Chapter Seventeen: The Thesis Is Finished

“Is the branch line green?”
“Yes, it’s green.”
“Are the neural network and BCI system simulations green?”
“Yes, they are green.”
“Is Uncle Wang’s hat green?”
“Yes, it’s green.”
“Her grandfather, what are you looking at? ‘Advanced Lectures on General Relativity’? Damn, my eyes are going blind…”

Today marked Shang Lu’s third day working at the Control Core Maintenance Office. Over these seventy-two hours, most of his time was spent chatting idly.

The Maintenance Office was indeed the most relaxed department in Workshop 110’s system—five people sharing one office, passing the hours in conversation during shifts. From apartment assignments to their children’s schooling, Shang Lu, the newcomer, naturally became the center of these casual talks. The enthusiastic older colleagues patiently explained how to maximize the benefits granted by the base, which apartments had the best environments, how to use food coupons to buy the most discounted goods, the best times to queue up for two extra eggs, and the importance of attending the political department’s social gatherings organized by the Youth League Section. These events happened several times a year, and if you found the right match, you got married. The government encouraged it—after the great retreat, with society nearly collapsing, rebuilding the social structure meant having more children and more marriages.

Bai Shu was close in age to Shang Lu, and quite bold. She would pat her chest and say, “How about you take a look at me? We can keep it within the unit.”

This scared Shang Lu into fleeing in a panic.

Among the five people in the office, only Uncle Wang Xiangbing and Cousin Li Wenxuan had families. Wang Xiangbing and his wife both worked at Base 151—he in the Workshop 110 Maintenance Office, she in base logistics. They had a son attending full-day kindergarten in downtown Chongqing, and they could spare weekends to spend time with him. Li Wenxuan had no children yet; his wife was a teacher at Chongqing No. 8 High School, so they rarely saw each other.

Zhang Zhong was less fortunate—he never missed any social event organized by the unit and had mingled well with the political department, but never found anyone interested in him. Whether it was his short stature or dark skin, he didn’t know. Holding the hands of a political department official, Zhang Zhong spoke gravely: He was the only son left of the old Zhang family. Though they had no throne to inherit, if he failed to continue the lineage, he would be betraying his parents and ancestors who died in the great retreat.

Bai Shu, meanwhile, was never short of suitors at the base—after all, she was clever and pretty—but her interest in any one man never lasted more than three months.

The Maintenance Office was one of the few departments in Workshop 110 that did not require 24-hour duty. They worked from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, with the latest shift ending at eleven. On two desks sat eight computers, and every half hour someone would glance at the screens. The workstation ran an AI control model simulating brain-computer interface (BCI). A green light meant it was functioning normally; a red light indicated an error. Uncle Wang said it had been error-free for sixty-six days.

By department tradition, the eldest member served as office director—so Shang Lu naturally took on the role, helping with tasks like taking out the trash every day. After all, he was the “grandfather” here.

“Did you guys hear? Old Liu from the neighboring Planning Office’s father is getting married next month. The woman’s apparently a telecom manager, close to retirement.”

“Has the man himself found a partner? His dad getting married?”

“He’s over sixty. Remarrying at this age. Liu’s mother passed away, right?”

“From the great retreat. He’s been a lonely old man for years.”

Every day was a gossip fest.

Shang Lu sat in his chair, burying his head behind the computer monitor. The desk before him was piled high with thick old textbooks and lecture notes. Whenever he could, he would peek at the screen through the gaps.

He now realized that Old Ji had indeed misled him. True, he was the chief engineer’s successor, but such a successor at Base 151 was just one among many. There was no destiny of a great hero parachuting in on the first day, standing like a god on the earth. Everyone was just an ordinary person—why should he be special? Because he graduated from Tsinghua?

But at least he was a student of an old comrade. Thanks to this connection, Old Ji placed him in a safe position, and after a long detour, Shang Lu’s needs were accidentally met. The Maintenance Office was practically a paradise for idling. The restless spirit he once had now settled again. He quickly recognized that the grand, heroic, intense life, standing like a deity on the earth, did not belong to him—it was far away, beyond reach.

Within such a vast organizational machine, one soon accepted their place. Staying obediently in the Maintenance Office as office director, lying comfortably, was a very good choice.

“When’s the next political department Youth League matchmaking event?” Shang Lu asked casually.

“The last one was two months ago,” Wang Xiangbing replied. “The next should be around National Day. If you want to sign up, I still have some forms left from last time. You can take one and fill it out.”

“Grandpa, you’re a hot commodity—educated, employed, stable work, no bad habits, fair-skinned. Let the political department help you contact someone. There are plenty of eligible single women in the rear echelon who are anxious.” Li Wenxuan said.

“Can’t you take a look at me?” Bai Shu pouted.

