Chapter 129: The Hydraulic System of the Mechanical Arm |
The star chart rotated slowly on the metal wall, its blinking lights accelerating into a strange resonance with the counterclockwise movement of the Mechanic's wristwatch. I suddenly realized the star patterns weren't random—they perfectly matched the energy circuits from the Stardust's classified blueprints, data sealed away by authorities twenty years ago now unfolding before our eyes as light.
The Mechanic's mechanical arm kept lifting uncontrollably, its hydraulic tubes covered in frost while scalding steam hissed from the joints. A suppressed groan escaped his throat as veins bulged on his forehead—half his face shone with metallic coldness under the blue light while the other half flushed crimson from the pendant's heat. "Twenty years..." he gritted his teeth, knuckles whitening, "It's been waiting for this signal... for the return coordinates my brother left."
As he spoke, the floating crystal vial trembled violently. The silver-blue liquid inside broke surface tension, shooting out as a slender thread of light that plunged precisely into the mechanical skeleton's chest cavity. Blue light instantly flooded the workshop. Covering my eyes instinctively, I heard the roar of spinning gears—countless mechanical hearts awakening simultaneously.
When vision returned, the sight left me speechless—the broken skeleton was visibly repairing itself. Rusted metal surfaces flaked away, revealing gleaming new material beneath; segmented gear chains extended from the fractured spine, clicking into place; two blue lights ignited in the empty eye sockets like waking stars. Most astonishing was its chest—the crystal vial spun rapidly in its cavity, driving the entire gear assembly to trace luminous arcs in the air.
"Is this... a self-repair program?" I murmured, recalling controversial reports about the Stardust's biomechanical fusion technology that experts had dismissed as nonsense.
The Mechanic burst into laughter laced with sobs: "He did it... The biometal adaptive system—the core technology I couldn't crack in fifteen years." His bloodied right hand reached for the skeleton only to be repelled by blue light, leaving starmap-like patterns glowing on his palm. "It recognizes bloodline. Only our family's genetic signature."
Suddenly the wall's star chart froze—seven brightest stars aligned, pointing northwest through the workshop's windows. The skeleton turned accordingly as the crystal vial emitted a long, resonant hum, as if answering some distant call. Wingbeats sounded outside as countless phosphorescent dots streamed in, coalescing into a humanoid silhouette eerily resembling the skeleton.
"Energy remnants!" The Mechanic staggered back, trembling. "The accident report claimed no wreckage... His consciousness was preserved in the energy field!" Pointing at the glowing figure, his voice shook: "That hand gesture—our childhood code meaning 'found the way home.'"
The luminous figure slowly raised its arm toward the skeleton's neck plaque. Only then did I notice miniature coordinates engraved on its back, matching the star chart's markings. At the light's touch, the plaque sprang open, revealing a micro data port holding a broken chip with scorched edges.
"Subspace corridor..." I gasped, remembering anomalous astronomical records from twenty years ago. "So the official crash was actually a successful space jump test?"
"A cover-up." The Mechanic shut the display, eyes sharp as blades. "The military wanted this technology for weapons. My brother chose death over compliance. That 'thunderstorm' was their smokescreen for shooting down his escape pod." He touched the skeleton's metal fingers now weeping blue energy fluid. "This frame is the pod's core component—he used his last strength to send it back to me."
The entire workshop suddenly quaked. The wall clock's glass shattered, its counterclockwise hands shooting out to carve seven luminous trails. Distant thunder rumbled—not from stormclouds but the celestial void beyond. The skeleton's rusted wing panels unfolded abruptly, glowing patterns expanding into a massive star chart projection across the night sky.
At the crystal vial's brightest, I glimpsed a spacecraft's silhouette within its swirling nebula—streamlined silver hull with the same cursive signature as the pendant. The legendary Stardust hadn't perished in storms, but sailed onward as light through the cosmos.
The Mechanic's frozen wristwatch suddenly thawed, revealing tiny engraved words: "Brother, wait for my return." He collapsed to his knees, twenty years of waiting, doubt and longing erupting in scalding tears that sparked tiny lights upon hitting the metal floor.
The luminous figure approached the skeleton, dissolving into light particles that merged with its frame. The chest cavity opened, revealing a hologram around the vial—a cockpit from twenty years past, where a young pilot smiled at the camera: "Big brother, when stardust crystals resonate with ground signals, that's my homecoming day. Reassemble the core—it'll bring my data back..."
As the hologram faded, the skeleton's glow softened. It gently placed a pristine data chip labeled "Complete Flight Logs" into the Mechanic's palm. Beyond the windows, silver light pierced the clouds—a luminous trail pulsed toward the workshop at precise seven-minute-seven-second intervals.
Clutching the chip, the Mechanic stood with tear-streaked resolve. Gazing upward then at the burning pendant in his hand, he whispered: "Welcome home, little brother." The workshop clock began turning clockwise at last, chiming nine times—a twenty-year promise fulfilled in the harmony of starlight and gears.