Six months.
It had been six months since Orianna had been first posted at the pumphouse at Kew. The purification runes that the Davises had invented had worked less well than expected.
The stone rings that the Davises carved with runes did remove radioactive particles from the water, along with any impurities that remained behind. What water came through the pumphouse's pipes past the purification circuits did come through sparkling clean and refreshingly cold. In that sense, they worked as designed, lifting the water restrictions in both the Vault and Gringotts after the pipelines were installed. The hydroponics facilities under the Vault, once dormant, could finally be activated. Yes, even if the water came through as but a trickle compared to what it was before the war.
Naturally, that also meant that the food and water problems that had plagued the fledgling alliance had also lessened, if only a little.
One might ask, then, why it could be considered only less well than expected. No, the main problem was that they didn't vanish the radiation. They simply absorbed it. The stone rings would become so heavily irradiated that after every week they needed to be replaced. The rings themselves had discarded as far away as they possibly could once they started glowing a sickly green; a task that would have been nearly impossible to do safely, had they not any power armour.
Soft knocking on the door of the Overseer's Office stirred Amanda up from her musings. "Ma cherie, ze goblins 'ave finished repairing ze Floo connection to ze French Ministry," Lucille called from outside. "'E requests that you be present to receive more survivors of ze Great War,"
"I shall be there. Give me a minute," sighed Amanda, closing her research logs.
The atrium of the Vault had been remodelled somewhat by the goblins. The metal catwalks leading to the gear-shaped vault door had been replaced by solid stone walkways, and the walls reinforced by more masonry. A large pipe, larger than she could wrap her arms around, went through the wall on the right side; the telltale swirling noises of running clean water was certainly reassuring to her ears.
However, the largest modification of all was the large basin-shaped depression in the centre of the atrium. The fact that a completely inadequate fireplace in the Vault had been the cause of dozens of goblin deaths through their inability to get aid quickly enough to Gringotts had left a bitter taste in the goblin king's mouth; and one that was rectified in typical ostentatious goblin style. The entire basin was made of gold-plated steel. Glowing runes and decorative engravings coated every square inch of its surface, which was lit with a magical blue fire at all times of the day.
Normally, there would be a constant stream of goblins coming in and out of the fireplace, bringing goods to and from the Vault. Today, however, there was a honour guard – and Ragnok himself.
"Amanda!" the old goblin boomed, his face breaking into a toothy smile. With a speed that defied his age and short stature, he sped towards Amanda and brought her into a friendly – if awkward – embrace. After all, the taller redhead had to half-kneel to let him do so. "May your coffers never run dry, bond-sister. I trust that your wife has informed you of what is happening today?"
"I doubt that I could be ignorant of the survival of members of the French ministry, Ragnok. It is always great to hear that there are others still alive in this world," replied the scientist, who let go of the goblin king. "Are the extra rooms prepared? How many survivors were we expecting, again?"
"Monsieur Delacour 'as said that zere were at least thirty with 'im, including his family," Lucille spoke.
Thirty. Hearing that number again filled her heart with equal parts relief and despair. The genetic situation of the future – while still less than ideal – would be at least more secure. However, the future itself would be certainly in doubt if they did not find some way of relieving the pressure on their supplies.
If only there was some way to preserve everyone without draining their already limited resources.
October 22, 2082.
Amanda cradled her head in frustration after yet another day of thinking up of a possible solution to their problems.
Their population was far too low to be sustained without the input of additional survivors. Genetic inbreeding, even with the addition of the thirty French survivors and cross-breeding with the more numerous goblins of Gringotts, would guarantee their probable sterility and ultimate extinction within several generations. And adding additional survivors to their already-strained life support systems would stretch it to breaking point.
What she needed most, above all, was time. Radiation needed time to dissipate. Time would allow her to create new genomes from selective recombination, ready to be created in the cloning tanks when reconstruction efforts could be finished. She needed time to gather and compile information from the magic users, so that they could create instructional manuals for their magical offspring; so that once they passed on, their knowledge would not be lost.
She needed more time. No – they needed more time.
