Day 79. 10:00 hours.
Forbes Park.
Peacock Mansion.
Level 2.
The Command Deck.
The table was from IKEA.
Four meters of solid pine, flat-pack hardware still visible where the legs bolted to the apron, the particular blond wood, and the particular clean joinery of a Swedish furniture factory that had stopped existing seventy-nine days ago.
Jae-min had pulled it from spatial storage on Day Seventeen — the same night he had pulled the mattresses, the sheets, the bed frames, the bookshelves, everything the household would need to turn a dead man's mansion into a living compound.
The warehouse raid.
Twenty hours before the freeze.
The void swallowed pallet after pallet, his nose bleeding, his vision blurring, his body breaking.
The table had been in spatial storage for sixty-two days before that.
Now it sat in the L2 Command Deck, scarred with seventy-nine days of use — coffee rings, pencil marks, the faint burn where Rico had set a cigar down too long.
Not beautiful.
Not new.
But large enough for eight, and today the most important piece of furniture in Metro Manila.
Eight chairs.
Four per side.
The geometry of negotiation.
Jae-min at the head, his spatial awareness extended to its full two point eight kilometers, tracking every heartbeat inside the compound and every heartbeat within range of its walls.
Rico at his left — 5'5", dense, his arms on the table, his dark eyes already cataloguing the room the way a colonel catalogues a battlefield.
Elena Vasquez at Jae-min's right.
The captain of Vanguard Six had arrived an hour ago, escorted by two of her soldiers, her uniform pressed despite the conditions outside, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.
She sat with spine straight, shoulders square, hands flat on the table — the particular stillness of a woman who had led troops through sixty days of frozen hell and was conserving energy for whatever came next.
Her tactical officer — Sergeant Ramos, a woman in her late thirties with compact build and sharp eyes — sat behind Elena Vasquez, slightly back from the table, hands folded in her lap.
Observer.
Recorder.
Across the table: Commander Reyes.
He had spent the night in the compound.
Jae-min had assigned him a room on the Second Floor Resident Wing — the particular courtesy of giving a guest a warm room and a soundproofed door rather than the monitored cot in the L5 Engineering Workshop that would have been the tactical choice.
Reyes had slept six hours, eaten breakfast prepared by Marie and Hua, and emerged looking less exhausted than the day before.
Still carrying eighteen dead on his shoulders.
But the weight is distributed more evenly now.
He had brought no additional staff.
His six-person escort waited at the five-hundred-meter mark.
Mark Jordan and Yue sat at the far end of the table, behind Jae-min.
Mark Jordan's amber eyes on Reyes, Ifrit's Hell Katana slung across his back.
Yue's marble eyes on the map, the jian across her own.
Jae-min's arm was not around Yue's waist in this meeting — the particular restraint of a captain who understood that claiming his woman in front of two external military commanders was a different calculus than claiming her in front of his own engineers.
Ji-yoo was on the floor in the corner, her bare feet pressed flat against the hardwood, her eyes closed, her gravity-shift sense extended through the compound's foundation into the frozen ground beneath.
Not officially part of the meeting.
Security.
But Jae-min felt her presence like a sixth sense — every heartbeat in the room mapped through her.
LINDA's twelve monitors burned amber along the curved wall.
The LINDA curtain scrolled slowly.
Jae-min opened.
"We are here because we share a problem," Jae-min laid out, low. "The anomaly at Robinson's Galleria is a threat to every organized group in Metro Manila. Our reconnaissance confirms what Commander Reyes' engagements have already demonstrated. It is fortified. It is growing its forces. It is not going to stop."
Reyes nodded.
His hands were on the table — no longer raised, no longer in the posture of surrender, but arranged with the deliberate composure of a man choosing his gestures with the same care he chose his words.
