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Everyone stared at the data streams flowing across their holographic displays. Defense capabilities, offensive systems, combat performance metrics—all impressive, all revolutionary. But the core systems? Power generation, propulsion mechanics, neural interface architecture?
All labeled with a single word: Magic.
Marshal Pentecost finished scrolling through the specifications, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and existential crisis. Others looked similarly shell-shocked.
"This..." Newton's voice shook. "The magic classification. That's... that's real? You're saying this is actually—"
"Magic. Yes." Aidan nodded, watching their worldviews crack in real-time. "More precisely, it's an application of cosmic energy manipulation. What ancient cultures called magic, what modern physics is only beginning to theorize about."
The silence was deafening.
"Odin," Aidan continued, like he was discussing a historical colleague rather than a mythological figure. "Norse god, master of runes, creator of a symbolic language that could reshape reality. I studied his work, improved on the fundamental principles, and engraved the results into Magician's core systems."
Nobody spoke. They were too busy trying to reconcile "studied Odin's work" with their understanding of how reality functioned.
Gottlieb broke first, redirecting to safer ground. "The... the bio-metal. The specifications mention self-repair capabilities and—" he squinted at his display, "—living metal?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," Aidan confirmed. "A metallic substrate with biological properties. It's alive, in the technical sense. Self-repairing, adaptive, capable of growth given sufficient energy input."
That should have been the most shocking revelation of the day. Self-repairing metal that was technically alive? In any other context, that would've blown minds.
After the magic bombshell, people just nodded tiredly and added it to the pile of impossible things they were accepting today.
"Self-repairing metal," one of the engineers muttered. "That's... that's the perfect construction material. Nothing would ever be permanently damaged."
"Can it be mass-produced?" Herc Hansen asked, his tactical mind already running calculations about fleet-scale deployment.
"Yes," Aidan said. "But you'd need a Star Harvester first."
"A what now?" Chuck looked up from his display.
"Star Harvester," Aidan repeated. A new hologram materialized in the center of the bay—a tower-like structure covered in geometric patterns, vaguely resembling a radio antenna designed by someone who understood physics way better than they should. "Large-scale bio-metal production requires enormous energy input. Solar collection on that scale means going to the source."
The hologram animated. The tower launched skyward, punching through atmosphere in seconds, continuing into orbital space. It didn't stop. It kept going, approaching the sun itself, close enough that anyone watching felt uncomfortable about the implied heat levels.
The device locked into position and opened—panels extending, collection arrays deploying. Lines of light connected it to the sun's surface, drinking stellar radiation like a flower turned toward sunlight.
At the device's core, something began to form. A crystal, glowing fierce orange-red, growing larger as it absorbed more energy. When it reached critical mass, the simulation zoomed out, showing the harvester returning to Earth orbit.
The scene shifted. A car appeared—just a regular sedan, nothing special. The energy crystal was placed on the hood.
Contact.
The crystal melted into the metal like wax on a hot surface, spreading across the vehicle's frame in rippling waves. A red energy field enveloped the entire car. The vehicle shuddered, metal plates shifting, restructuring.
Then it transformed. Not mechanically, not with gears and hydraulics, but organically. Flowing, reshaping, standing upright until a humanoid robot stood where a car had been seconds before.
The hologram froze on that final image.
"Under normal conditions," Aidan explained into the stunned silence, "bio-metal produced via energy crystal spontaneously generates consciousness. Silicon-based life with intelligence equal to or exceeding human baselines."
That made everyone's expression change. Creating a new intelligent species wasn't a manufacturing process—it was playing god, and everyone in the room understood the implications.
Newton's eyes were locked on Magician. "But your Jaeger didn't create a new consciousness. Did it?"
"Sharp observation." Aidan smiled approvingly. "You can override the emergent consciousness before it fully forms. Implant a different identity, provide existing memories, and the bio-metal adopts that consciousness pattern instead of generating its own."
"So as long as someone acts as the Jaeger's brain," Gottlieb said slowly, working through the logic, "you can prevent spontaneous life generation?"
