Free Web NovelDr. Lovelace's smile vanished.
This was the first time in the short period Pavela had known her.
Those emerald-green eyes were devoid of curiosity, excitement, and that radiance that made it hard to tell genius from madness.
In its place was something Pavela was very familiar with.
Seriousness.
A pure seriousness, unadulterated by any other emotion.
“Pavela.”
Dr. Lovelace said.
Her voice was soft, but every word sounded as if it had been calibrated by a precision instrument.
“You don't have to believe in my character.”
“You can think I'm a madwoman.”
“You can think the things I've done to you—the treatment, the face-pinching, tying your hair into little buns—I know they're all a bit much.”
“But there is one thing you must believe.”
She turned around, facing the rows of silent mecha wreckage.
Those scorched-through cockpits.
Those twisted joints.
Those seats that would never be sat in again.
“Every single one of them,” Dr. ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) Lovelace said, “was a volunteer.”
“Every one of them knew the risks.”
“Every one of them wrote a will and said their goodbyes to their families.”
“Then they sat in the cockpit, buckled their seatbelts, and said to me—”
She paused.
“‘Doctor, I'm ready.’”
The hangar was quiet.
There was only the low hum of steam flowing through distant pipes.
“The first pilot was named Finn.”
Dr. Lovelace's fingers lightly touched the armor plating of that Winged Mecha. “He was a talkative man. He'd tell a bad joke before every test, saying that if he succeeded, he'd treat the entire Research Institute to a meal.”
“He didn't succeed.”
“But his data helped me rule out the overload issues of steam boilers in high-altitude, low-pressure environments.”
Her fingers moved to the next one.
“The third pilot was named Ingrid. She was a very quiet woman. The only thing she said before the test was, ‘Remember to help me feed my Cat.’”
“Her data helped me solve the core algorithm for thrust balance.”
Dr. Lovelace turned back to look at Pavela.
“Every failure meant an error was permanently eliminated.”
“Every life was traded for a path that would no longer kill.”
“As of now, I have eliminated one thousand three hundred and seventy-two fatal defects.”
She reached out and held up an index finger.
“And this time—your unit—”
“I have a premonition.”
“It will be the most successful one.”
Pavela looked at her.
Another drop of ice cream fell onto her finger.
She didn't lick it. frёewebnoѵēl.com
“Do you say that to every pilot?”
Dr. Lovelace blinked.
Then she smiled.
That mad, curiosity-filled smile returned.
“No.”
“I only say it to the ones who are still alive.”
Pavela stared at her for three seconds.
Then she stuffed the entire ice cream into her mouth.
“...There's something really wrong with your way of comforting people.”
“This isn't comfort; it's statistics!”
...
For the next five days, Pavela came to the Seventh Division every day.
Because Dr. Lovelace needed more of her physical data.
A vast amount of physical data.
Spinal curvature, range of joint motion, muscle reaction speed, nerve conduction latency, center of gravity distribution, breathing frequency, heart rate variation curves—
Even the degree of her pupil dilation under different emotional states.
“Why do you need pupil data?” Pavela asked.
“Because your mecha isn't designed for anyone else.”
Dr. Lovelace didn't even look up, her pen moving rapidly across the blueprints. “It's designed for you, and only you.”
“Every parameter must perfectly match your body.”
“The curvature of your spine determines the angle of the seat.”
“The length of your arms determines the position of the control levers.”
“Your reaction speed determines the system's response latency.”
“Even your weight—” She finally looked up at Pavela, her gaze lingering on her thin frame for half a second, “—determines the calibration baseline for the Center of Gravity Compensation System.”
“Though this value is small enough to make me a bit worried.”
“...I actually eat quite a lot.”
“Then you need to eat more.”
Pavela decided not to dwell on that topic.
She sat on the edge of the lab bench, holding a cup of ice cream, legs swinging in the air, watching Dr. Lovelace work.
This woman's working state was like that of a completely different person compared to her usual self.
Usually, Dr. Lovelace was like an oversized Golden Retriever with too much energy.
She was practically carved from the same mold as Victoria.
Excited by everything she saw, curious about everything she touched, ready to pounce and rub your face at any moment.
But the working Dr. Lovelace—
Pavela thought for a moment.
Was like a machine.
No.
More precise than a machine.
Machines only run according to programs.
But Dr. Lovelace was creating the program itself.
Every line her pen tip drew on the blueprint carried something Pavela couldn't quite put into words.
A sense of absolute certainty, as if she had already built this mecha a thousand times in her head and was now simply drawing the most perfect version.
The Cat assistants were busy around her.
Ms. Etina stood atop a stack of documents, flipping through data reports with her paws, occasionally letting out a short “Meow.”
Pavela had now learned to distinguish them: a short “Meow” was confirmation, a long “Meow—” was questioning, and two consecutive “Meow-meows” were an urge.
The white Cat, Ed, was responsible for handing over tools.
His efficiency had improved quite a bit since the first day; he only knocked over the ink bottle twice.
When it happened the second time, Ms. Etina's tail flicked, but she didn't scold him.
She only shot him a reproving glance.
Ed's ears immediately flattened.
Pavela thought the relationship between these two Cats was quite interesting.
But she didn't dwell on it.
Because Dr. Lovelace had spread out the first version of the design blueprints.