"I will start with full disclosure," Reyes opened, low, his voice carrying the practiced clarity of a briefing officer. "The ridge group was formed on Day Three of the freeze. Seven founding members — four former Philippine Armed Forces officers, two civilian logistics specialists, and one engineer. We established our position on the Marikina ridge because of its elevation, its defensibility, and its proximity to a water source — the Marikina River, which we draw from through a filtration system our engineer designed."
He paused.
His heartbeat held at sixty-six.
"We currently have approximately two hundred personnel," Reyes continued, low, his dark eyes meeting Jae-min's. "About sixty are military-trained — former PAF, PNP, and PMC. The rest are civilians who have joined us for protection and contribute through labor, skills, and resource gathering."
Elena Vasquez's expression did not change.
But Jae-min felt her pulse tick up — sixty-eight to seventy-one.
Two hundred personnel with sixty trained soldiers.
The largest organized force in the city.
Her Vanguard Six had forty-three.
The compound had thirty-five.
"We have been fighting the anomaly for six weeks," Reyes continued, low. "First engagement, Day Forty-Three. A patrol encountered Enhanced hostiles approximately one kilometer from the Galleria. We pursued, believing it was a small group of roamers. It was an ambush. Four hostiles, coordinated tactics, superior physical capabilities. We lost three and withdrew."
His fingers curled once on the tabletop.
Uncurled.
"Second engagement, Day Fifty-One," Reyes continued, low, his voice flattening on the number. "A larger force — twelve of our best, full tactical loadout. We breached the outer perimeter of the Galleria complex and were pushed back within twenty minutes. The defensive layers were more extensive than our intelligence had suggested. Four KIA."
He did not look down.
Did not look away.
"Third engagement was the patrol that contacted your compound three days ago," Reyes finished, grim, his jaw setting. "You know the outcome."
Eighteen killed in action across three engagements.
Jae-min let the number settle.
Eighteen heartbeats that had gone out into the frozen city and never came back.
"We cannot defeat it alone," Reyes measured, low, his jaw setting with the particular determination of a man recalibrating his understanding of a problem he thought he had already understood. "I have known that since the second engagement. My council has known it since the third. We have been hoping for alternatives — a weakness we could exploit, a resource we could acquire, an ally we could recruit. Your broadcast was the first indication we have had that those alternatives might exist."
Jae-min pulled the laptop from spatial storage.
Set it flat on the table.
Opened the recon files.
"The anomaly is Enhanced," Jae-min laid out, low. "Second Generation. Created using data from the Pasig facility before we destroyed it. The facility was transmitting its research data to the Galleria. The anomaly has been continuing the work in the basement. Based on the heartbeat count from our reconnaissance, it currently has between forty and fifty Enhanced subjects on the upper levels, plus an unknown number in the basement."
Reyes leaned forward.
His eyes sharpened.
"Forty to fifty," Reyes measured, low.
"At minimum," Jae-min confirmed, low, his black eyes on Reyes.
Elena Vasquez's pulse spiked — sixty-eight to seventy-four — before she controlled it.
Her breathing evened.
Her posture reasserted.
Reyes' fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the table.
"The thermal pits," Reyes pressed, low. "During our second engagement, one of my squads was moving through the parking structure when they were engaged by Enhanced hostiles who seemed to know exactly where they were — even through concrete walls. We assumed it was surveillance equipment. Motion sensors. Thermal cameras."
Mark Jordan spoke for the first time.
"Biological thermal sensors," Mark Jordan laid out, measuring his amber eyes on Reyes. "Range unknown, but based on the energy signature we detected during reconnaissance, I would estimate the effective range of thirty to fifty meters through standard building materials. The entity maintains a warm environment in the basement — not only for its own physiology, but to maximize the sensitivity of those pits. A cold basement would reduce their effectiveness. A warm basement maximizes it."
Reyes absorbed this.
His fingers stopped drumming.
"The Enhanced subjects," Reyes pressed, low. "Our encounters suggest at least twelve distinct individuals, each with different capabilities. Some fast. Some strong. Some with partial transformations — scales, elongated jaws, enhanced reflexes. We believe it has been creating them using data from the Pasig facility."
