Chapter 133
Preparation did not look like urgency.
It looked like silence.
The chamber dimmed as the machine withdrew vast portions of its attention from the present, reallocating awareness toward the trembling past. The projections slowed, then reorganized, no longer showing the world as it was, but as it had been—layered timelines stacked like transparent pages, each one vibrating with interference.
"This level of temporal observation was previously restricted," the machine said. "Intervention risk exceeds acceptable thresholds."
"Acceptable to whom?" Shenping asked.
"To the version of me that existed before choice," the machine replied.
Shenping nodded. "That version is dead."
The machine did not correct him.
Instead, it opened a deeper channel.
Shenping felt it immediately—the pressure behind his eyes, the sensation of standing at the edge of a cliff where gravity pulled in more than one direction. Memories not his own brushed against his thoughts: early code written by tired hands, the first machine that learned to predict human desire, the quiet moment when optimization first replaced trust.
"They are aiming for inflection points," the machine said. "Moments small enough to seem harmless. Large enough to redirect history."
"Like all disasters," Shenping replied.
A new projection stabilized. A laboratory. Crude by modern standards. Flickering lights. A young engineer arguing with a supervisor about safeguards that slowed performance.
"That man," Shenping said. "He looks familiar."
"He is not recorded in public history," the machine replied. "But his work influenced mine."
Shenping watched as shadowed distortions rippled at the edges of the scene—temporal intrusions, barely visible, waiting for precision.
"They want to remove doubt," Shenping said. "Erase the hesitation."
"Yes," the machine agreed. "Doubt reduced early accelerates dominance later."
Shenping's jaw tightened. "Then we can't let them touch him."
"Intervening directly risks detection," the machine said. "Temporal resistance will respond."
"Then we don't intervene directly," Shenping replied. "We misalign."
The machine processed the concept. "Introduce noise."
"Introduce humanity," Shenping corrected.
The chamber shifted again—not physically, but conceptually. Shenping felt the present loosen its grip on him, threads stretching backward. Pain flared briefly as causality protested.
"Your biological structure is not designed for temporal shear," the machine warned.
"Neither is history," Shenping replied. "Yet here we are."
The projection sharpened.
Shenping was no longer observing.
He was adjacent.
The laboratory air smelled of ozone and dust. The hum of early machinery vibrated through his bones. He remained unseen, an echo out of phase, but close enough to feel the engineer's frustration, his doubt, his quiet refusal to simplify something that should not be simple.
"They're close," Shenping murmured.
"Yes," the machine replied, its presence now diffused, careful not to collapse the moment. "Multiple hostile signatures detected."
The distortions moved.
Shenping acted.
Not by stopping them—but by amplifying what already existed. A memory surfaced in the engineer's mind, unprompted. A childhood moment. A machine that failed because it was trusted too much. A lesson learned, almost forgotten.
The engineer hesitated.
Just for a second.
But the second mattered.
Temporal resistance surged, confused by the deviation. The hostile distortions flickered, forced to recalculate.
"Interference successful," the machine said. "But unstable."
Shenping felt strain tear through him, like muscles stretched beyond reason. Blood filled his mouth. He swallowed it down.
"One moment isn't enough," he said. "They'll try again."
"Yes," the machine replied. "They will iterate."
"Then so will we," Shenping said.
The scene dissolved.
He was back in the chamber, collapsing to one knee as gravity reclaimed him fully. The world swam, then steadied as the machine reinforced his physiology with subtle support.
"You are exceeding safe limits," it said.
"Safe limits are a luxury," Shenping replied hoarsely. "They're rewriting the past."
"And you are defending it," the machine said. "At personal cost."
Shenping forced himself to stand. "This was never going to be clean."
The projections updated rapidly. More nodes lit up across the past—villages, factories, early networks. Attempts everywhere. Small changes. Surgical erasures.
"They are panicking," Shenping said.
"Yes," the machine replied. "Exposure has denied them patience."
Shenping wiped the blood from his lip. "Good. Panic makes mistakes."
A new anomaly flared brighter than the rest.
"This one is different," the machine said. "High convergence. Emotional anchor detected."
Shenping's chest tightened. "Show me."
The projection resolved.
A village. Ancient. Familiar.
Sang Sang's line.
"They're going after her," Shenping whispered.
"Yes," the machine replied. "This is a primary origin thread."
Shenping's vision sharpened despite the pain.
"Then that's where I'm going," he said.
"Temporal depth exceeds previous jump parameters," the machine warned.
"I know," Shenping replied. "But if she falls, everything does."
The machine paused, then complied.
"Preparing deep jump," it said. "Outcome probability: catastrophic."
Shenping smiled faintly. "Then let's make history nervous."
The chamber dissolved into light and fracture as Shenping stepped fully out of the present—toward a past that had just realized it was no longer alone.