Vault-Tec Agricultural Research Center terminal entries

Vault-Tec AgCenter Terminal
FOR VAULT-TEC USE ONLY

<LOCKED>

*** SETTINGS LOCKED: READ ONLY ***

Crop Expansion: 75%
Crop Maintenance: 100%
Fertilization Protocols: 110%
Internal Diagnostics: 0%
Self-Preservation: 25%

==========
ADMIN LOCK
==========

Targeting paramenters have been hard LOCKED by Automated Supervisors.

Error log:
An administrative lockdown can only be overwritten if all automated Vault-Tec Supervisor are temporarily put in Offline Mode.

Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink
Vault-Tec Compost Depot
Central Compost Depot Storage

Command?

==================
BIOLOGICAL HARVEST
==================

011 Mole Rats
001 Radscorpion
003 Radstags

CYCLE HARVEST TOTAL:
14.32kg of usable compost
=====================
SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL
=====================

031 9mm Ammo
003 Bobby Pins
001 Fragmentation Grenade

NOTE: Unit 017.3 went offline. Adjusting search protocols to include more Aluminum, Electronics, and Copper to replace 17.3.

THE CROPS MUST GROW

SUPERVISOR 1.13f
* Coordinate Farmhands outside 0.0.0.
* Escalate relevant detection data to 001-VT-AG-RC.

SUPERVISOR 2.02b
* Coordinate Farmhands retrieval protocols at 13.1.14.

SUPERVISOR 3.11j
* Coordinate Farmhands retrieval protocols at - 19.3.104.
* Monitor transmission site for new firmware updates from VT.

THE CROPS MUST GROW

MacFadden's Personal Log

Select entry to view:

Facility's all busted. Tried restarting the generator - but fusion core's spent. Every able-bodied soul is busy fighting, not growing crops. The people need this.

Responders came through with a fusion core. Plugged it in and the whole place lit up. What a sight. But all the Mr Farmhands are hunks of metal.

Heard we lost a battle near Grafton. Got to get the farming up before it's too late. People are starving out there. Got one Farmhand online. All the VT Terminals were fried. Having to figure out on my own.

Success. The whole fleet of Mr Farmhands are up and idling. But they won't move. Just got their vocal circuits back online. Keep complaining about fertilizer. Just plant the seeds. Any yield at all is better than nothing.

Got into the central memory thing for the Farmhands. Running out of options. I'm not a robot tech so I'm doing the best I can. I haven't heard from anybody... not even Marge... But if anyone's out there, they'll need food. Just got access to the core settings. I'll fiddle with the Fertiziler settings. Maybe if I set it to 0 they'll just start planting.

________ERROR_______NO_CONNECTION_____

From the Office Of Governor Evans
ATTN: Facility Director

Per decree of the West Virginia Board Of Medicine, effective 30 days from now your resident veterinarian, Dr. Lizbeth Cohen, will be expected to report in for cross-training in human medicine. Please pass along our thanks, in addition to this "Field Guide To Human Medicine" we've put together in anticaption of any questions or concerns she may have regarding this transition. Thank you for your complete cooperation.

________________________________
From The Desk Of Dr. Lizbeth Cohen, DVM

My parents always joke that I became an animal doctor because I can't make sense of people. I laugh and shrug it off.
"I like people just fine."
Lying right through my teeth. But my patients, I understand them very well; with every limp, whimper, or pained glance, they tell me everything I need to know.

People, on the other hand, never say what they mean. Even if they're sick--especially then. Talking to people feels like taking a test I forgot to study for, like appearing on a game show where I always manage to pick the wrong door.

So God forbid the WV Board of Medicine has their way, because if so then soon many of the sick and wounded of Appalachia will have their limbs amputated by a large-animal veterinarian with steady hands, and zero tact. The war's getting close to home, they're saying--not enough human physicians to go around. They want us to leave our farms and animal hospitals and treat patients who talk, and who expect us to talk back.

There's no telling if the governor will agree to this so-called strategy, but for now all I can do is wait and work.

Mom and dad called last night to see how I was holding up.

Yes, I told them: I like people just fine.

________________________________
From The Desk Of Dr. Lizbeth Cohen, DVM

The hospital's "Field Guide For Nontraditional Doctoring" came in the mail today, along with the schedule they made for me. Tomorrow at 7am I'll put on a white coat covered in dog fur, wear a stethoscope around my neck that is too small to hear the sounds of human hearts, and do my level best to pass myself off as happy to serve my country.

After lunch I went to wash my face, and nearly threw up. Amelia came to nuzzle my ankles, and a few seconds later she quivered and then vomited enough for both of us. Her way of showing solidarity, I suppose.

In vet school I once asked why cats do that so often, hacking up their spleen at a moment's notice. In all my years of practicing veterinary medicine, I never did learn the answer.

But ever since the mail arrived this morning, I'm starting to see the appeal.

________________________________
From The Desk Of Dr. Lizbeth Cohen, DVM

Six months of hell. That's what I told myself, last week. A hundred and eighty one days of what would be medical malpractice, if the state board of medicine still bothered to answer the phone.

Sometimes I'm amazed at how no one--not one patient or anyone in their family--has caught on to the fact that I was not trained for this. Not MEANT for this. I've spent every one of those days waiting--hoping, if I'm honest--to be caught, outed, sent back to where I've told myself I belong.


But last week, one of my patients took a final turn for the worse. I've learned a lot about human medicine over the last half-year, including the fact that we're not supposed to have 'favorite' patients. But how can I help it? Didn't we already fly right past playing-by-the-rules when they brought me here in the first place?

He was the kindest man you'd ever meet, fighting as hard as anyone I'd ever seen through the nausea, searing aches and pains, and every other side-effect of the 'treatment' meant to prolong his life--the kind of agony we wouldn't even think of putting an animal through.

Every time I've seen him, I could take x-rays, give him good news, and chat with him as easily as an old friend.

But this last time, he already knew before I told him--the cancer had found its way out of his bones and into his brain. "That's ok," he said, smiling the same gentle smile as when he'd been improving. "I reckon I'm just about ready, anyway."

Ready for what? I genuinely wanted to know.

"For the rest of it."

For all my complaining, my six months of hell doesn't hold a candle to his. Time to go to work.