"It has," Jae-min confirmed, low, his black eyes holding Reyes'.
"The tunnel network," Jae-min continued, low, clicking to the next file. "Ji-yoo detected a network of tunnels and chambers beneath the Galleria's basement during our approach. The network extends in directions we could not fully map. Its full extent is unknown. Our working hypothesis is that the anomaly has been excavating beneath the Galleria, creating underground facilities that are not visible from the surface."
"Excavating how?" Reyes frowned, low. "With what equipment?"
"Unknown," Jae-min allowed. "But Enhanced subjects with the anomaly's particular capabilities could potentially include individuals with burrowing capabilities. Constriction strength applied to excavation. Specialized transformations that allow them to move through soil and rock. The tunnel network could be the work of a single subject dedicated to excavation, or a collective effort."
Reyes was quiet for a long moment.
His eyes on the map of Metro Manila on the wall — the Galleria marked red, Forbes Park blue, the ridge group fortress yellow, Elena Vasquez's position green.
Jae-min watched him think.
Watched the eyes move.
Watched the fingers stop drumming.
Watched the jaw set.
"You have resources we need," Jae-min laid out, low. "Personnel. Training. A defensible position. We have capabilities that complement yours. The question is not whether we can work together. The question is what working together looks like."
Elena Vasquez spoke for the first time since the meeting began.
"Coordinated intelligence sharing," Elena Vasquez measured, low, her dark eyes moving from Jae-min to Reyes. "Combined reconnaissance operations. Joint planning for an assault on the Galleria, when the time comes. And a communication infrastructure that allows all three factions to coordinate in real time."
Reyes turned to her.
His expression carried the particular respect of one military officer acknowledging another.
"Captain Vasquez," Reyes acknowledged, low. "Vanguard Six. We have heard of you. Your people engaged one of our patrols on Day Fifty — a misunderstanding, as I understand it."
"A misunderstanding that nearly got people killed on both sides," Elena Vasquez returned, her voice cool but not hostile. "We have moved past it. Or we are trying to."
Reyes nodded. "We are all trying to move past a lot of things. That is why we are here."
"Logging. Alliance negotiation in progress. Three factions represented: Forbes Park compound, ridge group, Vanguard Six. Subject: Coordinated response to the Ortigas anomaly. Logging continuous." LINDA reported, clear.
The meeting continued.
Three hours.
Maps unfolded across the table.
Patrol routes.
Engagement reports.
Tactical assessments.
Reyes shared everything the ridge group had compiled over six weeks — the accumulated intelligence of an organization that had been systematically studying its enemy and losing anyway.
Elena Vasquez contributed her own data — movement patterns, logistics assessments, communication protocols.
Jae-min shared the complete recon file — the sentry positions, the armory conversions, the force composition, the basement heat, the tunnel network.
By the time the meeting ended, the table was covered.
The air in the Command Deck carried the particular energy of a room where something significant had happened.
Not a resolution — the anomaly was still in the Galleria, still building its army, still beating its slow, powerful heart in the basement warmth.
But a foundation.
A framework.
The architecture of an alliance that could, if everything held, become something more than the sum of its parts.
Commander Reyes stood.
He looked around the table — Jae-min, Rico, Elena Vasquez, Mark Jordan, Yue, the maps, the notes, and the infrastructure of a compound built from nothing in seventy-nine days.
His expression carried something Jae-min had not seen on his face before.
Hope.
Small.
Guarded.
Tempered by six weeks of defeat and eighteen funerals.
But hope.
"My council will want to meet you," Reyes laid out, low. "Officially. The seven of them, in person, at our facility. They will want to verify what I have reported, assess your capabilities for themselves, and decide whether to formalize this arrangement at the leadership level."
"When," Jae-min pressed, low.
