Chapter 122
Valencia sat across from her, chin resting on her hands, watching quietly as she drank her soup. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Lucinda finished the last spoonful, set down the bowl, and glanced up at Valencia. "Mom, I'm heading upstairs. I've got to leave tomorrow. Before dawn."
Valencia's brow furrowed again, but this time she didn't try to stop her. She simply stood, gathering the dishes, murmuring, "Then go get some sleep. Make sure you're warm enough. Don't catch cold."
As Lucinda climbed the stairs, she passed Manuel's room. A thin line of amber light seeped through the crack beneath his door.
Her steps faltered.
Her older brother was home.
But tonight, she didn't have the energy to say hello.
The next morning, before dawn.
Lucinda's alarm went off. She opened her eyes to gray, murky darkness outside the window.
She threw back the covers and got out of bed, moving quickly—washing up, changing clothes, tying her hair back. The whole routine took less than ten minutes.
Her phone buzzed. A message from the research institute.
[Ms. Wipere, new model test failed. Core collapse. Please come as soon as possible.]
Her brow furrowed slightly. Her fingers flew across the screen.
[On my way.]
She grabbed her bag, pushed open the door, and disappeared into the breaking dawn.
At the research institute, Lucinda stared at the screen full of red error messages. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for one second before she spotted the problem. "Core collapse. It's not a parameter issue—it's the underlying architecture. The logic's caught in an infinite loop."
The senior specialist stood beside her, sweat beading on his forehead. "We tried rewriting it, but every time we make a change, the entire system crashes..."
Lucinda didn't respond.
Her fingers descended onto the keyboard, typing out a string of commands.
Lines of code cascaded down the screen. Her gaze was focused and calm, but her fingers never stopped.
Three hours later, the screen flashed green with a single word: "Passed."
The specialist leaned in, staring at the test results. His eyes went wide, and for a long moment, he couldn't squeeze out a single word.
"Ms. Wipere..." His voice was tight. "You... you rewrote the recursive logic into fractal iteration? This is... this is revolutionary..."
"It's not enough." Lucinda straightened, her gaze falling on a cluster of data in the corner of the screen. Her brow furrowed slightly. "The emotional interaction response delay is still 0.3 seconds. Human conversation typically has gaps under 0.2 seconds. Anything over that threshold feels mechanical."
Her fingers tapped lightly on the desk twice. "I need it down to 0.05 seconds."
The specialist's eyes went wide. "0.05 seconds? Ms. Wipere, that's... that's impossible. The computational limits of existing hardware..."
"Switch to quantum chips." Lucinda cut him off, her tone casual. "That low-temperature superconductor the institute scrapped last year—strip out the core components and retrofit them into quantum computing nodes."
The specialist's mouth fell open. For a long moment, he couldn't process what she'd just said.
That low-temperature superconductor had cost two hundred million dollars. The core components had been damaged, and the machine had been declared a total loss.
The expert team had spent six months trying to find a way to repair it. They'd come up with nothing.
She... she wanted to strip it down and retrofit it into quantum computing nodes?
"Ms. Wipere..." His voice was strained. "That equipment... we tried..."
"You tried the wrong methods." Lucinda pulled a sticky note from her pocket, scribbled a few lines of formulas on it, and handed it to him.
The specialist took the note. His hands trembled as he looked at the formulas.
He kept his head down, staring at those few lines. His breathing quickened noticeably.
He'd been in this field for forty years. He'd never seen anyone so casually, so brilliantly, stitch together two seemingly unrelated disciplines.
"Ms. Wipere..." His voice was tight, disbelief coloring every word. "Who... who are you, really..."
Lucinda didn't answer. She gathered her things with the same calm efficiency as always. "I have a product launch this afternoon. I'll handle the quantum node situation afterward."
That afternoon, Ridgeway Tech product launch.
The venue was packed—reporters, business reps, industry experts—a sea of people.
Lucinda stood backstage in a white button-down and black slacks, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, exposing her smooth forehead.
Her expression was neutral, but her eyes sparkled.
"Ms. Wipere." Fiona hurried over, her voice tense. "We're ready."
Lucinda nodded and stepped onto the stage.
A spotlight hit her. Her gaze swept across the crowd. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as she spoke. "Today, I'm introducing Ridgeway Tech's newest product, the Q4."
As her words fell, the screen behind her lit up. A silver robot slowly rotated into view.
"This is our family companion-type intelligent robot. Code name: 'First Light.'"
A murmur rippled through the audience.
"Family companion? Isn't that just a fancy vacuum cleaner?"
"It's all hype. The market's flooded with these concepts. Hardly any of them actually work."
"Right. Analyze emotions? Predict needs? Give me a break."
Lucinda listened to the chatter. Her expression didn't change.
Her finger tapped the remote. On the screen, the robot opened its eyes. Its pupils contracted slightly, like a real eye adjusting to light.
"What can it do?" someone shouted from the audience, a challenge in their tone. "Besides vacuuming and wiping windows, what else?"
Lucinda smiled faintly. Then she raised her hand and pointed at a middle-aged man in the front row. "You. Come up here."
The man froze, glancing left and right to confirm she meant him. Hesitantly, he stood and walked onto the stage.
Lucinda said nothing. Her fingers moved across the remote. The robot slowly turned its head, its amber eyes locking onto the middle-aged man.
"Heart rate: 78. Blood pressure: 142 over 96. Blood oxygen saturation: 94 percent." The robot spoke each word clearly, then continued its analysis. "Sir, you consumed excessive alcohol last night. Your liver's metabolic load is over capacity. Your right ring finger shows long-term pressure marks from wearing a ring, but the ring is absent today. This suggests joint swelling—early-stage gout symptoms."
The man's face flushed deep red. Instinctively, he tucked his right hand behind his back.
"Your pupillary light reflex is delayed by 0.3 seconds," the robot continued, its tone steady and unhurried. "There is mild pathology in the macular region of your retina. I recommend a specialized ophthalmology exam within 48 hours. Additionally, the nitroglycerin tablets in your inside jacket pocket expire in three months. Please replace them promptly."
The room fell deathly silent.
The man's mouth hung open. For a long moment, he couldn't force out a single word.
His fingers pressed against his inside jacket pocket. Sure enough, there was a bottle of nitroglycerin there. He hadn't told anyone about it.
"How... how did you know..." His voice was tight. In the end, that was all he could manage.