As she fingered the blood-red stone on her desk, she grimaced at the unpleasant thought of one possible option. The French ministry's archive contained many interesting articles. Including one of temporal suspension – or stasis, as she preferred to think of it – allowing those held inside a suspension field to be kept alive indefinitely. She herself had an imperfect Philosopher's Stone, which would create enough Elixir for just one person, thereby removing the need for herself to be kept in stasis.
Without the others draining the life support systems, the Vault could support her for decades. Centuries, perhaps. At the very least, it would be enough for her to wait the radiation out – and then release those in stasis when the time was right.
Yes. That could work. Placing everyone in stasis, while she worked on a solution. The Mister Handies had many spare parts remaining, and with little use of the Vault's systems, its maintenance requirements would be greatly diminished. She would be able to find a better solution in time, but this, unappealing as it was, was their only option for the survival of humanity.
December 31, 2082.
The calculations and measurements had been made, checked and double-checked, for at least the seventh time that month. The radiation outside was lethal to all that ventured above ground, except for maybe a few of those zombie-like ghouls that lurked in the sewers. And it would remain so for the next two hundred years or so.
Gringotts had excavated a vault beneath Vault M-3, and had painstakingly moved the contents of all the gold in their Paris branch into it. The storage rooms above were filled to the brim with crates upon crates of preserved vegetables and piles upon piles of clothing. Enchanted items of all kinds were placed in a sealed and warded chamber beside it, allowing only Amanda and King Ragnok to enter it at will.
Now, standing inside a massive concrete-lined room that had been newly excavated behind the cloning labs, Amanda surveyed the last steps of her preparations for the future. Dozens upon dozens of silver pods, each engraved with countless runes, were arrayed as far as one could see. Men and women, goblins and veela, French and English alike, were entering them after embracing one another in anticipation for what they were about to enter in the next half hour.
They were about to enter the Long Sleep. One that would hopefully see them through to an age where they could live without hunger, thirst or the fear of radiation.
"Bond-sister. Gringotts has been sealed with the most lethal security wards activated. There should be nothing that could possibly penetrate it now," spoke King Ragnok as he walked up to her side. His expression was unreadable. "The last goblins are making their way out of the bank now, with the vault keys in their possession,"
"Very good. If everything is secured, then we may begin,"
The two of them stood silently for a few moments. Here and there, Mister Handy units wandered up and down the aisles of stasis pods, helping to close those that were stubbornly refusing to close. "Do you believe that this will work?" asked the goblin king quietly. The unspoken question of 'will this really work?' hung thickly in the air. It rankled the goblins to leave their bank and vaults unattended for any length of time, let alone decades. Yes, even with all the entrail-expelling, incineration, disintegration and obliteration wards in place over every vault, doorway and minecart, the goblins still felt insecure about their security without any goblins present in the bank.
"Truthfully, I only know as much as you do, Ragnok. Perhaps even less, given my relative newness to the field of magic," Amanda answered, "What I do know is that given the sheer amount of nuclear weapons used during the brief exchange, it will take decades before we would be able to walk upon the surface again. Hundreds of years, perhaps. With so few people present, we would breed ourselves into extinction within several generations. Inbreeding is truly a terrible curse, as I am sure you would have seen from those so-called purebred wizards,"
Ragnok gave a snort. "Purebloods," he corrected her, "But yes, they have certainly proven that to be the case with how many of them could no longer reproduce. After all, we at Gringotts would not have so much gold in our possession if the wizards had not bred their houses to death. Very well, I see that stasis until it is safe to emerge and search for survivors is likely our best option. But I do wonder..."
Ragnok tapped the side of a stasis pod. "We who would enter the pods wouldn't see the passage of time. It would look mostly as though only a fraction of a second had passed between the stasis field being activated and deactivated. You, however, would be subjected to the full passage of time. I know for a fact that insolvent debtors kept in isolation by Gringotts become mad within a few short months. You have made assurances that you would be capable of maintaining your sanity in solitude, but I beg your pardon if I find myself somewhat...unsure of your claim,"
Amanda said nothing, but looked over the occupants of the vault before her. Only a few stragglers were still outside, searching for their assigned pods. "If I were to say that I was certain, I would be lying to myself and to you," replied the scientist. "But the die is cast. There is no other option to secure the future,"
Truthfully, the enormity of the task before her terrified her. To spend decades in solitude, without anyone to talk to except for the frankly guileless artificial intelligence of the sentry bots and Mister Handies. It was far easier to contemplate the idea at the start. Now, as Lucille, her triplets and their friends stepped into the last sets of pods closest to the entry; as Lucille gave her one final wave before settling into the padded seat of her pod; as Tracey gave a stony-faced Orianna a kiss on her cheek; the full ramifications of her decision finally hit home.