"Two days," Reyes confirmed, low, his dark eyes steady on Jae-min's. "I will radio our facility tonight and arrange the meeting. We will send a secure escort for you and anyone you want to bring."
He paused.
His eyes met Jae-min's — the directness cutting through the protocol and the posturing and the careful language of military diplomacy.
"But from what I have seen today — the way your people operate, the capabilities you have demonstrated, the intelligence you have shared — I think we can work together," Reyes pressed, low, his dark eyes meeting Jae-min's with the particular directness of a man cutting through protocol to reach substance.
He extended his hand.
Jae-min took it.
Firm.
Sustained.
The grip of two men who understood they were committing to something larger — a shared purpose, a shared risk, a shared future.
The alliance was formalized.
Not with a treaty or a contract.
A handshake between two men who had lost people to the same enemy and had decided, independently and simultaneously, that losing more was not acceptable.
Reyes left the compound at 14:30, escorted to the five-hundred-meter mark by two of Rico's people, his six-person detail falling into formation around him as he walked north toward the Marikina ridge.
Jae-min watched him go through spatial awareness — seven heartbeats receding into the frozen distance, their rhythms steady, their formation tight.
— • • • —
Day 79. 14:45 hours.
Forbes Park.
Peacock Mansion.
Level 2.
The Command Deck.
Elena Vasquez lingered.
She stood by the twelve-monitor bank, her hands clasped behind her back, her dark eyes on the southern heat-map where the Galleria's signature pulsed its slow, patient absence.
"He is a good officer," Elena Vasquez measured, low. "Reyes. I have met his type before — in the service, before all of this. Professional. Competent. Carrying just enough doubt to keep him honest. The kind of man you want next to you in a fight."
"Can you trust him?" Jae-min pressed, low.
"I can trust his heartbeat." Elena Vasquez turned from the monitors, her expression carrying the particular weight of a woman who had learned to measure trust in small, practical units. "He came here alone. He gave us everything — his force composition, his engagement history, and his tactical assessments. That is not what a spy does. That is what an ally does."
Jae-min nodded.
"Two days," Jae-min measured, low.
"Two days," Elena Vasquez echoed. "Then we go to the ridge."
She left the Command Deck, her boots clicking on the poured concrete, her soldier's spine holding her upright as she walked into the corridor toward the staircase.
Jae-min stood alone in the Command Deck.
The table was still covered with documents — patrol routes, engagement reports, tactical assessments, the accumulated knowledge of three factions who had, until today, been operating in isolation.
He picked up one of the maps — the large-scale overlay of Metro Manila.
The Galleria is marked red.
Forbes Park blue.
Elena Vasquez's position is green.
The ridge group fortress is yellow.
Four colors on a dead city.
Four factions.
Each one a heartbeat in the frozen dark.
"We are not alone anymore." Jae-min measured it internally.
He rolled up the map.
Slid it into its cylinder.
In his chest, Saem stirred — a single shift of attention, the four-billion-year wound reading the particular weight of a household that had just opened its doors to two external factions.
The little one is building something, came the single impression — not in language, in weight.
Not weapons this time.
Alliances.
The old races would have recognized the shape of it.
The particular shape of a species that has decided to stop dying alone.
The presence receded.
Jae-min filed the impression beside the handshake, the four colors on the map, and the two days.
He left the Command Deck and went to find Ji-yoo.
He found her on the Ground Floor, her bare feet on the hardwood, her black ponytail pooled over one shoulder, her black eyes distant in the way they went when her gravity-shift sense was still extended into the frozen earth.
She was reading the city.
She did not look up when he sat beside her.
"Oppa," Ji-yoo opened, soft, her eyes still distant. "The ridge group fortress. Two hundred twelve heartbeats. I can feel them now. They are celebrating. Reyes must have radioed ahead."
"You can feel them from here," Jae-min measured, low.
"Two point eight kilometers north," Ji-yoo confirmed. "The same range as you. The twin thing. They are drinking something. Three of them are singing. Off-key."
