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Newton could read the room. Everyone thought he was insane, except for Dr. Ryan, whose expression remained carefully neutral. The DNA didn't lie, though. Even if the conclusion sounded like something from a bad science fiction movie, the numbers backed it up.
"Remember those tissue samples I've been collecting?" He yanked open two drawers under his work table, producing chunks of preserved Kaiju flesh that looked disturbingly like aged cheese - red, veiny, and wrong in ways that made people's stomachs turn. "Top sample: Sydney, three weeks ago. Bottom sample: Manila, six years ago."
He let that sink in for a moment.
"Six years apart. Same DNA. Identical down to the last nucleotide." His voice dropped to an intense whisper. "They're clones. Every single one of them."
Silence. The kind that felt heavy.
"He's right," Aidan said suddenly, and every head in the room swiveled toward him. Even Gottlieb, who'd been preparing a rebuttal, froze with his mouth half-open.
"I've run my own analysis on Kaiju tissue. They're definitely clones. Think of it like..." Aidan paused, choosing his words carefully. "They all came from the same egg. Same genetic template, modified for different purposes."
"Then why do they look so different?" Gottlieb demanded, his scientific mind refusing to accept something that violated basic evolutionary principles. "If they're clones, they should be identical!"
"Because whoever's making them is customizing each batch. Different designers, different specifications, same base model."
"Wait—making them?" Pentecost's voice carried genuine shock. "You're saying the Kaiju are manufactured? Like weapons?"
"How long have you known this?" Mako asked, suspicion creeping into her tone.
Aidan shrugged with maddening casualness. "I did some research a while back. The evidence was pretty clear once you knew what to look for." He gestured to Newton. "Let him finish."
Newton practically vibrated with vindication. Someone finally believed him! He and Gottlieb wrestled aside a massive cultivation tank that had been covered with a tarp. Inside, suspended in yellowish fluid, was the Kaiju brain segment Aidan had been examining earlier.
The thing was obscene. Octopus-like tentacles writhed slowly in the liquid, one sucker-covered appendage pressed against the glass like it was trying to feel its way out. The brain tissue itself pulsed with faint bioluminescence, throwing sickly light across everyone's faces.
"We've been studying Kaiju anatomy all wrong," Newton explained, his enthusiasm overriding the horror of what he was proposing. "We focus on external features, categorize them like animals. But this—" he tapped the glass, making the brain tissue flinch away, "—this is the key to everything."
"It's damaged, yeah. Weak. But it's alive. And if it's alive, we can drift with it. Use the same neural handshake technology that connects Jaeger pilots." His eyes were fever-bright. "Think about it! We could learn how the Kaiju navigate through the wormhole. How to get a nuke through the dimensional barriers. Everything we need to win this war!"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"You want to drift with a Kaiju?" Raleigh's voice was flat with disbelief and horror. The man had drifted with his brother while watching him die. He knew exactly what sharing a neural connection meant.
"Not a whole Kaiju! Just a piece of its brain. Totally different."
"The human brain can't handle that kind of neural load," Raleigh said flatly. "It would be like sticking your mind in a blender. You'd be lucky if you just went insane."
"I agree," Pentecost added, his own experience with solo piloting giving him authority on the subject of neural stress. "It's suicide."
"Same," Aidan nodded.
"No, Ryan, come on!" Newton turned to him desperately. "You get it, right? This is how we win! This is the breakthrough we've been waiting for!"
"I'll think about it," Pentecost said, his tone making it clear the answer was going to be no. "Right now I need to figure out why the predicted Kaiju didn't show up. Gottlieb, send me your updated projections."
"But this is—this is huge!" Newton's voice cracked with frustration. Nobody was listening.
Then Aidan spoke up. "What if I told you I have technology that could extract memories without neural handshaking?"
The room went silent again, but this time with a different quality. This was the silence of desperate hope.
"What?" Newton's eyes went wide.
"Dr. Ryan, you'd better not be making promises you can't keep," Pentecost warned, his voice carrying years of disappointment with failed solutions.
"I was developing it for pilot screening," Aidan explained. "Way to check candidates for psychological trauma without putting them in a Jaeger first. But yeah, it should work on Kaiju brain tissue. Give me a week to finish the prototype."
"You're serious?" Newton looked like Christmas had come early.
"Completely serious."
"You need to be absolutely certain about this," Pentecost pressed.
"I am. The technology works on anything with neural activity that can form coherent memories. Doesn't matter if it's human or alien."
"Humans and Kaiju have completely different brain structures," Gottlieb objected, though he sounded more curious than skeptical now.
"Doesn't matter. As long as there's electrical activity and memory formation, the extraction process works."
"YES!" Newton actually jumped, pumping his fist like his team had just won the championship.
"Wait." Pentecost's eyes narrowed. "Is this what you've been working on for three years? Memory extraction?"
"No."
"Then what the hell IS it?" Pentecost's carefully maintained composure finally cracked. "We've given you everything. Three years, unlimited resources, complete isolation. The entire Jaeger program budget funneled into your secret project while real pilots died in outdated mechs. What could possibly be worth that?"
The anger in his voice was raw, genuine. Three years of frustration finally boiling over.
"Seven days," Aidan said quietly. "In seven days, you'll see what I've been building. And you'll understand why it had to be secret."
"Why the secrecy, Ryan? What are you so afraid of?"
That the Precursors are watching, and if they knew what I was building, they'd shut down the wormhole and disappear. That we might be facing more than just a colony, and if the full Precursor civilization turned its attention here, we'd need fifty years and a space fleet we don't have. That I'm gambling humanity's survival on technology that might not work.
But he couldn't say any of that. Not yet.
"The Lifeline Reactors changed everything," Aidan said instead. "The Jaegers are stronger, faster, can fight longer. The Precursors know this. That's why the predicted attack didn't happen. They're not following the schedule anymore because they're adapting to our upgrades."
"You think they're gathering forces," Mako said, catching on.
"I think they're preparing to throw everything at us in one massive assault. Maybe a Category-5. Maybe multiple Kaiju simultaneously. They want to wipe out our remaining Jaegers before we can use whatever advantage the new reactors give us."
That landed like a bomb. Everyone in the lab understood what he was implying. The calm before the storm. The enemy was coming, and when they did, it would be worse than anything they'd faced before.
"Seven days," Pentecost repeated, his anger transforming into something colder and more focused. "In seven days, this better be worth every Jaeger pilot we lost while you were hiding in Bay Three."
"It will be," Aidan promised. "Trust me."
The look Pentecost gave him suggested trust was in very short supply.
After tense goodbyes, the group followed Pentecost toward the combat training facility. Gipsy Danger needed a co-pilot for Raleigh, which meant running candidates through both psychological screening and physical trials.
Aidan tagged along. His project was in final testing anyway, and honestly, he could use the distraction from thinking about what would happen when everyone finally saw what he'd built.
Seven days until the reveal.
Seven days until everything changed.
He just hoped they'd still be alive to see it.