"The die is cast indeed," muttered Amanda under her breath.
December 31, 2092.
Ten years.
It's been ten whole years.
The first six months had been the worst. To sleep in a cold, empty bed, bereft of your touch. To eat in an empty mess hall, with only a single Mister Handy to serve pre-packed foods to be warmed by microwave. To take showers in silence, with only the steady dripping of water to keep myself company. To wander about the Vault, with only work on my mind and not a single other soul to speak to.
To live alone by choice, knowing that companionship is but a button-press away, but would consign the other person to a long, slow death as they age while I do not. I tested a spare pod with a mutated mouse that a Mister Handy had captured, to see if the stasis runes would hold a deactivation sequence. Alas, it appears that it will not; so the pods can only be deactivated once, and that would be it. There is simply not enough power to engage the enchantment again, it seems.
I comforted myself in knowing that what I do is for the good of those in my care. The wants of one must give way to the needs of many, after all.
The radiation in the world above ground has decayed somewhat, but that has not reduced the grim reality of what lies above. The black, radioactive soot-laden rain stopped long before you have entered your pod, but the damage appears to have been permanent. There is no grass, there are no trees. The Thames runs clear enough to see the garbage in the riverbed beneath, yet there are absolutely no fish at all in it. No evidence of algal life at all.
I suppose that would be just one more project that would tide me over until the day that I can release you, love.
October 31, 2132.
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, you ancient dinosaur you. Happy birthday to me.
A very happy birthday indeed, with a carrot cake, no icing, and a single candle made out of a scrap of fuse. What a wonderful life this is, to have a birthday without you or our daughters.
A centenarian I am now, my love. Even if I don't look like it. Last I've looked in the mirror, I still look the same as I did when I was twenty. Minus a crooked nose that won't go away after the Mister Handy that I was servicing decided to drop its maintenance hatch, and an index finger that can't bend properly after an accident with a blunt scalpel in the labs.
One of the Mister Handies found a biogel processor the other week. Mothballed in a wooden crate. It had never been unpacked, and it's been sitting there for years without my knowledge! Now I know what I can do with all the food that I can't eat on my own that's coming from the hydroponics facilities below.
With all that biogel—why, I could continue my research in earnest! Lord knows there's very little to occupy my time with, these days. All the theoretical work that I have set aside is done, and it is so mind-numbingly boring to simply sit around, tending to plants. Yes, even the magical plants have gotten rather tedious to tend to after the thousandth time around. Even so, I did discover a use for the concentrated essence of dittany and venomous tentacula sap. These two combined, mixed with biogel, ethyl alcohol and dried, powdered bubotuber pus and an emulsifier in the form of tragacanth gum, makes for a sprayable healing solution. The addition of freeze-dried and powdered fire seeds to this spray causes it to flash-harden on whatever it is sprayed on, forming an insoluble and waterproof antibacterial film. One that also encourages rapid regrowth of any damaged or missing cells, much like a stimulant package on Buffout.
A truly useful item to take on expeditions above ground when the time comes to explore the world once the radiation becomes tolerable again.
Let us see what else I can discover in the next few decades, shall we? I doubt that I will run out of things to do. Not when I have access to a biogel processor and a surplus of organic matter, at any rate.
July 31, 2232.
Two hundred years old now.
If I was a dinosaur before, I'm now certainly a fossil. Yes, even if I do not look like it.
Allan – the Mister Handy that runs around collecting things from basements and sewers outside – was gravely injured on returning. The surveillance cameras scattered around London have given out many years ago, and thus I could not find out who did this atrocity. How could they? Allan is the sweetest, most peace-loving and helpful machine that has ever existed!
Well, after lab assistant Sorcha, of course. That Nurse Handy certainly knows her way around experiments. It took quite a bit of instruction from myself, but it is certainly worth it. Love, if you read this message, remind me to introduce you to her. You'd get along with her, I promise you.
