Dwight La Cross's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Dwight crouched beside a shallow crater half a mile from his base, scraping at the exposed rock layers. The explosion had happened years ago—some prewar weapons test, maybe—but it had done him a favor. The blast had cut through decades of sediment, revealing mineral strata that told him about the water table depth and soil composition. He pulled out his camera and snapped three photos of the striations, then measured the depth with a folding ruler. This kind of geological data would help him understand what the land needed once he cracked open the G.E.C.K.'s secrets. Every sample, every measurement brought him closer to knowing exactly how the molecular reconstitution would interact with Broken Hills' dead earth. He packed up his tools and headed east, toward the petrified tree he'd spotted last week. The thing stood fifteen feet tall, its bark cracked and bleached white by decades of sun and sand. Fossilized roots broke through the ground in twisted loops, creating patterns that reminded him why he was doing this work. Plants had thrived here once. Real trees with deep roots and thick trunks. The G.E.C.K.'s atmospheric processors could bring that back—UV photolysis to clean the air, molecular reconstitution to rebuild the soil. He knelt beside the roots and ran his paw along the stone-hard wood. This wasn't just geology. This was proof that the land could be fixed. Back at his base, Dwight pulled out a wooden sign he'd been working on. Desert hues—faded orange and tan—matched the landscape, and he'd painted the letters himself: "G.E.C.K. Research & Trading - Soil Analysis - Tech Consultation." Simple. Direct. He leaned it against the outside wall where traders passing through could see it. He needed contacts, people who knew about prewar sites or had salvaged tech manuals. The more information he gathered now, the better prepared he'd be when he finally reached the vault. The Stonewall Library sat two streets over, its stone walls and tall windows still intact despite the years. Dwight walked inside and scanned the shelves filled with salvaged books. Most were worthless—old fiction, damaged encyclopedias—but he'd found three technical manuals here last month. He pulled a worn geology textbook from his pack and set it on the trade table near the entrance. Someone else might need it, and maybe they'd leave something useful in return. This place worked because people shared what they knew. That's exactly what he'd do with the G.E.C.K.—crack it open, learn how it worked, then teach anyone who'd listen. No fees. No restrictions. Just knowledge moving freely from settlement to settlement, the way it should.