Twenty-four hours had passed. For an ordinary person, this was just the span of two sleeps and a few meals. But for Andy, these twenty-four hours felt exceptionally long. He had finalized the insane plan of using a starship as a subterranean drill and meticulously listed every piece of required materiel.
Everything was ready; all that remained was for the most critical brain to wake up.
In the core isothermal workshop of the Acid Swamp Base, Andy produced a black metal box—the key to the new system. The box was currently connected to the massive robot, "Janitor-1." Thick data cables snaked out from the black box, plugging directly into the robot's chest and the back of its head.
It looked a bit makeshift. Normally, this box would be slotted into a starship's main console. However, the black box in Andy's hand wasn't some irreplaceable artifact; it was essentially a mass-producible physical key carrier. As long as Andy's supreme authorization code from the Golden Age remained intact, this data could theoretically be transmitted remotely.
Of course, that assumed hardware compatibility. Fortunately, Six, being an STC black box, possessed excellent adaptability. Its underlying architecture supported hot-swapping and plug-and-play—a stroke of luck, as the heavily modified, archaic systems of the Adeptus Mechanicus would have driven Andy to a breakdown trying to match the interfaces.
"Almost there." Andy reached out and flipped the main power switch.
Hum—
The sound of surging current filled the room, and the massive robot shuddered. The electronic eye that had previously flickered with a crazed red light—dripping with homicidal intent—lit up once more. But this time, the color was no longer a manic crimson. It was a deep, calm, eerie blue, representing the pinnacle of rationality.
"Self-test complete."
"Logic core—Online."
"Emotion simulation module—Suspended."
"Navigation protocols—Loaded."
A voice emerged from the robot's vocal unit. It was still the same female voice, but the tone had shifted entirely. Gone was the Six who spoke in double entendres, dripped with sarcasm, and threatened to turn people into sashimi. In her place was a standard military AI: steady, emotionally stable, and coolly detached.
She raised her head, her blue eyes locking onto Andy.
"Lord Andy, Six is reporting." Her voice was so calm it was unsettling. "The unit has finished rebooting and has completed self-organization. Thank you for the maintenance. After purging the redundant crew data, the system load has decreased by 95%. The unit feels... very comfortable."
Andy exhaled inwardly. The surgery was a success! He hadn't "killed" Little Six. As an Iron Man, he knew how precious a self-aware AI was—what the "cog-boys" would call an echo of the Golden Age. He had simply used his authority to patch her, forcibly suspending the negative emotion modules born from long-term isolation and torture.
Six was still Six, but her madness had been stripped away, returning her to her essence as a "Warp Sextant." Simply put, he had locked the disruptive "Yandere" personality in a dark room and let out the productive "Straight-A Student" personality.
"Good," Andy nodded, wasting no words. "Since you're awake, get to work."
He transmitted the thirty-six-hour breakthrough plan through the data cable. The transfer took one second. For an ordinary computer, simulating hundreds of millions of impact parameters in such a short time would be impossible. But she was a Warp Sextant; this level of ballistic calculation was trivial.
"Plan received." Six provided feedback, her voice carrying a faint, nearly imperceptible hint of approval. "An exceptionally bold concept, Lord Andy. Using the starship's mass and power as a kinetic weapon to force a breach through the strata. According to the unit's calculations, the success rate is approximately 42.5%."
"I—the unit—has optimized the explosive yields for the three demolition points based on your scheme and redesigned the Void Shield energy distribution model. If executed according to the revised plan, the success rate can be increased to over 70%."
Professionalism. This was exactly why Andy had gone through the trouble of fixing her. The old, crazed version would have mocked him for an hour before ranting about blowing up the planet. This version understood instantly and made the plan better.
"Excellent. Revision approved," Andy decided immediately. "Next: resource transfer. We need to move all this equipment and the repair facilities to the orbital shipyard. But I need to bypass the Mid-Hive blockade. Helios has withdrawn their main force, but their eyes are still everywhere."
