves unless I just wanted to? Back to having a voice people wanted to listen to? Back to having hair on my head and skin on my hands?

And being hurt by radiation instead of healed by it, of course. Which there was still plenty of out there. I'd never have survived the wound I got from Jay if I'd been a smoothskin. And I wasn't going to change what I did for a living. This was what I knew how to do. It wasn't like I'd been that pretty back when I was normal.

Fawkes was watching my face. "And what about you?" he said. "You were mutated solely by radiation. It would be both harmless and effective for you."

"No," I said. "Everybody gets ugly sooner or later, if they survive. If I stay a Ghoul I might live as long as Three here, maybe even as long as you. If that stuff reverses mutations it'll stop my Hayflick limit regenerating too, won't it?"

"Certainly," said Fawkes.

"Then no, thanks. You and Three will just have to put up with me looking like I do now."

"Gary," said Three. He grinned. I guessed he wasn't too sorry. I relaxed a little, and only then realized how tense I'd been. I knew Fawkes would like me no matter what I looked like. I hadn't been as sure about Three. Sure, he was different from other people, but he was still a smoothskin. And still a man, I thought, and hated myself for it the second I thought it. Three wasn't the kind of selfish monster who would wish me dead in forty years so I could look good for the next ten or fifteen. In fact, selfish wasn't the word for Three at all.

"Then the question is, what will we do with it?" said Fawkes.

"Hell if I know," I said.