Still, I suppose I've digressed enough. The injuries on Allan's shell weren't caused by mutated rats, cats, dogs, sheep or cattle. Or even the hands of those horrible, horrible ghouls. They were caused by high-calibre weaponry. It seems that some humans have somehow survived above ground, or that others have built vaults before the war and have emerged. Which boggles the mind, as the soil samples collected by Allan indicate a level of radioactivity at least six times higher than would be considered safe for gamete integrity.
Without the cameras above ground, however, I must assume that whoever or whatever remains of the old world are hostile. A shame that Allan's degrading optical sensors couldn't pick up even a glimpse of his attackers. Future expeditions will have to be accompanied by Brutus, the sentry bot that guards the main hallway. Lord knows how bored he must be, just trundling up and down aimlessly. I will have to make sure his plasma blasters and armored shell are at peak performance.
June 1, 2247.
The culmination of nearly a hundred and fifty years of research with genetic material collected from everyone in Vault M-3 are now incubating nicely in the cloning tanks. I wish I could say it was entirely out of scientific curiosity, but isolation has gotten the better of me. Speaking to Allan, Sorcha, Brutus and the others through direct neural-code interface is well and good, but I yearn for some human interaction.
Every time I pass your pod, love, it shreds my heart. Knowing that you are there, in my sight yet out of reach. Knowing that I can speak, and you cannot hear. Knowing that you will never understand just how painful it is for myself to be subjected to decades upon decades of this torture. The greater good is a painful thing indeed, is it not?
Regardless, it seems that we will have to welcome four new children into our lives. Two boys and two girls.
Mister Potter's genetic material appears to contain a novel sequence which allows for rapid repair of damaged tissue, while readings of Lady Greengrass' magical reserves indicates tremendous magical flow potential. Taking the already-created genetic samples from Orianna and merging in the two samples taken from Mister Harry James Potter and Lady Daphne Isabelle Greengrass, I was mildly surprised to see that Mister Potter's sample somehow consumed the other two and formed it into something new, on its own accord. Magic is perhaps at work, but I would certainly still like to know how this has happened. This particular embryo I have decided to label PX-47, a chimera of three distinct lineages, and is a female.
The second is that of Mister Neville Francis Longbottom and Miss Katherine Maxine de Vermandois. The lad shows incredible magical reserves, though his timid demeanour does obscure it at times. Miss de Vermandois, of the French delegation, has exhibited magical talent in various magical arts. Again, the genetic material of this embryo was created by fusing Orianna's genetic samples to theirs. No complications were observed in the genetic recombination phase. This embryo is labelled VX-46, a chimaera of three distinct lineages, and is male. Standard recombination with viral vectors was used.
Third is that of Mister Longbottom and Miss Tracey Linda Davis. The lass has exhibited a very quick wit and quick responses in her time inside the vault. Scans indicate that this is due to a central nervous system anomaly in Miss Davis, which lets her respond in record time to any stimulus. It is projected that DL-48, a male, would exhibit superior reflexes useful in a bodyguard for those venturing above ground. DL-48 was created with standard viral recombination, with Zoe's material as a base.
I must admit that the fourth was a product of more than mere curiosity. The presence of mixed-breed humans isn't an impossibility; our daughters have relayed many praises of one Filius Flitwick, and there are at least six goblin-human infants in the pods at this very moment, courtesy of a few French. Miss Fleur Marianne Delacour's veela background has proven to be incredibly potent when it comes to attracting others. I will admit it now, love, that I felt an almost irresistible compulsion to kiss her and ravish her when she flashed that most charming smile at everyone in the mess hall on her birthday. Whatever the case, I would imagine that we will need a diplomat when our community grows, to handle the concerns of its people.
Lord knows that I am unfit to be a leader to so many people. I am a scientist at heart, concerned with uncovering truths of the universe, not a politician that spreads lies and empty platitudes!
There was a notable deviation from accepted rules of genetic inheritance when it came to this specimen, however. In the creation of DL-48, VX-46 and PX-47, candidate gender distributions were as expected, being slightly skewed to males over females. FL-49, however, has a gender distribution of one hundred percent female in all surviving candidate embryos. Attempts to introduce the Y-chromosome from various males, both goblin and human, have resulted in an embryo that perished quickly in something that resembled a self-destructive autoimmune response. Something that should not have been possible at that stage of development, considering that leukocytes have yet to develop.
