Defend Namsan Park

Chapter 110 Phytolacca Diary (12)

It's been raining continuously these past few days.

Thick clouds can block sunlight, but they can't block the high-energy radiation from the snail. Although key units in human society have carried out radiation protection renovations in the past few years, with thick lead plates embedded in the walls, and engineers confidently assuring everyone that there would be no problem, when the alarm sounds, everyone still scrambles to crawl into underground bunkers.

The angels are like Gandalf's holy light, while we are the shadowy orcs.

To this day, no one can tell me whether angels possess intelligence, can think, or have emotions. People in the science city told me that as a four-dimensional manifold, angels can accommodate complex structures far exceeding those of any creation in our world. This also means that the human brain—or a supercomputer—may not be as complex and precise as angels. Theoretically, they can possess intelligence, even intelligence superior to that of humans. They have no reason not to do so—having a self is the greatest temptation in the universe.

If the Spiral Angel possesses a self, how would it examine itself and the external world? When the Spiral Angel hovers 60,000 meters above this world, looking down upon those among the masses who worship it, revere it, and plot to destroy it, why does it remain silent?
I know that some people have never given up trying to communicate with angels. Apart from those poor souls who have created sects and tried to communicate with angels through sacrifice and prayer, there are still people in Science City who are thinking about how to establish contact with angels in a feasible way. Last night, before going to sleep, Bai asked me: Assuming that humans have really established a communication mechanism with angels, how should we negotiate to ensure the survival of human society?
That's a good question.

For the past year, I've been on the back line. Workshop 112 is a quintessential back-line unit. Although the comrades in the operations office—mainly my uncle Wang Xiangbing—were very enthusiastic, forcing Li Wenxuan to devote all his time and energy to the "Chaofeng" project, overall, "Chaofeng" was still a neglected project. If it weren't for the support of Old Man Ji and Wei Mao, we wouldn't have gotten anything. A couple of days ago, Bai Shu slipped and fell while getting off the crane, fracturing his right fibula. He's been limping ever since.

I visited her at the hospital. When I entered, Bai Shu was scolding Zhang Zhong, and she was saying some very harsh things. She thought that Zhang Zhong hadn't cleaned the lubricating oil off the crane ladder. Actually, it wasn't Zhang Zhong's fault. That morning, an oil pipe had burst, and oil had sprayed everywhere. It would have been difficult for anyone else to do it better. But Zhang Zhong didn't say anything. He liked Bai Shu very much.

Few in Workshop 112 disliked Bai Shu. She sat high above everyone in the crane operator's cab, dressed in white overalls—so conspicuous, so beautiful. Without her, the workshop's enthusiasm noticeably waned; everyone was listless, losing their motivation to perform well. Fortunately, the current focus of the "Chaofeng" project wasn't on Workshop 112, but on Leshan.

Uncle and Li Wenxuan selected a group of young and strong elites, loaded them onto trucks and sent them to the rear. They were going to establish a second factory in a secret stronghold. The business manager was really resourceful; he said there would be a factory, and there really was one.

Wei Mao had been missing for several days. Rumors circulated in the base that he was going to be replaced because of his substandard test results. Everyone said it was a conspiracy—ostensibly because of the test scores, but actually because he had offended the base's deputy chief engineer, 1047. The petty and repulsive 1047 had secretly manipulated the situation to transfer him away. Wei Mao would be replaced by a mysterious and unknown backup pilot. Each mech had two pilots, one on combat duty and one on standby. All the infatuated women and some men in the base were filled with regret and resentment. Mech pilots were common, but handsome men were rare. They were eager to try their luck with Wei Mao, but before they could even have anything happen to him, 1047 shattered their dreams.

Even Baibai came to ask me if Wei Mao had really been transferred. But how would I know? In this matter, my right to know was barely higher than that of Staff Officer Huang, whom Old Man Ji employed.

But what's the point of asking about that?
That towering giant gun standing in the Yuzhong District, reaching into the clouds, will always have someone pull the trigger; that massive, iron-gray machine hanging in Workshop 110, will always have someone start the engine; that silent god that circles the earth, will always have someone confront it head-on. There are not many questions in the world that are destined to have answers, and this happens to be one of them.

Next Monday, Old Man Ji will hold a topping-out celebration at the construction site of the Balat Brahma Temple in Longdi Stan. After overcoming numerous hardships and difficulties, this massive project is finally nearing completion. In the era before the Great Collapse, it would have been worthy of a National Science and Technology Progress Award, but unfortunately, in this current era, the award has lost its meaning. Old Man Ji poured so much of his heart and soul into that giant spear; he was just an ordinary man with an immense obsession with the sun piercing the earth.

If he can traverse the Earth in a single day, he will be the first male in human history.

When I went to inspect the construction site today, I saw people preparing for the setup. It was a really cliché scene: a tall, large platform was erected with a bright red curtain, and plastic flowers were placed on the podium. The base commander, political commissar, new drivers, Old Man Ji, as well as leaders from Chongqing and heads of the base's directly subordinate departments, were seated in order on the platform. Base cadres, staff, and soldiers sat neatly below the platform, each with a small stool. Looking down from the platform, the crowd was dense. Old Man Ji presided over the meeting, and his first words were, "Golden autumn October, refreshing autumn breeze"—Old Man Ji liked this. He was an old-fashioned Chinese man who always wanted to be a high-ranking official.

When I visited Bai Shu in the hospital, Bai Shu asked me, "If Wei Mao is really transferred, will you miss him?"
I said no.

White Tree is very happy.

I don't miss Wei Mao. Of all the oddballs I've ever met, he was probably the strangest one. A man who was more beautiful than a woman, an adult with the mentality of an immature, an autistic, a stutterer, a super genius, a person who regarded my sister as his mother, a person who faced the gods alone in a life-or-death struggle. No matter how many labels I put on him, I can't describe the full picture of Wei Mao to you. How could there be such a complicated person in this world?
If Wei Mao is transferred, I hope that he will be replaced by a normal person—this may be wishful thinking, as there are probably no normal people among the giant machine pilots, each with their own flaws, but I hope he will not call my sister "Mom".

This is my bottom line: I don't want another person to call my sister "Mom"!