Chapter 128.Hydraulic arm |
The hydraulic arm emitted its final soft click just as the workshop clock struck eight with a resounding chime. The furnace's glow dimmed at that precise moment, and as the orange halo faded, the crystal vial hidden in the secret compartment became increasingly conspicuous. Its eerie blue light seeped through the gaps between metal scales, casting fragmented reflections on the floor.
The mechanic suddenly erupted into violent coughing, his hunched back bending like a fully drawn bow. He pulled out an oil-stained handkerchief from his overalls pocket and pressed it to his mouth - what leaked between his fingers wasn't saliva but wisps of silvery mist that instantly crystallized into tiny ice flakes upon touching the fabric. "Old condition," he muttered, stuffing the handkerchief back as his mechanical arm's joints creaked dryly. "Prolonged exposure to that thing chills the blood itself."
Only then did I notice the copper wristwatch on his left forearm. Though its glass face was shattered, the hands moved unnaturally counterclockwise, leaving frost trails with each tick. "Twenty years ago, during the accident," the mechanic's gaze fixed on the watch, his voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor, "the airship sent seven distress signals before crashing. Each interval lasted exactly seven minutes and seven seconds - identical to this liquid's pulse frequency."
He suddenly grabbed a wrench and strode toward a corner shelf covered with a dust cloth. When he yanked the fabric away, I gasped audibly - it was half of a shattered mechanical skeleton, its ribcage housing a fist-sized gear cluster with a perfectly circular hollow at the center that matched the crystal vial's dimensions. The skeleton's metal surface bore the same spiral engravings as the secret compartment's edges, though mostly corroded.
"Spent fifteen years replicating the cockpit's power core," the mechanic brushed dust off the skeleton with his mechanical arm, green patina flaking away, "but without this liquid's drive, even the finest gears remain scrap metal." He abruptly pressed the skeleton's spinal column, triggering its gears to rotate counterclockwise with a high-frequency hum. As they turned, blue light identical to the vial's glow illuminated the ribcage's hollow.
My attention snagged on the metal plaque at the skeleton's neck, engraved with "Starship Experimental Vessel" and bearing scorch marks at the edges. The name jolted me - twenty years ago, this very "unsinkable" experimental vessel had been officially reported lost in the nation-shocking airship disaster, its pilot never found.
The mechanic seemed to read my thoughts, suddenly removing an old necklace. Its pendant was a worn brass plate bearing a hasty signature, the final flourish particularly clear under the blue light. "My younger brother," his voice thickened, "the airship's designer and chief pilot." The brass pendant grew warm in his palm, contrasting strangely with the vial's chill.
Just then, the workshop door blew open with a rust-scented gust. The secret compartment flared blinding blue as the silver-blue liquid boiled violently, forming swirling nebula patterns inside the vial. The mechanic's mechanical arm lifted involuntarily, its fingertip sensors flashing wildly in perfect sync with the liquid's pulsations.
"It's responding to some signal..." The mechanic's pupils dilated in shock as he pointed at the night sky where luminous trails streaked through distant clouds. "Exactly like that night twenty years ago..." Before he finished, the vial levitated, projecting seven beams from its facets that mapped an intricate star chart across the metal walls, each celestial point pulsing in rhythm.