From Idler to Tech Tycoon: Earth
Chapter 87: Doomsday Clock

Chapter 87: Chapter 87: Doomsday Clock

Director Vortan’s gesture shifted the central hologram. The image of the battle carrier dissolved into a harsh, snow-lashed landscape—Base Kaelum Omega, deep within the Antarctic exclusion zone.

"All fabrication is occurring beneath the Ross Ice Shelf. The facility operates under full cloaking protocols, with geothermal fusion cores powering the manufacturing arrays. These cores were seeded there in 1998, under the guise of seismic research."

He tapped the air. A cross-section of the subterranean compound unfurled. Miles of tunnels, assembly bays, pressure-controlled cryochambers, and quantum forges blinked to life. Hundreds of humanoid drones marched in silence, welding, calibrating, integrating.

"Raw materials arrive via submerged transoceanic drones through pre-glacial fault tunnels. Assembly is handled exclusively by autonomous fabrication units to reduce information leakage."

Khians tilted her head.

"And what of the human slave element?"

Vortan’s expression didn’t change. "Forty-two engineering specialists from the Orion Contingency were cycled in this quarter. They remain under neural suggestion protocols. Their memories are culled every eight hours."

She seemed satisfied.

"And the fleet?"

The projection expanded again—this time revealing not one, but seven warships in various stages of completion. Each bore the Solar Warden sigil: a black sun eclipsing a fractured planet, encircled by golden rings.

"Vessel Chrono Aberrant is 86% complete. Helios Bane, Erebus Lance, and Viridian Wake are entering engine-core fusion. Once the AI core is online, we’ll be able to initiate internal simulation loops for quantum combat doctrine."

A pause.

"Each vessel is equipped with anti-matter torpedo bays, adaptive energy shielding, and localized space-time distortion emitters for point-defense. Command protocols remain decentralized—no single ship can be overridden."

Khians’ gaze became distant—as if seeing not the room, but a future skyline painted in fire.

"And the status of our current operational fleet?"

Vortan tapped again. Another map—a rotating globe, this time showing near-Earth orbit, the Kuiper Belt, and Mars.

"Twenty-eight older-model vessels remain in high-orbit latency. Four are stationed beyond the Kuiper Belt. The Phantom Class Interceptors, under Project Monarch, continue to conduct blacksite reconnaissance across outer-system signals."

He paused.

"We have also reactivated four Nimitz-class vessels from the original Maydridge Arsenal, now docked at Lunar Station Caduceus. They will be refitted once we gain access to Bytebull AI module."

Khians asked, "And propulsion? Are we nearing starlight-capable jumps?"

Vortan hesitated. Then answered carefully.

"The new warp fields distort space-time in a controlled bubble, but forward dilation remains volatile. Until we solve the paradox anchor drift, full interstellar leaps remain... suicidal."

Khians made no reply.

After a moment of silence, Khians’ voice rang clear once more:

"The defense of this world... is not merely about repelling outsiders."

She gestured toward the ceiling, where an image of Earth shimmered—then fractured, dividing into three layers: Military, Economic, Cognitive.

"The enemy already walks among you. It is data without control. Knowledge without permission. Evolution without our consent."

She turned to the council as a whole.

"Ensure the fleet rises. Ensure the AI obeys. Ensure that when the veil is lifted, humanity sees not stars—but the hand of God Mainu, stretching forth in steel and fire."

The room responded in unison, a whisper carried like prayer:

"So it shall be."

As the echoes of Solar Warden’s logistics faded, the chamber settled once more into a solemn hum. The holographic projection above the obsidian table shifted again—stars and warships dissolved into atmospheric schematics: satellite constellations, frequency matrices, and a geostationary globe overlaid with shimmering grid lines.

"And now," Khians said, her voice dipped in silken gravity, "Project Blue Beam. The grand illusion. The messianic failsafe."

The woman rose smoothly, the folds of her charcoal-gray dress unwrinkled, her expression crystalline with control.

Dr. Lisa Vaughn.

Her eyes—icy, unreadable—met Khians’ without flinching. "Progress is exceptional, Apostle," she began, her voice even and clinical. "As of last quarter, atmospheric projection efficiency has surpassed 150% of our baseline simulations. Phase Three emitters, linked via the updated Quantum Prism Satellites, are now operational in all twelve global clusters."

She raised a hand, and a constellation of semi-transparent holograms bloomed: satellite schematics, ground-based amplifiers disguised as cell towers, and orbital arrays orbiting in tandem above key geographic zones—Mecca, Vatican City, Washington D.C., New Delhi, and Jerusalem among them.

"By rerouting geothermal power drawn from polar fusion conduits, we’ve sustained the high-frequency broadcast nets needed to layer volumetric holography across multiple urban densities without detection. In layman’s terms—our skies are programmable."

A ripple passed through the council—not disbelief, but reverence.

Lisa continued, her tone sharpening with clinical pride.

"We’ve surpassed 120% of photorealism benchmarks. At present, we can simulate full aerial manifestations—entities, architecture, even celestial alignments—across a 16-kilometer visual dome with less than 1.2% perceptual desync, even under meteorological distortion."

One of the delegates leaned forward, intrigued. "Does this include auditory resonance?"

Lisa turned slightly toward him.

"Yes. The auditory synth nodes embedded within existing telecom infrastructure now allow us to generate multi-language, context-reactive transmissions. Voices of deities. Choral phenomena. Personalized messaging. All delivered in the subject’s native tongue—directly into their cognitive processing layers, bypassing conscious doubt via neurolinguistic proximity encoding."

A quiet exhale of astonishment spread through the room.

"This was made possible through the neural imprints harvested during the Great Social Conditioning between 2001 and present. Every social media interaction provided us micro-patterns of belief response. We now understand faith... as a code."