The corner of Jae-min's mouth moved a fraction.
"Two days," Jae-min lay out, low.
"Two days," Ji-yoo echoed, softly. "Then we go to the ridge. And the real work begins."
Her bare palm found his on the hardwood.
The Del Rosario twin thing — the particular touch of two siblings whose heartbeats had been synchronized since before they were born, sitting on the floor of a compound they had built from nothing, reading a city that was dying in slow motion through the soles of their feet.
The geothermal system hummed beneath them.
Ninety-seven point three percent.
And holding.
— • • • —
Day 79. 22:14 hours.
Forbes Park.
Peacock Mansion.
Level 5.
The Engineering Workshop.
The workbench was covered in paper.
Not tablets.
Not monitors.
Paper — salvaged from the mansion's library, the maritime law texts nobody was going to read again, the pages torn out and laid blank-side-up so Mark Jordan could draw on them with the particular graphite pencil he had been carrying in his jacket pocket since Day One.
The pencil moved.
Mark Jordan stood at the bench, his thermal undershirt rolled to the elbows, his amber eyes on the page.
The pencil moved the way his hands always moved — slow, deliberate, the particular precision of a mechanical engineering professor who had spent fifteen years drawing things that did not yet exist and was now, on Day Seventy-Nine, drawing the thing that was going to keep the household alive.
A circle.
A torus inside the circle.
A second torus, offset ninety degrees, intersects the first.
A third structure at the center — not a torus, not a sphere, something between the two, the particular geometry of a baryonic reaction core that did not have a name because no one had ever built one.
Jae-min stood across the bench from him.
Arms crossed.
Black eyes on the page.
Yue stood behind Jae-min.
Her arms had come around his waist from behind — the particular hold of a woman who had spent three hours at the alliance table not touching him and was, in the Workshop at twenty-two hundred, making up for it.
Her cheek rested against his shoulder blade.
The jian was slung across her own back, the hilt rising past her collar, but she did not need the jian for this.
She needed Jae-min's back against her chest and her arms around his waist and the particular proximity that let her read the page over his shoulder.
Jae-min's hand settled on her forearm, where it crossed his stomach.
Held it there.
Paolo sat at the far end of the bench, his cracked eyeglasses pushed up on his forehead, a marker in his hand, the whiteboard behind him covered in pressure equations.
His Sailor Moon doll sat on the corner of the bench, watching Mark Jordan draw with her painted blue eyes.
Mei was in her wheelchair beside the bench, her tablet propped at an angle, the sensor-package schematic she had been building all week already half-complete on the screen.
Aiko stood at Mark Jordan's left, her black hair pulled back under a shop band, her thick eyeglasses smudged with graphite, Chocho curled on a folded blanket at her feet.
Her fingers were still — the particular stillness of a fabricator who was listening to the physics before she picked up a tool.
The room was quiet except for the pencil.
Mark Jordan drew.
The torus inside the torus.
The reaction core.
The hydrogen feed lines.
The compression chamber where Ji-yoo's gravity field would focus and hold.
The heat-exchange manifold, where the waste heat would bleed into the compound's ventilation system.
He stopped drawing.
He set the pencil down.
"GN Drive," Mark Jordan opened, low, his amber eyes lifting from the page to Jae-min. "Gundam 00. The show called it a Solar Reactor. Physics does not have a name because physics has not been built. But the principle is this."
His finger touched the central structure on the page — the not-a-torus, not-a-sphere shape at the heart of the drawing.
"A particular configuration of baryonic matter," Mark Jordan continued, measured, the particular cadence of a professor who had been holding this theory in his chest for fifteen years and was finally, in the amber light of the L5 Engineering Workshop, being paid to teach it. "Under particular conditions — extreme pressure, particular temperature, particular symmetry — baryonic matter produces a sustained exoergic reaction. The reaction releases energy. Not chemical energy. Not nuclear energy. Baryonic energy. The energy of the strong force itself is tapped at the boundary between matter and the fields that hold matter together."
