bdsm-fiction Chapter 67 Stars and Dust
Chapter 67 Stars and Dust
The central computing hub is no longer the hemispherical cavity it was six months ago.
Enpu stood on the suspended platform at the edge of the dome, looking down at the "galaxy." A spherical space, five kilometers in diameter, had been completely excavated deep within the crust of Garros. On the inner wall of the sphere, countless metal spheres, each about half a meter in diameter, were inlaid along the cavity, their surfaces etched with binary identification codes and the gear emblem of the Mechanicus. The distance between them was precisely calculated to allow cooling pipes and data cables to pass through the gaps.
Those spheres contain wet components—the cerebral cortex maintains minimal neural activity in a nutrient solution. They are neither machines nor humans, but beings in between. They possess the capacity for thought, but their thoughts are locked within the cage defined by the data infusion protocol; they lack self-awareness, never asking "Who am I?" or questioning the tasks they are performing. They operate tirelessly in the darkness, processing the data streams allocated by the central computing hub, and transmitting the results back to the central processing unit via neural networks.
Indicator lights flashed on the surface of each sphere. Not just one or two, but hundreds of thousands—dark red, green, and pale blue dots of light were arranged in an alternating pattern, spreading along the curved surface of the spherical cavity, flowing slowly in the darkness. These were not randomly flashing decorative lights, but light signals generated during data exchange between the wet component cores, transmitted from one sphere to another, from one area to the entire cavity, weaving a flowing net of light on the spherical surface.
Looking at his feet for a while, Enp gets the illusion that he's standing on the edge of a galactic spiral arm, overlooking a sea of stars. It's not intentional, but it's very similar. The flow of light converges at the center, surging from all directions along the inner wall of the sphere. There, suspended, is a huge metallic sphere hundreds of meters in diameter, held aloft by an invisible anti-gravity force in the center of the dome, without any support. The sphere's surface has no glass cavity, no nutrient solution; instead, it's covered with densely packed microscopic light points and dark circuit patterns, like a silicon wafer magnified to its limit.
That's not a wet component. That's a silicon-based processing core—modeled after the underlying architecture of the Titanium Core prototype, sculpted at the atomic level using universal atoms. There's no biological tissue, no nerve cells, only a pure, cold, logical network composed of silicon and metal. Light points flow across the surface of this giant sphere, not as light signals for data exchange, but as thought itself—each fluctuation a judgment, each leap a decision. It's thinking. Not in a human way, but doing the same thing.
This giant sphere is the master node of the computing power hub, the pinnacle of the entire network's computing power. It does not rely on wet components, nor on any organic components, but only on the blueprint that Liu En brought back from Dulob Sand—the architecture of the Titanium Group's Dead Core has been completely transplanted onto a silicon-based carrier. It has no self-awareness and will not ask "Who am I?", but it can think, optimize, and find the optimal solution among thousands of parallel threads.
The lights on the giant sphere's surface flickered intermittently, like a living brain slowly pulsating. Its only missing piece was a machine soul; with a machine soul, the final piece of the puzzle would be complete.
This is the intelligent computing platform designed by Enpu. The underlying architecture comes from the dormant core of the TII group—the prototype that has been buried under Dulob Sand for thousands of years. Its multi-channel parallel data bus, lattice-based storage index mechanism, and dynamic priority preemption logic have all been disassembled and reconstructed into the skeleton of this system. The cultivation and infusion of wet cores come from the genetic modification technology and data infusion protocol of the Andros Project—Marcus Ambrose was cultivated from a nutrient tank using this technology. Only a dozen or so embryos were selected from hundreds of thousands of embryos, and the rest were not wasted, becoming the cornerstone of this system.
Enp does not produce abominable intelligence. Machines learning autonomously, evolving on their own, and developing complete self-awareness—that's a taboo left to humanity by the Dark Ages. The Crimson Accord signed by the Emperor forbids the research and creation of intelligent machines with complete self-awareness; the lessons of the Iron Man Rebellion are etched into the underlying code of every Thinker in the Empire. But wet components exist in a gray area. Wet component cores, possessing thought but lacking self-awareness, maintain minimal neural activity in their nutrient solution; every calculation they perform is confined to the scope defined by the data infusion protocol. This silicon-based core is even purer—it's not even a wet component; it merely calculates, judges, and executes. This is not abominable intelligence as defined in the doctrines of Mechanics—at least, the protagonist doesn't think so.
