Chapter 20 “Sometimes the old ways are the best.” Rosie woke with a sense of worry forming a tight knot in her gut, and guilt like heat under her skin. Even descending the rope wasn’t fun. The boost from the nearly full core had made her more than a little excitable, and Paul had paid for it. She couldn’t look him in the eye as he sat at the kitchen table, smiling through a bruised face and split lip. She couldn’t look at Charlie at all. “I’m fine, stop fussing.” Paul winced as he drank his coffee and brushed off Charlie's attempt to put a cold piece of metal pipe in his lip. “Morning Rosie.” He winced again as he smiled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.” Rosie knew exactly what had happened, she watched it back two dozen times. As they sparred Rosie slipped into the dreamlike state for a fraction of a second. Long enough to hit Paul with a right hook he didn’t see coming, sending a man twice her size to the ground, unconscious, with blood pouring from his mouth. “So you’ve said.” Charlie’s mood had not improved. “I keep telling you it’s not her fault, it’s mine.” Paul repeated the same thing he’d been saying since it happened. Rosie didn’t know what made her feel worse, Charlie’s scorn or Paul’s unequivocal and instant forgiveness. “Hell of a right cross though, we should put her in for the Golden Gloves.” Rosie didn’t get the joke and Charlie didn’t find it funny. “I’m taking Paul to Bakersfield for an x-ray, clean this shit up.” Charlie waved an arm at the messy benches and strode out of the cellar, heading below. Rosie kept looking at her boots. “You just gave her a fright is all.” Paul put an arm around her and Rosie started to cry. Paul drew her in close, wrapping his thick arms round and bringing her head to his broad chest, just like John would. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Not the first busted lip I’ve had, I promise you that.” “I don’t have to leave do I?” Rosie didn’t know where the question came from, yet as she said it crystallised how she’d felt since Charlie yelled at her. Paul cupped her face in his large, calloused hands and looked into her eyes. “Never.” He pulled her to his chest again, she could hear his heartbeat. Steady and true, she thought, just like John. “You do however have to tidy up.” She laughed through a sob and set to work. Something about the way Paul headed down the stairs bothered her, faster than usual. Rosie took a deep breath and followed. The private Vault below wasn’t nearly as deep as even the stockroom, never mind level six, yet it felt deeper. The nearly imperceptible tinge of stale air, the hum of recirculation fans in the wall, the total absence of natural light. It nearly stopped her from following, but had to know what Charlie thought. Paul strode through the lounge, knocking chairs away with force, and burst through the door into the room he shared with Charlie. “You need to get up them stairs and let that girl know she’s loved.” Rosie hadn’t heard Paul yell before. His voice boomed so loud she almost wondered why she’d followed him. “She knows she’s family.” Charlie’s words didn’t match her tone “No Charlotte, she doesn’t. That’s what I keep fucking telling you, she feels things more than us, louder, deeper, big swings in her mood. Like how Kevin used to get.” Rosie didn’t know who that was. “She would probably have been that way before those bastards clamped that thing on her arm. She thinks that you want her to leave.” “That’s ridiculous.” Charlie’s tone had softened “To you! To you it’s ridiculous. She’s been up top all night running you screaming ‘get out of my sight’ through her head. And every time it feels a little bit worse. She’s fragile.” “Two months ago she couldn’t walk three steps, now she’s one of the best operators I’ve ever seen.” Rosie found a glimmer of hope in Charlie’s compliment. “That isn’t what I mean and you know it.” Things went quiet. Rosie strained at the door to try and hear, when it suddenly swung open. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak.” Rosie went back to staring at her boots, getting lost in the pattern of the thick carpet. “No, I’m sorry.” Charlie reached up, lifting Rosie’s chin and making eye contact. “Someone hurts my man and I get a bit...vicious.” “Like a fucking yao guai.” Paul added from inside the room. “I think that’s something we have in common.” Charlie got that right, the thought of someone hurting John made her angry. “Come on, I want to show you something.” Charlie led her back along the hall, stopping at what Rosie remembered as a bedroom. “Go on.” Charlie motioned for her to go inside. Rosie hadn’t been down here since the day she arrived. The room had been unused, furniture draped in sheets, the four poster bed bare and the mattress wrapped in plastic. Now the bed had been neatly made with soft sheets and luxurious pillows. The low table and chairs had been arranged, and on the wall hung black and white photographs from her birthday party. “This is your room. I know you hate it down here but it’s not so bad. Yours and John’s, because he’s family, and so are you.” Charlie’s words and the effort put into this room made her cry again. “Now being family doesn’t mean I won’t get angry at you when you fuck up. Because you fucked up Rosie. It means that no matter how bad things get there’s a place for you here, with us, and you never have to leave.” “I’m sorry, I just got worked up.” Rosie felt stupid for letting the worst thoughts take hold. A brisk run and twenty minutes of poses slowed her racing mind. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Charlie asked as she and Paul joined her in the sunshine outside the lighthouse. “Bakersfield has its charms.” “No, I’m sure.” Rosie didn’t want to be a spare part, although she did want to see the x-ray machine. “Besides, I've got to tidy up.” “And make dinner.” Charlie could barely contain her amusement at that punishment. “We’ll be back by nightfall. So will Matt and Brandon.” “Janey knows my recipes.” Paul whispered as he hugged her goodbye. “Which is more than I can say for some.” Paul raised his voice to mock Charlie. “I don’t cook.” Charlie repeated the phrase she said when someone complained about eating the pre-war pouches. “And we are all very grateful for that.” Paul winked and rubbed Rosie’s arm, then set out to get his jaw x-rayed. Janey informed her that dinner would take three hours, and it could be done in the cellar. Rosie set to work tidying up, wondering what got into her head, and why she couldn’t shake the spiralling thoughts. She’d started dissembling something, then tossed it aside for something