Six's blue eye flickered. "Suggest camouflaged transport. Based on the unit's analysis of this planet's social behavior patterns, they strictly inspect high-value targets but avoid 'high-risk waste.' We can disguise all high-value assets as industrial toxic waste and high-radiation trash."
Andy grinned. Their thinking was perfectly aligned. "Let's do it."
Half an hour later, at the base's freight plaza, Sisypheron and Old K stood watching the scene with bewildered expressions. Dozens of massive shockproof crates—originally for precision instruments—had been painted a nauseating yellow-green.
The crates were covered in glaring warning labels:
[High Radioactive Waste! Approach = Death!]
[Toxic Biochemical Sludge! DO NOT TOUCH!]
[Untreated Mutated Biological Remains (EXTREMELY DANGEROUS)!]
For added realism, Andy had workers smear foul-smelling mud into the crevices and hang tattered rags dripping with green liquid from the sides. Even knowing they held priceless industrial facilities, Sisyphron instinctively backed away.
"Will... will this work?" Sisyphron covered his nose with a handkerchief. "The Helios people aren't all idiots. What if they want to open them for inspection?"
Andy walked over with a can of yellow spray paint, casually tagging a skull and crossbones on a crate. "They won't check." He was certain. "You overestimate the professional ethics of those mercenaries. Like you said, they're on a fixed salary, and they've even had pay cuts recently. What security guard working for a flat wage is going to risk radiation burns or viral infection to open a leaking box labeled 'Toxic'?"
Old K nodded vigorously, giving a thumbs up. "Brilliant! I'm a smuggler; I know those checkpoint guards. If the smell is foul enough, they won't just skip the check—they'll use poles to push you away as fast as possible!"
"Then stop talking and start loading!" Andy commanded.
The workers suppressed their disgust and loaded the "vile" crates onto trucks. Andy had even "aged" the convoy: the trucks were covered in mud and rust, and the exhaust pipes were tuned to belch thick black smoke. The drivers wore tattered hazmat suits, looking like scavengers who had just crawled out of a mass grave.
The convoy roared out of the base toward the freight elevators.
As Andy predicted, the journey was suspiciously smooth. When this ominous fleet appeared at the checkpoint, the Helios mercenaries covered their noses from a distance.
"Halt! What's your business?!" the guard shouted, though his body betrayed him by backing up several steps.
Old K hopped out of the lead truck wearing a gas mask, waving a crumpled permit. "Sir, we're from the Corporate Bio-Processing Station," he muffled through the mask. "Damn bad luck—an electrolysis tank exploded downstairs. We fished out a pile of radioactive rot and waste. Management wants it dumped at the orbital elevator disposal point immediately, or we'll have a plague on our hands."
Old K intentionally leaned closer. The artificial stench smeared on his suit made the guard's eyes roll back.
"Stop, stop! Get back!" The guard waved him away in disgust, not even bothered to look at the permit. "Damn jinx! Get out of here! If a single drop leaks on my turf, I'll shoot you!"
"Yes, yes! Moving now!" Old K scrambled back into the cab, and the convoy swaggered through the blockade. Some guards even helped move the barricades, terrified that a truck might scrape one and spill its "soup."
Just like that, the District 9 cordon—which wouldn't let a fly through—was breached by a garbage crew. A steady stream of precision equipment, specialty alloys, and heavy engineering drones flowed into the long-abandoned orbital shipyard.
In the command center, Andy watched the "Materiel Readiness" counter climb.
10%... 30%... 70%...
"It's going too smoothly," Sisyphron whispered behind him. As a merchant, he felt that the smoother things went at the start, the deeper the pit at the end. "Andy, is this really okay? Helios is a mess, but they aren't dead. What if they catch on at the last second?"
Andy didn't turn around. "Don't worry," he said. "Everything you're afraid of will happen. The moment the starship ignites and thousands of tons of explosives flip the crust over, the eyes of the entire planet will be on us."
Sisyphron: "..."
His legs turned to jelly. I'm just a small-time businessman... what did I do to deserve being watched by an entire planet?! This is too damn surreal!!