Apostle Khians tilted her head slightly, pleased.

"And the carriers?"

Dr. Vaughn nodded.

"Distributed. The Skymind Array, launched under the guise of Boeing’s commercial expansion, now orbits 94% of populated Earth. Ground amplifiers continue to be installed—disguised as 4G towers—enabling full synesthetic field projection. We are... prepared for the next phase of global conditioning."

Khians’ smile was slow. Measured.

"Impressive."

A soft pulse emanated from her fingertips, transmitting a locked packet directly into Lisa’s tablet "The schematics have been updated. Your revised threshold is 400% photorealism by the 2020 Convergence. Expect new simulations involving coordinated celestial overlays, divine entity emergence patterns, and a false atmospheric rift event over the Pacific Rim."

Lisa bowed deeply. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper:

"It shall be done, Lord Apostle."

Khians paused, her gaze lingering on the woman with something almost resembling fondness—predator and protégé.

"Good. When the sky fractures, and every eye sees the god they’ve always feared, even the faithful will kneel."

A heavy stillness fell over the chamber, thick with the weight of that truth.

"And now," Khians said, her tone a velvet coil. "Project Stargate. Our vanguard."

The man stood.

Colonel Lysander Dela Fuente, director of the Outer Black Operations, the warlord with no nation and no past.

"Lord Apostle," he said, voice low, unwavering, "three divisions of enhanced soldiers are now combat-ready. Deployment simulations across urban, arid, and zero-gravity theaters have exceeded every expectation."

He raised a gloved hand, activating a live projection.

Figures appeared—silhouettes of men and women in exoskeletal armor, eyes glowing faint blue. Their movements were predatory, silent. They sprinted through corridors, walls, and fire. They ripped drone tanks apart with their bare hands. Neural-linked, silent, coordinated.

"They are known among our ranks as The Echo Legion. Each has been bioforged through a six-phase metamorphic protocol using spliced extraterrestrial DNA recovered from the Arx Cradle, enhanced via neural wetware from Project Titanus, and hardened with gravitic density restructuring."

The delegates leaned forward.

Khians’ voice sharpened like ice against bone.

"And their minds?"

Vrax nodded once.

"Conditioning has been... absolute. MK-Ultra Tier Omega protocols layered over ThetaWave dream-loop entrainment ensures unshakable obedience. Emotional deterrents have been deleted. Empathy... sterilized."

He paused.

"Even under false flag operations where they were ordered to massacre civilians disguised as their own family members... they did not hesitate. Not once."

A subtle tremor of awe—or dread—passed through the council.

"They do not fear death," Vrax added, "because they’ve seen what lies beyond it... and they fear you more."

Khians’ smile was a crescent of approval.

"Very good, Colonel. Your legion will serve well in the shadows. When our illusions crack the sky, let the Echo be the thunder that follows."

Without transition, Khians pivoted—voice dropping to a whisper that licked the back of every delegate’s neck.

"To accelerate our convergence, we will now proceed with the controlled release of fusion energy."

Another hologram pulsed into being: an artificial sun, orbiting a dark lattice structure, marked Project Helion Prism.

"You will plant the seeds of salvation," Khians said. "slowly distribute fusion technology across our favored corporations—Lockheed, Heliosyne, Tanium Dynamics. Under the guise of civilian climate rescue initiatives."

A new image shimmered: a mirrored dome beneath the Sahara.

"By 2020, let the world believe it is entering a second industrial miracle. And let them beg for our leash in gratitude."

The delegates murmured with grim approval. The plan was flawless. Nations would kneel before new light—and never realize it was a yoke.

Then, as if spiraling deeper, Khians spoke again—her tone intimate now, a purr from the abyss.

"Concurrently," she said, "you will phase out the archaic gold standard. Let the illusion of sovereign wealth crumble."

She waved her clawed hand—and the hologram shifted to flowing code: blockchains, biometric keys, financial ledgers flickering with trillions of ghost transactions.

"You will introduce digital currency through the masses. Chaos will be brief. Let it bloom."

A ripple of excitement passed among the economic delegates.

"Volatility will breed dependence. The weak will cry for regulation. And you shall answer... with centralization disguised as liberation."

She stepped down from the dais, approaching the table.

"This currency—Bitcoin—will be stabilized under Project Orion. Every transaction. Every breath of commerce. Every cradle to grave... visible to us."

A single breath filled the room.

Then her tone changed.

It dipped into a timbre that made marrow tremble. Not cruelty. Not command.

But promise.

"Succeed in these final tasks..." she whispered, pacing the circle of power, her shadow trailing longer than light could explain, "...and the dawn of God Krill Mainu’s reign on Terralia shall not merely be prophecy..."

She stopped behind Rothschild. Then behind Robert Wallenbern. One by one.

"It shall be reality."

A new glyph bloomed in the center of the table—a DNA helix forged of obsidian and light, spinning slowly, beating like a heart.

"Those who obey... shall taste eternity. Not digital facsimiles, not uploaded echoes—but true continuity. Your minds, your wills, your empires—reborn in carbon-titanium vessels immune to decay."

She extended a claw—and for a heartbeat, touched the holographic helix.

"No more death. No more disease. You shall walk among the stars as living gods—if you prove worthy."

A collective inhale gripped the room. Eyes dilated. Mouths went dry. The chamber quivered with ambition barely restrained.

Then, one by one, the delegates spoke—first a whisper, then a chant, their voices synchronized by neural implants, hearts entrained to the cadence of submission:

"Glory to God Krill Mainu.

Glory to the living faith.

Glory to the New World Order."

The lights dimmed.

The Council recessed.

And from beneath the Earth, across dark oceans and silent sky, the pieces of the final game began to move.

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