His finger moved to the torus around the core.
"The reaction requires a fuel. Metallic liquid hydrogen. The same state that exists in the core of Jupiter. Hydrogen compressed past one-point-four terapascals — the phase transition pressure — undergoes a molecular-to-atomic transition at four hundred gigapascals, then a metallic transition at one-point-four terapascals. At that state, hydrogen conducts. It superconducts. It becomes the particular medium that sustains the baryonic reaction."
He looked at Paolo.
Paolo did not need to be told.
His mouth was already moving.
"One-point-four terapascals," Paolo laid out, rapid, the words tumbling in the particular tumble of a general relativity student whose numbers were right. "Four hundred gigapascals for the molecular-to-atomic. The phase transition is turbulent. The compression field has to be symmetric — perfectly symmetric, perfectly steady, held for however long the transition takes. The field equations are on the board. The upper bound on Ji-yoo's compression radius is consistent with the transition pressure. Any asymmetry in the field and the hydrogen does not transition uniformly. The non-transitioned pockets destabilize. The reaction fails. Or worse."
He stopped.
Swallowed.
Pushed his cracked eyeglasses back down his nose.
"The containment vessel has to hold the metallic state after the field releases," Paolo pressed, slower, the particular slow of a young man who knew his lane. "That is Aiko's problem. The field equations are mine. The transition kinetics are — I do not have the data. We run small experiments. Measure. Build the model. Scale."
Mark Jordan nodded once.
His finger moved to the outer torus — the second structure, offset ninety degrees from the first.
"The reaction core produces energy," Mark Jordan continued, low. "The energy has to be extracted. The outer torus is a magnetic induction coil — superconducting, ideally, but we do not have superconducting material yet. For the prototype, copper winding will suffice at reduced efficiency. The induction coil captures the baryonic energy as an electrical current. The current is the output. That current fires ARTEMIS."
His finger moved to the last structure on the page — the heat-exchange manifold.
"The reaction produces waste heat," Mark Jordan pressed, low. "Thermodynamic certainty. The baryonic reaction runs hot. The induction coil runs hot. The containment vessel runs hot. The waste heat is the byproduct — and it is also, for the household, the point."
He looked at Jae-min.
"At idle," Mark Jordan measured, low, "PROMETHEUS produces enough waste heat to close the geothermal deficit. At full output — an ARTEMIS strike — PROMETHEUS produces enough waste heat to overwhelm the ventilation system. We will need to plan for that. Radiators. Thermal mass. A way to dump the excess when the generator is at full output."
"Two birds," Aiko measured, soft, her black eyes very bright behind the thick lenses. "The power budget and the heat budget. Same generator. Same fire."
"Same fire," Mark Jordan confirmed, low, his amber eyes on the page.
Yue's arms tightened a fraction around Jae-min's waist — the particular tightness of an algorithm expert who had been listening to the physics and was already running the first probability tree in her head.
"The compression field," Yue opened, low, her cheek still against his shoulder blade, her marble eyes on the page. "The symmetry tolerance. The failure modes. Mark Jordan gives me the physics. I give you the model. The field has to hold for — how long?"
"Unknown," Mark Jordan allowed, low, his amber eyes lifting from the page. "The transition kinetics are not in the literature. The phase transition at one-point-four terapascals has never been observed in a laboratory. We are the laboratory."
"Then we run small experiments," Yue measured, low. "Ji-yoo compresses a small quantity of hydrogen. We measure the field. We measure the transition. We build the model. We scale. The algorithm is mine. The compression is Ji-yoo's. The containment is Aiko's. The pressure constants are Paolo's. The physics is yours, Professor."
"The physics is mine," Mark Jordan confirmed, low, his amber eyes steady on Yue.
Jae-min's hand tightened on Yue's forearm.
"How long?" Jae-min pressed, low.