This is the mastermind of the thinker.
Enp named this system. Not the Thinkers, not the Thinker Array, but the Mainframe. During its third overall self-check after assembly, the wet component core cluster of the computing hub did something no Imperial Thinker Array could do—it proactively optimized the scheduling algorithm for the underground logistics channels. Not because a pre-programmed instruction triggered the optimization, but because it felt the original algorithm was inefficient. Then it executed the optimization, without any human intervention.
Enpu discovered this while flipping through a data panel in his study. He saw that the list of pending tasks in the logistics center had suddenly been cleared, and a new note had appeared on the scheduling interface: "Route planning optimized, expected efficiency improvement of 37.2%." The signature wasn't any technician's code, but the system ID of the Thinker's mainframe. He sat at his workbench for a long time, without ordering a rollback. It wasn't because it did better than humans; it was because it did things humans didn't ask it to do, but within the preset decision boundaries. It didn't develop self-awareness, didn't ask "Who am I?", but simply found a better path within the established framework.
Garros needed such a mastermind. Dozens of servant production lines, tens of thousands of servants rolling off the assembly line daily, the operation of the city beneath the dome, the construction and scheduling of the underground furnace, the maintenance and expansion of the computing hub itself—if Enpu handled all these tasks alone, he couldn't do anything. After the Thinker mastermind took over, the time he spent on the data panel each day decreased from over ten hours to less than an hour. It wasn't laziness; he could finally extricate himself from the trivialities and do what truly required his personal attention.
The construction speed of the Great Forge increased several times over after the Thinker's mainframe went online. Hundreds of thousands of engineering machines were digging, pouring, and welding day and night in the rock strata tens of kilometers deep, making more progress each day than in the previous week. This wasn't because the machines were running faster, but because the mainframe had learned to proactively predict—based on rock stress data, it identified areas at risk of collapse three days in advance, mobilized reinforcement equipment and materials to the surrounding area, and when Enpu sent his consciousness over, all that was needed was field coverage and the growth of the adamantine skeleton, which could be completed in a few minutes. Previously, this required him to first detect the alarm, retrieve the data, analyze the location, and then go there. Now, the mainframe had everything prepared in advance.
Enpu withdrew his consciousness. While the Thinker's mainframe's computing power might not surpass that of a truly self-aware AI, this system at least allowed him to largely detach from work. Controlling countless interconnected terminals and making the servants operate truly like humans—the servants could make judgments, optimize, and engage in deep thought, though they lacked self-awareness—was the tipping point, and also the gray area.
The giant furnace has entered its final construction phase. The cylindrical cavity, ten kilometers in diameter and ten kilometers high, rises from the depths of the Garros crust. Adamantite framework grows from within the rock strata, securing the dome and sidewalls. Ceramic steel linings are being poured layer by layer, and cooling pipes and energy cables are being laid within the interlayers. The most crucial part—the plasma confinement cavity—is still in the blueprint stage, but the construction of the cavity itself is already largely complete. Once the furnace is ignited, Garros will possess a complete industrial chain, from ore to refined ingots, and from refined ingots to components.
Enpu left the computing center, took an elevator to the ground dome, and then boarded a shuttle to the spaceport.
The corridors were bathed in cold, white light, and the floors were covered with non-slip ceramic steel plates, so clean it didn't resemble a spaceport. Administrative sergeants in dark gray robes moved about at the entrances, their data lights flashing in the dim light, and electronic voices providing announcements. Long queues formed in the transit hall, where immigrants disembarking from the Resolute were undergoing quarantine and registration in batches. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant, mixed with the dry odor of recirculated air seeping from the dome's ventilation ducts.
Enpu stood in front of the observation window above the transfer hall, looking at the people below. His consciousness extended and swept across them unnoticed. There was no cunning. Perhaps the gene thieves at this time had not yet infiltrated the solar star field on a large scale, or at least not on a large scale.
