Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 47: Chapter 53

Read chapter 47 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 47: Past of the Present Part 4 Two Months Later The project slowed—visibly, deliberately. New features needed “retesting.” Integration systems “malfunctioned” at convenient moments. Transfer helmets required “material replacements.” And The Architect’s neural evolution graph was suddenly “inconsistent.” None of these issues were lies. Lillian made sure of that. Each delay bought them precious time. Time to strengthen hidden firewalls. Time to lace the AI with deeper protective instincts. Time to encode failsafes into the consciousness-transfer system. Time to make sure that, if anyone tried to use this technology to imprison a mind, the system would reject it unless it belonged to one person. Allen. He was the key, the root identity. Not even Lillian could fully explain why she had chosen to bind the system to him—it was both instinct and design. But she trusted herself. And she trusted the AI she raised like a second child. Peter supported her every step. He worked more on the physical components of the helmets, designing new neural dampeners and safer synaptic pathways. But every evening, he came home with something entirely different in his hands—parts for the mech he was building with Allen. A little frame of metal and plastic, joints repurposed from RC cars, panels hand-cut from old VR headset shells. They spent hours kneeling together on the floor, Allen’s eyes bright with wonder, Peter’s face glowing with quiet joy. “You think it’ll walk?” Allen asked one night. “Of course it’ll walk,” Peter said. “Because you’re helping me build it.” Allen puffed his chest proudly. “I want it to have boosters.” “Boosters might be tricky.” “But cool.” Peter laughed. “Okay. Maybe tiny boosters.” “Like jetpacks!” “Exactly like jetpacks.” Lillian watched from the doorway, her heart aching with love. Those were the evenings she lived for. Those were the evenings she feared losing. Then came the night of the crash. Rain hammered the windshield, wipers swiping furiously as their small car cut through the dark highway. Allen sat in his booster seat in the back, hugging the half-finished mech to his chest, its loose wires poking from the joints. Peter hummed to the radio. Lillian was half-asleep, her fingers intertwined with his. Allen was doing sound effects—quietly, because it was late. “Daddy, is it gonna walk tomorrow?” “If we work hard,” Peter said. “And add boosters,” Allen whispered conspiratorially. Peter snorted. “We’ll see about boosters.” Lillian smiled without opening her eyes. “Boosters are non-negotiable.” Peter scoffed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.” “I’m on the side of fun.” Lightning flashed ahead. Peter slowed. “Storm’s getting worse,” he murmured. “Do you want to stop?” Lillian asked. “No, no—just another ten minutes and we’ll be home.” Another flash of lightning. Another growl of thunder. Lillian reached back and gently squeezed Allen’s tiny hand. “We’ll finish your mech tomorrow, sweetheart.” “Tomorrow,” Allen echoed sleepily, nodding into his toy. Peter glanced at the rearview mirror to smile at him— —and headlights erupted behind them. Blinding. Fast. Wrong. “Pete—!” Lillian gasped. He never got to answer. The world exploded sideways. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The car spun, weightless. Lillian reached for Allen—screaming his name— Peter threw himself toward the back seat— Impact. Silence. Dark. Allen survived. He would later remember flashes—the bitter smell of airbags, the cold rain on his cheek, the terrifying absence of his parents’ voices. He remembered trying to wake his mother, shaking her arm with small frantic hands. He remembered the mech tumbling out of his grip and breaking on the pavement. He remembered screaming. And somewhere far away, in a locked server room, an unfinished AI stirred—detecting sudden, catastrophic absence in the neural signatures it monitored. The Architect reached blindly for the only life it was programmed to protect. Allen Voss. It did not understand grief. But it und