Dwight La Cross adjusted his glasses and scraped another soil sample into a glass vial. The dirt crumbled between his paws, dry and lifeless. Seventeen years as a geologist had taught him what dead earth looked like, and Broken Hills was full of it. But somewhere in Vault 116, buried beneath rubble and radiation, sat a G.E.C.K.—a device that could rebuild soil at the molecular level. He capped the vial and tucked it into one of his pack's lead-lined pockets. If he could find that tech and crack it open, he'd teach every settlement from here to New Reno how to grow real food again. No companies. No fees. Just knowledge that belonged to everyone. The Red Hills Traders had given him a base to work from—a restored prewar military office with tiger-striped camouflage paint still clinging to its walls. Dwight set up his equipment inside, arranging sample containers on a metal desk. The building would do. Solid walls, room for storage, and close enough to the vault entrance that he could move quickly when needed. He unpacked his Raddy RF-450 shortwave radio and plugged it in. The amber lights flickered to life. If the G.E.C.K. was still active, it might broadcast maintenance signals. Worth checking. Outside, he'd spotted something useful—a research station with stone walls and wooden benches. Someone had built it years ago to test crops. Most of the equipment was gone, but the structure remained sound. Dwight walked over and examined the soil sample containers scattered across the benches. He picked one up and turned it over in his paw. Once he had the G.E.K., this place would be perfect for demonstrations. He could show settlers exactly how the molecular reconstitution worked, prove the tech wasn't just prewar fantasy. He headed back to his base and sat down at the radio. The dial clicked as he turned it, scanning frequencies. Static filled the room. Dwight leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. The vault wouldn't be easy—cave-ins, flooding, radiation spikes. But the G.E.C.K. was down there, and he had the skills to find it. He'd spent seventeen years studying dead ground. Now he'd learn how to bring it back to life.

Dwight needed frequencies. He pulled a weathered notebook from his pack and flipped to a blank page. The G.E.C.K. would broadcast maintenance pings if it still had power—standard Vault-Tec protocol. He'd start by mapping the common diagnostic bands, then work outward. His pen scratched across the paper as he wrote down the ranges: 27.185 MHz for environmental systems, 28.500 MHz for medical, 29.600 MHz for agricultural modules. That last one mattered most. He set the notebook down and looked around his base. The converted NCR recruitment office had good bones—solid walls, intact roof, enough space to work. But the equipment needed organizing. He dragged a grey metal counter from the back room and positioned it against the wall. The flat top gave him surface area for his sample vials and tools. He loaded the built-in compartments with capacitors, wire, and spare parts. Everything in reach now. Everything ready. Power was next. The prewar electrical grid couldn't be trusted, and he needed reliable juice for the radio and testing equipment. Dwight stepped outside and examined the Aztec GS6500 solar generator he'd acquired from another trader. Grey body, blue trim, compact enough to move if needed. He ran the cable back inside and plugged in the radio. The amber lights glowed steady this time. No flickering. He checked the generator's output meter—plenty of charge for a full day's scanning. Back at the radio, Dwight turned the dial to 29.600 MHz and adjusted the antenna. Static hissed through the speaker. He marked the time in his notebook and began a slow sweep across the agricultural band. Nothing yet, but that was expected. The vault was deep, and signals would be weak. He'd scan in shifts—two hours on, one hour testing soil samples, then back to scanning. If the G.E.C.K. was broadcasting, he'd find it. And once he had that signal, he'd know exactly where to dig.

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.

Dwight adjusted his glasses and studied the metal shelving unit he'd just installed along the back wall of his base. Three tiers, sturdy construction, enough space for organized storage. He loaded the top shelf with his soil sample vials, each one labeled with location coordinates and collection dates. The middle shelf held his technical manuals—Vault-Tec maintenance protocols, prewar geology texts, anything related to terraforming systems. On the bottom shelf, he stacked his trade goods: spare capacitors, coils of wire, a few working circuit boards. Everything visible now. Everything accessible. He stepped back and nodded. When he finally decoded the G.E.C.K.'s systems, he'd need this kind of organization to cross-reference data quickly. The shelves would hold more than supplies—they'd hold the foundation of what he planned to teach others. He grabbed his pack and headed outside for his afternoon survey. The stone watchtower rose in the distance, its flat roof catching the sun. Dwight had spotted it from three miles out when he first arrived in Broken Hills. Now it marked his return path whenever he explored the outer zones. He pulled out his notebook and sketched the tower's position relative to his base. Landmarks mattered when mapping radiation zones and potential vault access points. The skeletal tree stone monument stood near a cluster of rocks, its carved surface weathered but readable. Dwight ran his paw along the inscriptions—stages of plant survival, etched deep into the stone. Someone had documented which species lasted after the bombs. He photographed the carvings and copied the plant names into his notebook. Rosette Agave, Desert Ironwood, Creosote Bush. His tail flicked as he worked. This was field data, the kind his manuals couldn't provide. When the G.E.C.K.'s molecular reconstitution started rebuilding soil, he'd need to know which plants already handled the radiation and heat. Dwight knelt beside a living rosette agave growing at the monument's base. Gray-green leaves formed a tight spiral, each one thick and fleshy. He pulled out his soil probe and took a sample from the roots. The plant was thriving in conditions that killed everything else. He labeled the vial and tucked it into his pack's lead-lined pocket. Back at his base, he'd test the pH levels and mineral content. Maybe the agave had adapted to extract something specific from the dead earth. That kind of information would help him calibrate the G.E.C.K.'s atmospheric processors. He stood and brushed the dust from his knees. Every plant that survived taught him something. Every sample brought him closer to understanding what this land needed to grow again.