“Don’t mess with Grandpa. None of the guys who dated you lasted more than three months,” Zhang Zhong said. “You need to find a tiger tamer.”

“Screw you,” Bai Shu retorted.

Suddenly, the electric bell on the wall rang loudly, piercing the silence.

Wang Xiangbing slumped in his chair, glanced at his watch. “It’s time. Who’s going this round?”

“The usual,” someone said.

Everyone raised a hand.

“Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors! Rock, paper, scissors!”

In the end, Li Wenxuan lost and begrudgingly pulled a red safety helmet from under the table, put it on, and went to the workshop.

Every two hours, someone had to patrol the workshop—this was a system rule. For the planning or production offices, such rules made sense, but the Maintenance Office’s immortals were dissatisfied. Their main job was running models on the computer; the only meaning of walking around the workshop was to remind everyone outside that they were still alive.

“Cousin, remember to look active when you go, maybe General Ji will promote you as his successor!” Zhang Zhong called after Li Wenxuan.

“Bastard,” Li Wenxuan replied, flipping him the middle finger.

· · ·

“Beep—” Shang Lu looked up as a red light flashed on the computer screen.

The AI control system simulating the brain-computer interface, which had run flawlessly for sixty-six days, declared an end. Wang Xiangbing said that this result was already impressive. The third-generation BIC system currently used on the Red Lotus could only guarantee twenty days without major errors. They could write a report and submit it to close the project.

The brain-computer interface system, or BIC, was the bridge linking the pilot and the giant mech’s computer. By implanting invasive electrodes to capture the firing signals of neurons across the cerebral cortex, AI algorithms decoded these signals into operational commands for the mech. The BIC system, combined with force-feedback simulation, formed the core of the mech’s control.

“Simulation is always simulation. It’d be remarkable if it worked for thirty days in real use. The core of the BIC is still the algorithm,” Wang Xiangbing said. “At our current tech level, the electrical signals captured by electrodes are still very rough. Without machine learning, computers can’t recognize what the brain intends to do.”

“The maintenance manual says we only achieved extraction and encoding of abstract brain thoughts by the third-generation BIC system,” Shang Lu said. “The one Red Lotus is using now?”

“Exactly,” Wang Xiangbing nodded. “The latest generation, the one Red Lotus uses.”

“But it also causes the most damage to pilots,” Bai Shu added.

“Did they really implant electrodes deep into the parietal cortex?” Shang Lu gasped in surprise.

“The BIC’s role isn’t limited to controlling the mechs. If it were, non-invasive methods would suffice,” Wang Xiangbing explained. “But it also handles complex calculations. This requires deep brain-computer connectivity to extract and process complex mathematical information and operational commands. In this case, the human brain becomes part of a supercomputer, directing analysis and computation.”

“So pilots don’t last long,” Bai Shu added.

Shang Lu recalled the girl floating inside the transparent cockpit. Though she was wild, crazy, and laughter-filled, she was essentially a brain in a jar.

“The damage and consequences of BIC vary between individuals. Women adapt better than men because male hormones, especially testosterone, interact with the pituitary and hypothalamus, affecting the BIC. The female endocrine environment is more favorable. Usually, they take medication to suppress adverse reactions,” Wang Xiangbing sighed. “Almost every pilot suffers from Giant Mech Mental Syndrome, so it’s best to keep some distance.”

“What kind of illness is Giant Mech Mental Syndrome?”

“It’s not a disease, but a very complex clinical manifestation, unique to each person,” Wang Xiangbing scratched his forehead. “We still know too little about the human brain. Such deep invasive procedures carry unpredictable consequences.”

“But there’s no other way,” Zhang Zhong shrugged.

The angels were too powerful; humans had no means of resistance.

As the most intelligent primates on Earth, humans had risen to the top of the food chain over billions of years by virtue of their brains. Now, facing an enemy beyond reason, the only option was to further develop their minds.

Among millions, the best brains were selected, equipped with the most powerful giant armor and the most precise detection devices, and sent into battle to destroy the strongest foes.

This was truly the cruelest era of war.

After work, Shang Lu took out the striking white hat and put it on. Emerging from the stifling underground cavern, the first thing everyone did was take a deep breath of fresh air. Shang Lu did the same.

The air trembled slightly, and distant rumbling sounds echoed.

He lifted his head to gaze upward, seeing dense, deep red tongues of flame roaring across the sky beneath the sunset. The sound echoed through the mountains, painfully vibrating the eardrums. Everyone looked up as the fire streaks soared high overhead, passing over Base 151 and shooting toward the mountains beyond.

Shang Lu did not know the location of their launch site. The first volley of rocket artillery lasted fifteen seconds; fifteen seconds later, a second volley launched, flowing like a river of flames into the distant horizon beyond sight.