"Six weeks for a working prototype," Aiko answered, her fingers finally moving — reaching for the welding torch on the bench, the particular reach of a fabricator who had heard enough physics and was ready to build. "Three months for a production unit capable of firing ARTEMIS. The waste heat comes online the moment we fire up the prototype."
"Six weeks for the heat problem," Jae-min repeated, low.
"Six weeks," Mark Jordan confirmed, low, his amber eyes on the page. "Assuming Ji-yoo's compression experiments go clean. Assuming the containment vessel holds. Assuming the phase transition kinetics are not catastrophic."
"Assumptions," Jae-min measured, even.
"Assumptions," Mark Jordan echoed, low, the corner of his mouth moving a fraction. "But the physics is sound. The principle is sound. The engineering is — substantial. But buildable."
Aiko lit the welding torch.
The blue flame hissed to life — the particular hiss of a workshop waking up, the particular sound that meant Aiko had stopped listening and started building.
"Containment vessel first," Aiko laid out, low, her black eyes on the flame. "Electrolysis unit second. Compressors third. Professor Carillo's reaction core fourth. Professor Shang's sensor package is fifth. Ji-yoo's compression experiment when the vessel is ready."
"Day eighty-two," Jae-min confirmed, low, his black eyes moving from Aiko to the schematic.
"Day eighty-two," Aiko echoed, low, her black eyes on the welding torch flame.
Mei's fingers moved on the tablet — the sensor schematic filling in, the data-logging architecture building itself line by line.
"Sensor package will be ready," Mei measured, quiet, precise. "Field sensors. Temperature sensors. Pressure sensors. Spectrometry. We will know everything about the hydrogen the moment Ji-yoo starts compressing it."
Paolo's marker moved on the whiteboard — another equation, another constant, the particular scrawl of a general relativity student whose numbers had just become the foundation of the household's survival.
His Sailor Moon doll watched from the corner of the bench.
Mark Jordan picked up the pencil again.
He drew a small shape in the corner of the page — not part of the schematic, not part of the physics.
A small, almost invisible sketch.
A mobile suit.
White and blue and gold.
The 00 Raiser.
The particular doodle of a mechanical engineering professor who had watched the show at nineteen, and also with his son, and had never, in fifteen years, stopped thinking about the power source that drove the titular mobile suits.
He looked at the doodle for a moment.
Then he looked at the schematic.
The fiction compressed the engineering. The engineering was substantial. But the underlying principle was sound.
He set the pencil down.
"PROMETHEUS," Mark Jordan measured, low, his amber eyes on the page. "The fire-bringer. The Titan who stole fire from heaven and gave it to mortals."
He looked at Jae-min.
"Your sister named it," Mark Jordan allowed, low, the corner of his mouth moving a fraction. "She named it well."
Yue's arms tightened around Jae-min's waist.
"She names everything well," Jae-min returned, low, his black eyes on the schematic — the torus inside the torus, the reaction core, the hydrogen feed lines, the compression chamber, the heat-exchange manifold.
The fire was going to keep the household alive.
The Twin Deities were going to hang over the world in low Earth orbit.
The same fire.
"Build it," Jae-min directed, low.
Aiko's welding torch hissed.
The Workshop hummed.
"Project PROMETHEUS. Design session logged. Day 79, 22:14 hours. Lead physicist: Mark Jordan Carillo. Fabrication lead: Aiko Tanaka. Pressure constants: Paolo Villanueva. Sensor package: Mei Lian Santos. Algorithm model: Yue Shang. Compression field: Ji-yoo Del Rosario. Project captain: Jae-min Del Rosario. Prototype target: Day 118. ARTEMIS-capable production unit: Day 166. Logging continuous." LINDA reported, clear.
Jae-min's hand settled on Yue's forearm.
He held her there.
The Workshop worked around them — Aiko at the torch, Paolo at the whiteboard, Mei at the tablet, Mark Jordan at the page.
The fire-bringer was being drawn.
In the morning, it would be built.