Another quirk is that the genetic binding appears to be improperly formed until the introduction of a small volume of Elixir. What the effects of this will be in the long run, I do not know; the Elixir itself, to this point, still eludes my understanding.
Regardless, FL-49, which has a recorded ancestry of Mister Potter and Miss Delacour, on a base of Aveline's genetic material, is the one selected for maturity in this batch. It is projected that the result should be very similar to Miss Delacour, if the uncanny familial resemblance that runs in the female Delacour line breeds true.
All other embryos and combinations are in cold storage with attached notes in the mainframe's central storage. It is worth mentioning that the only ones in storage are viable embryos, and that those that have been deemed unviable have been disposed of in the biogel processor.
March 15, 2248.
VX-46, PX-47, DL-48 and FL-49 have all been born without complications. The lightest of them, FL-49, weighed in at eighteen pounds. The heaviest, DL-48, weighs an astounding thirty-nine pounds. Even Orianna did not weigh as much at birth, and she was the heaviest of our own.
Phase one is complete. Phase two – the their upbringing – begins now. The task before me seems insurmountable. I will admit that I have longed for human company, but as memories of raising Orianna, Zoe and Aveline return, I find myself completely befuddled by what I need to do.
Lucille, I owe you a great deal more than I had thought at first. Changing diapers of children is something that I find myself seemingly unable to do. DL-48 has decided to void his bowels at this very moment. Thankfully, Sorcha has come to my rescue. I would not know what to do without her.
July 22, 2257.
DL-48 has just had his first outburst of accidental magic. Dylan and his brother, Victor, have been arguing between themselves over a ration package that they had found lying around. In a fit of anger, he pulled the pack out of his brother's hands from a distance of twenty feet – and straight into his face.
The self-heating pack inside exploded on impact, and now the child has third-degree burns over left half of his face. Sorcha is uncertain if the child will ever regain the use of his left eye, considering the damage. What is certain, however, is that I doubt relations between the two will remain the same. They had never gotten along to begin with, even from when they were toddlers; thrown wooden cubes, hair-pulling, name-calling and flicking food at each other at mealtimes. Now, I am forced to put the two on opposite wings of the Vault, just so that they would not have to run into each other.
Their strength grows every day. Brutus, the sentry bot that he is, tries to keep peace as best he can. But even his servomotors have limits, and I fear the day that he becomes unable to break up a fight between the two, should that day come.
PX-47, or Pixie as she prefers to be called, has grown up to be quite a studious young lady. Her mind is much like a sponge; whatever books that she lays her hands on, the information within is sure to be absorbed. Much like Lady Greengrass, she is quite standoffish, and prefers to answer with laconic single-word answers when possible. Still, whenever she does engage in a discussion with myself, it is clear that she possesses a disturbingly astute, analytic and logical mind. If I did not know better, I would have thought that she was a synthetic being of circuitry, and not of flesh and blood!
Flora – FL-49 – is quite the opposite. Warm and sunny in disposition, she reminds me much of Aveline. Perhaps it is the veela heritage in her that also grants her an almost ethereal grace, despite her great mass. For whatever reason, however, she seems to suffer from terrible nightmares. Night after night, from three years of age until the present, she weeps in her sleep, tossing and turning and occasionally crying out for comfort. To this day, she sleeps with myself, just so that I can respond quickly whenever these nightmares grow to an unbearable intensity.
On another note, the radiation above ground seems to have largely cleaned itself up. The last soil and water samples from above have little radioactivity remaining. The Thames, while still radioactive enough to cause someone to fall ill if drunk from, is an order of magnitude cleaner than it was a century ago. I still doubt that much of the city is cleansed, though I will admit that this does bode well for my centuries-long isolation.
I shall continue monitoring the samples that Allan brings in. When I deem that the radioactivity has dropped enough for us to begin colonising the surface once more,I shall awaken everyone in the pods.
It feels like it's been decades since I've last smiled. But maybe that is because it is true. Soon, my love, I will be with you again.
A/N:
-Grabs muse with grappling hook- GET OVER HERE~
Been quite some time since I last updated this story. Been busy developing software on weekends, which leaves very little time to write.