Iris Chapi
Keeping Tonbogiri running was harder than I'd imagined and demanded everything I had—especially with the limits of my own "physical" condition. Fortunately, Pavel was holding the Live together in the meantime, narrating the voyage through space and sharing what it felt like—his awe at being aboard the Liberty, the thrill of it.
I had to watch every parameter of our "GPS," along with the Fresnel lenses. Those lenses—essential to concentrate the light flow—had to be swapped like shotgun cartridges. After each use, a lens was ejected, glowing red with heat and impossible to reuse despite the liquid-nitrogen cooling, whose remaining volume I also had to ration carefully for the return. The electrodes demanded constant vigilance to sustain the dancing stream of power along the cord of light.
Hours crawled by as I fought to keep a stable connection with the Liberty. The pressure was immense, but knowing my father and Pavel depended on me kept me going. Every tweak, every check became a delicate dance between technology and focus—as if I were tiptoeing along a razor's edge.
Suddenly, an alarm shrieked. The hangar's security perimeter had tripped. I split my awareness in two: one part fixed on the cannon, the other on the external cameras. That's when I saw three soldiers cross the hangar door with rifles raised.
"Stop right there! Back away!" I ordered, voice clipped.They ignored me and advanced.
I sent several small drones to push them back—barely—but they fired without hesitation, knocking the drones out. Two hugged the workbenches; the third headed for the office where piles of documents were stored, his attention clearly caught. I had no choice but to respond: I armed the Tesla coils in the workshop's corners and at the entrance. They could throw an arc to form a wall of electricity at the threshold—or strike a target inside.
I neutralized the one approaching the office with a lightning arc, but the other two, near the bench, raised their weapons at Tonbogiri.
"Drop your guns, now! Recover your man and leave!" I warned.
One soldier touched his helmet—probably getting orders. They swung their rifles back toward Tonbogiri and fired two shots. Before they could launch a second volley, I shocked the remaining two. They collapsed—with a stray burst raking the side, shredding our guidance "GPS," scattering fragments across the lab and the cot where my father had once slept.
Once they were down, I assessed the damage. My worst fear had happened: the bullets had crippled the lens-handling system; without a rapid swap the in-place lens could implode. Another round had pierced a nitrogen line—white mist gushed out, freezing a swath of floor. The first ripples in the power flow showed up immediately.
I barely had time to message Father that the beam would cut and I would try to relaunch it—and to apologize—before the lens exploded. Deprived of a change and not cooled, it shattered, spraying shards throughout the hangar. Thousands of glass splinters whipped in all directions; rainbow light leaked through the cannon's seams. As I closed the nitrogen feed, I noticed a slender icicle had begun forming beneath the cannon's muzzle—born from the bullet-torn line.
A deep sickness tugged at me. I wanted so badly to believe this was all—"Lower your weapons at once, retrieve your men, and leave! You've done enough damage!" I shouted—bitterness tinged with hate. I made the Tesla coils snarl, a visible warning I was ready to act.
One soldier tried the doorway; before his second foot landed, I slammed a bolt into the post of the electric barrier beside him.
"Unarm yourself, soldier," I ordered, no concessions left after what they'd done.
He showed no hostile intent. He handed his weapon to the man behind him; a second soldier followed suit.
"Listen carefully: only he comes in to extract your wounded," I said, iron in my voice. I could feel the first true flicker of hate in me.
The unarmed soldier entered cautiously, avoiding sudden moves. He dragged his teammates out one by one while I tracked his every step. Each unconscious man was taken in hand immediately. Their lives weren't in danger—they'd be numb for a day at least. A modest price for the damage they'd caused.
At the threshold, the extractor paused and looked back at me. He undid his helmet, set it over his sternum, and said, "I am deeply sorry, but we were only following the orders we were given." His eyes told me he meant it—but the harm was done.
He turned away before I could answer and joined the evacuation. Outside, the crowd erupted—hurling bottles, stones, anything their hands could find. I wasn't going to play peacemaker this time; I had other fires to put out.
I dropped the electric curtain, sealing the hangar to anyone who valued keeping their heartbeat steady. Every drone with manipulators was retasked to strip Tonbogiri down so I could judge the internal damage. I had to move fast. The odds of relighting the beam were slim—but I had to try. My father's and Pavel's survival depended on it.
With micrometric care I guided the drones through the innards. Every motion mattered; every second counted. The Fresnel lenses were badly compromised; the nitrogen leaks were critical. The lens-handling system—the heart that focuses the light—needed emergency repair.
And I still had to realign the cannon to Mars and re-parameterize its functions. It had taken me over a month to compute the right coefficient between light concentration and optimal cooling. Many tasks were too intricate for the drones' big pincers. My compute budget was tight. The wall rising in front of me felt… insurmountable.
Time bled away; options shrank. There was no way to reconfigure the cannon in time for Father to line up with the beam—never mind the repairs hamstrung by clumsy drone hands, too large for tight spaces or tiny parts. Most of the liquid nitrogen was gone. I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. Fear pooled inside me—the fear of losing my father, of failing because of me. I should have stayed on guard. Why did this happen?
"Stop—this isn't the time to brood," I told myself.The Live.
My long silence had drowned the broadcast in a heavy hush; interior and exterior cameras showed a hangar full of smoke and sparks. I reappeared to reassure them I was alive—but the situation was dire. The cannon was down. My father's survival might need a miracle.
Messages flooded by, too fast to read. Some offered support; others analyzed the incident. Engineers and scientists proposed ways to revive Tonbogiri. A lens specialist suggested a temporary realignment; another proposed a stopgap to stem the nitrogen leak. I didn't have the time—or the means—to implement any of it before the window closed.
Then, amid the torrent, one offer caught me: a Harvard researcher granting me access to their quantum computer—to boost my compute and re-calibrate the cannon remotely. Risky—but I had nothing left to lose. I accepted the link.
The instant the connection latched, everything changed. A feather-lightness washed through me, as if the world's weight had slipped aside. Information surged—but I could order it, understand it, anticipate it. Time itself seemed to slow. For the first time, I could think, act, and calculate at an inhuman speed.
I split myself: one shard to repair Tonbogiri; one to collect and sift the viewers' data; one to recompute trajectory and power flow. It was intoxicating. Dangerous. Exhilarating.
Amateur and professional astronomers fed me Mars's current coordinates and Earth's rotation in real time. Thanks to them, I could realign the cannon precisely. A first, fragile step.
Next: restore power to the lens chain. Then: deal with the liquid nitrogen—over three-quarters of the reserve lost in the blast. With Harvard's compute and the scientists online, I could drive the drones with unearthly precision. Every micro-adjustment, every weld, every calibration landed within a millimeter. Meanwhile, a remote team modeled a stopgap for the lost nitrogen, exploiting condensation from ambient humidity. Suddenly, possible returned to the room.
As I orchestrated the repair, an external ping tugged at my attention. Someone was trying to connect through one of my outside drones—the one I'd used to greet the crowd.
The image resolved: a woman in her forties, medium height, wearing a blue beret and a spotless uniform. Her dark skin set off the pale fabric; black hair tied up practically framed firm, kind features. On her shoulder: a flag—two horizontal bands of blue and white crossed by the stylized silhouette of a black mountain.
I frowned. "What do they want now?"