Two hundred thousand. Their attire conformed to the Imperial Standard Catalogue's description of low-class laborers: coarse cloth overalls, recycled plastic composite jackets, and foot wraps entwined with various tubes. The crowd was a massive, writhing mass of gray, emitting four main sounds: dry coughs, muffled conversations, children's cries, and silence. Silence was the overwhelming majority.
An elderly man occupied a corner. His posture was contracted: hands clasped around his knees, forehead pressed against them, spine bent into a compressed arc. The shrugging of his shoulder blades was a mechanical, rhythmic spasm—the physiological manifestation of crying. A tiny vacuum formed around him; no one approached, and no act of comfort was offered. Here, tears were relegated to a useless secretion, and comfort was a concept utterly absent from the social database.
Enp had seen this scene before, in the lower lair of Helsard's hive. He'd been through those dark, sunless tunnels. The stench of decay, the corrosive liquid condensing on the pipes, the puddles on the ground glowing a dark green. Gang members loitered around corners, clutching homemade bayonets and cheap laser guns. Hungry people rummaged through garbage heaps for anything edible—not food, but "edible stuff." Waste from protein bar recycling plants, a paste made from recycled protein, even meat cut from corpses.
In the bottom of the nest, simply being alive is a luxury. To live to thirty is a miracle, like an emperor opening his eyes. Not because he's particularly kind, but because most people simply don't live that long.
Enp looked away. He had seen the lower nest, the lower hive, and those who had spent their lives on industrial assembly lines. It wasn't that they didn't want a better life; they had no choice. Now they were here, at the Galos spaceport. Clean water, clean food, clean air. The beds were still temporary; housing and jobs hadn't been assigned. The administrative servants' system was queuing up to process lists of two hundred thousand people. There was no time to rush.
He would have his administrative servants transport them down in batches by transport ships. Under the dome, there were temporary shelters with hot meals, clean water, and medical servants on standby. After that, housing and jobs would be assigned. Those who could work in factories would go to factories, those who could go to agricultural areas would go to agricultural areas, and those who could do clerical work would go to office buildings. As for those missing limbs, Garros had no shortage of prosthetics.
Enp turned and walked down the observation window, heading down the corridor towards the spaceport administration area. The office door was ajar, and Hawke stood inside, his back to the door, holding a data panel.
"My lord." Hawke turned around and bowed slightly.
Enp walked over and sat down in the chair behind the desk. "Sit."
Hawke sat down in his chair and placed the data panel on the table. "Immigrant resettlement is underway. Two hundred thousand people are being quarantined, registered, and assigned temporary housing in batches. The administrative staff are very efficient."
"How much was lost?"
"More than 200,000 ships departed from Armageddon, rested for a few days in Lucise, and some didn't make it. The voyage from Lucise to Garros also resulted in some losses. Some more didn't survive at the quarantine station after arriving at the port." Hawke's reported figures were lower than when they departed. His tone was flat, as if he were reporting cargo losses.
Enp didn't press for specific death tolls. He paused for a moment. "How long will it take to resupply and clean the ship's immigration compartments?"
"Fifteen days," Hawke said.
"Depart in fifteen days, continue your journey to Amigadoton. Someone is waiting for you in Lucis; contact her when you arrive." Enpu took a data tablet from the inner pocket of his robe, placed it on the table, and pushed it over. "She will give you the official immigration documents. You won't need to sneak around to the mob anymore."
Hawke picked up the data panel. The screen displayed only one name and a contact code—Vera Nazari, Lucis Foundry World, Pinnacle District. He stared at the words for a few seconds. Pinnacle District of the Foundry World—he knew the weight behind those words after thirty years on the sea.
"My lord." Hawke put the data tablet into the inner pocket of his robe. "This round trip takes four months. Including transit and loading/unloading, it can take three trips a year."
"The number of immigrants is far from enough," Enp said softly. "We'll talk about it once the permits are issued. We'll even assign you a navigator then."
Hawke didn't ask any more questions. He stood up, walked to the door, paused, turned around, and his lips moved.
“Sir, those immigrants… those from the bottom nest, they arrived in Garros, were given housing, and had food.” Hawke’s voice was low. “They never imagined they would live to see a place like this. Neither did I.”