else. It took a few minutes to clear up. Then Rosie ripped a sketch from her pad, pinned it up next to the picture of John, and set to work. The Assaultron blade arm came apart easily enough. A ball and socket shoulder mounting. A hinged actuator. Some high tensile steel plate, curved sections that formed the forearm. All were pushed aside as the blade became the focus of Rosie’s interest. Dark tungsten carbide, harsh angles, and a serrated back. Rosie remembered the thunk it made the first time she saw it. Right before Janey, then ex wife number four, tried to kill Charlie. Her idea had been to remove the top half of the blade and mount it in a grip. Yet as she manipulated the blade and observed the triangular locking chain within, she had a better idea. Fully extended it reached sixty centimetres, it folded, but not in a helpful way. Rosie gripped the top of the blade in a vice, shoving the serrated sections forward. Each piece opened and clasped over the one above, leaving enough chain to work with. Rosie took the larger of the actuators and broke it down with a little gentle encouragement from Janey’s pronged hands. She doesn't need a blade anyway, Rosie thought. The threaded bar and cogs from within would do nicely, but she would need to cast the handle. Confident in her design, Rosie set it aside and moved on, remembering the advice to cast all at a once for consistent results. Next Rosie set about fully dismantling the riot armour. She almost felt pity for those who had come up against it. The armour consisted of three elements. The mask and back mounted oxygen tanks, keeping the wearer safe from the gas. An infrared torch and vision system built in to see through the smoke. The body consisted of armour and a full length coat. Tough leather, lined with the same stuff they used to in the more crucial Vault sections to keep it from burning. The shoulders and forearms were covered in a thick steel plate, shaped for a man. Even once they were cut off the coat looked too big, and had a square hole in the back where the oxygen tanks had sat. The thickest plate had been used for the torso. Broad across the chest and in five sections. With a reinforced blast plate jutting out to protect the neck. She cut most of it away, leaving the blast plate and upper chest. The only thing untouched now were the steel shinned riot boots. Oversized and clunky, but of solid construction. They came apart easily at the seams and went back together well. Rosie discarded the boots, and a section of plate from the calf. That helped her rework the noisy foot coverings into layered knee plates With a clearer picture unfolding of what she had, and what she needed, Rosie began to focus on two separate outfits. She started with the quiet one. Pulling on the stealth suit wasn't any easier, and far from dignified. Rosie ended up on the floor getting her legs in. She started trying to look with the small medkit mirror until she had a better idea. “Good afternoon Admin Rosie. Food preparation will need to begin in six hours. Would you like me to remind you again?” Rosie had already forgotten. “Yes, thanks.” The red light in the centre of Janey’s head began to blink, indicating some deeper processing than a reminder. “Would you like to hear a joke? It will lighten your mood and increase efficiency.” “Sure.” “Knock knock…” Rosie didn’t understand. “Error. The required response is ‘who’s there’.” “Ok, who’s there?” “An interrupting robot.” “Ok, Hello—” Janey began to emit a series of loud whirs and beeps. Rosie still didn’t understand. “Perhaps I did not tell it right. Would you like to hear another?” “No. I mean no thanks, I just need a mirror.” Rosie inspected her outfit through Janey’s complex lensing array. It worked better than a mirror. She practiced turning and drawing with the carbine, reloading the compact smg. The cloak flowed, slipping back and forth across her shoulders. The shin plates moved well, although they made noise, and left a section of suit visible on her thigh. Rosie let Janey make the coffee and took off the stealth suit. She sat opposite the power armour in her comfortable t shirt and black trousers. The bulk of the next few hours involved stripping the armour back to its bare bones. She would examine the exploded view in her eyes for each section, then take apart the heavy steel, gearing blocks and linkages. Laying them on the floor next to her in a rough outline of the armour. The more she removed, the higher the power to weight ratio climbed and the more appealing the idea of wearing it became. The only real challenge came from shifting the core housing to the lower back, but welding always brought Rosie a sense of calm. Getting each line neat, watching the blues and oranges flare through the metal. Almost sculpted from the crude human shape of the power armour, stood an R frame. My R frame, she thought with a grin. Two shoulder pistons, a thick flat spine, and an upper chest plate made up the torso. Each limb now had an extra piston taken from elsewhere. Two on the biceps and forearms, holding the mounts for the blades. The legs held pistons that met at the knee, able to propel and absorb. With hinged plates over the knees and feet. Rosie couldn’t find any of the straps or the blades, she could have figured something out but left it till someone got back. By far the most intriguing of the removed parts were the hands. With a small current from the four pin connector she could manipulate them. Rosie used the control grips, closing and opening her hand. The mechanised counterpart copied, instantly and exactly. The exploded view showed how intricate they were, cables, cams and gears, assembled with millimetre precision. Her mind began to think about the man hours poured into the design, the manufacturing, the sheer amount of people it must have taken. Rosie felt like a child playing with a shiny rock. And began to get a sense of the fondness the others had for these relics of an age passed from living memory, still running a century later. She sighed, then yanked the wrist mount free in a manner far from reverential. The two sided, vice like grips attached to the frame so they rested in her palms, strong and powerful clamps that retracted onto the forearm. “Admin Rosie, now is the optimal time to begin food preparation.” Rosie turned to see Janey had gathered everything from below in a crate and wondered if someone told her to do that. “Can’t be that hard, right?” Rosie looked at her handiwork for the last few hours. “Chef Paul has demonstrated numerous recipes.” Janey turned and walked over to the corner kitchen. “Chef…Paul?” “Correct.”