"Correct." Aidan's expression turned more serious. "But that comes with significant drawbacks. If the Jaeger 'dies'—suffers catastrophic structural failure—the consciousness dies with it. And every injury the Jaeger sustains, you feel. Not metaphorically. Neural feedback transmits the damage directly to your nervous system."
"That's basically how we pilot now," Raleigh pointed out. "Drift feedback already lets us feel Jaeger damage."
"No." Aidan shook his head firmly. "What you experience now is neural echo—your brain interpreting damage data as sensation. This is direct nervous system mapping. If Magician's arm gets severed, my arm's neural pathways register as severed. The pain isn't simulated. It's real."
He let that sink in.
"Obviously, don't let limbs get completely destroyed. Puncture wounds, lacerations, crushing damage—the bio-metal can repair all of that. But total amputation causes permanent neural trauma to the pilot."
Several pilots shifted uncomfortably.
"The trade-off," Aidan continued, "is perfect one-to-one motion response. No mechanical lag, no hydraulic delay. You move, it moves. Instantly. Exactly."
Every pilot's eyes lit up at that. They'd all felt the frustration of their Jaeger's systems struggling to keep pace with their reflexes, that fraction-of-a-second delay that could mean life or death in combat.
"If controlled by one person..." Mako spoke up, and everyone turned to look at her. "Would neural compression still be an issue?"
Pentecost glanced at her but said nothing, his expression carefully neutral.
"Yes," Aidan admitted. "But it scales with neural capacity. Everyone here has the raw strength to solo-pilot a bio-metal Jaeger. You wouldn't burn out."
Mako's breath caught. Her hands clenched at her sides, hope flaring across her face like sunrise. She'd been so close to giving up, resigned to watching from the sidelines while others fought.
Now there was a path forward.
"Are there alternative control schemes?" Pentecost asked, his voice carefully measured, pulling attention away from Mako's emotional reaction.
"Two others." A new data stream appeared on everyone's displays. "Parasitic consciousness model. You implant a lower-intelligence consciousness—think animal-level cognition—and establish a partnership bond. The parasitic consciousness experiences the Jaeger's damage, not you."
The projection showed various scenarios: pilots bonding with their Jaegers like training pets, disagreements causing system conflicts, worst-case scenarios where abandoned Jaegers wandered off seeking new partners.
"That seems ideal," Mako said, already imagining the possibilities. Then her expression clouded. "But doesn't that mean the parasitic consciousness suffers all the pain we'd otherwise experience? Isn't that... cruel?"
"It's complicated," Aidan acknowledged. "The ethics depend on how developed the consciousness is, how much it can actually feel versus just process damage data. Maintaining a healthy bond requires genuine care, though. Treat it badly, and you risk everything from system rejection to the Jaeger literally running away."
"There's a third option," he continued before anyone could dwell too long on that moral quandary. "Full independent consciousness. Let the bio-metal generate its own intelligence, raise it properly, instill human values, and deploy autonomous Jaeger units."
The reaction was immediate and visceral. Multiple people shook their heads, expressions hardening.
"Too risky," Herc said flatly. "A new intelligent species with Jaeger-scale combat capabilities? That's an extinction-level wildcard."
"Bad actors could weaponize them against humanity," someone else added.
"One philosophical disagreement and we're facing a robot uprising," Chuck muttered darkly.
Aidan didn't argue. He'd expected that reaction. Creating truly independent artificial life was playing with fire, and everyone knew it.
"Has Scunner been transported back to base yet?" Aidan asked, pivoting the conversation.
Pentecost blinked at the subject change. "Not yet. Two more days, minimum. Transporting a living Kaiju requires extensive containment protocols. If it escaped mid-transit..." He didn't need to finish that thought. A Category-4 loose in shipping lanes would be catastrophic.
"Bring the memory extraction equipment here," Aidan said. "We'll do the procedure as soon as Scunner arrives. Once we confirm what's on the other side of that breach, I want to move fast."
The unspoken implication hung in the air: I'm going through the wormhole, and I'm not waiting around.
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