"Yes. He's really that good."
Hartley was leaning toward the phone's speaker, talking over Ward for the third time. Ward let him. When Hartley got excited about something, trying to rein him in was like trying to stop a rocket mid-launch — technically possible, practically pointless.
The MIT president's voice came through flat and controlled, which was how Ward knew he was furious.
"Let me make sure I understand this correctly. You — two tenured professors, representing this institution — visited an unverified teenager's garage, watched his robot walk around, and then promised him ten million dollars in annual research funding. Without consulting me. Without consulting the provost. Without consulting anyone."
"We didn't promise," Ward said carefully. "We indicated that the funding would be—"
"You indicated. Wonderful. And if this turns out to be an elaborate hoax? If we're the next headline — 'MIT Professors Swindled by Teenage Con Artist'? Right now, we're in the middle of admissions season. Do you have any idea what that does to our credibility with prospective students?"
Hartley jumped in. "With all due respect, the only way to settle this is to send a team down here. Put someone in the cockpit. Five minutes of firsthand experience and you'll know everything you need to know."
A long silence. The sound of someone rubbing his temples, probably.
"I'll arrange it," the president said finally. "But if this goes sideways, the two of you can start planning your retirement lectures. And Doug — send me that brief. Encrypted."
The line went dead.
Ward and Hartley had barely made it back to their borrowed office at UT Austin before the first knock came.
Professor Alan Kessler — mechanical engineering, UT Austin, mid-sixties, wire-rimmed glasses — let himself in without waiting for an answer. He'd been their host for the academic exchange, and he'd clearly been watching the livestream.
"So," Kessler said, settling into a chair like a man who planned to stay. "You two crashed a teenager's livestream and ended up on national television. How was your Saturday?"
Hartley was already in combative mode. "If you're here to poach—"
"Relax, Jim. I'm not poaching anyone." Kessler raised both hands. "What I am here to ask is whether there's room for collaboration. If you're standing up a research program around this technology, UT Austin would like to be part of the conversation. The kid is local. His mech is here. It makes sense to have a lab presence in Texas, even if the primary program is at MIT."
Hartley opened his mouth. Kessler kept talking.
"Think about it — the boy grew up here. His workshop is here. His support network is here. Uprooting him to Cambridge might not be the smartest move, developmentally speaking. A joint lab in Texas lets him work in a familiar environment while still being affiliated with MIT."
Hartley's response was two words, delivered with the diplomatic grace of a man who built rocket engines for a living: "Not happening."
Ward intervened before the conversation caught fire. "Alan, we appreciate the interest. But right now, nothing is confirmed. We don't even have institutional buy-in from our own administration yet. Let's get the basics settled before we start talking joint ventures."
He paused, then added: "And between us — this technology may not be something any single institution can handle alone."
Kessler was smart enough to hear what Ward wasn't saying. If the neural link was real — genuinely real — it wouldn't stay in academia. It would go somewhere with a much bigger budget and a much higher security clearance.
He nodded and left without pressing further.
Back in Cambridge, MIT President Robert Calloway sat in his office reading Ward's encrypted email for the third time.
The technical details were dense, but the implications were straightforward. A fourteen-year-old had built a direct neural-mechanical interface that operated in real time with sub-millisecond latency. If verified, it represented a capability that exceeded every known brain-machine interface program in the world by at least two decades.
Calloway deleted the email. Then he deleted it from his trash folder. Then he picked up his desk phone and dialed a number that wasn't in any directory.
The conversation lasted four minutes. He did most of the listening.
When it was over, he made three more calls — to the head of Lincoln Laboratory, to the dean of engineering, and to a name in the Department of Defense that he kept in a locked drawer rather than his contacts list.
The team would be assembled by Monday.
Back in Crestfield, Ryan was horizontal on the couch.
Chloe occupied the other end, also horizontal, scrolling her phone with one hand and eating grapes with the other. The TV was on but muted. Lisa was in the kitchen doing something that smelled like roast chicken.
"You know you're famous now, right?" Chloe said, not looking up. "Like, famous famous. Two days ago the internet was calling you a fraud. Now it's calling you a national treasure. The same accounts that were posting debunk threads are posting appreciation posts. Some of them didn't even delete the old ones — they just pretend they never happened."
"Shocking."
"And there's a whole conspiracy theory that you're going to be recruited into a secret military program and disappear into some underground bunker in Nevada. Very dramatic. Very you."
"I'm not disappearing into a bunker."
"That's exactly what someone who was about to disappear into a bunker would say."
Ryan threw a pillow at her. She caught it without looking up, which was impressive.
"The military will probably take an interest," he said. "But Scrapper's direct combat value is limited — it's a prototype built from scrap steel with a ten-use neural link. Nobody's deploying it to a battlefield. What they'll actually care about is the neural link itself."
"Because it connects brains to machines."
"Because it connects brains to anything. Mechs, drones, prosthetics, surgical systems, vehicles — the military applications are obvious, but the civilian applications are just as big. Medical, industrial, scientific. It's not a weapon. It's a platform."
Chloe was quiet for a moment. "So what happens?"
"They'll want to verify it. Then they'll want to fund it. Then they'll want to classify parts of it, but they can't classify the whole thing because I already demonstrated it live on camera in front of twenty-three journalists and two million viewers. That cat's out of the bag."
"Good. I worked hard on that livestream. I'd be upset if it got classified."
"Your contribution is noted."
"My contribution is essential. Without me, you'd still be uploading welding videos to eight hundred subscribers."
Ryan didn't argue, because she was right.
The MIT team arrived two days later.
Ward called ahead to confirm — they were on the road, an hour out. Ryan spent the morning running Scrapper's diagnostics one more time, checking cable connections, verifying that the neural link was still functional. Every activation was precious now. Eight uses left after the livestream. He couldn't afford a wasted cycle.
They arrived in a convoy of three black SUVs, which Ryan thought was a bit much for an academic visit but which made perfect sense once he saw who got out.
Ward and Hartley led the group. Behind them came a stream of people who filled the workshop like a small invasion — twenty in total, introduced one by one as they filed through the door.
"This is Dr. Margaret Holloway, neuroscience — one of the leading researchers in neural interface technology at MIT," Ward said, gesturing to a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and an expression that suggested she'd already formed three hypotheses and was waiting to disprove them.
"Dr. Paul Yates, mechanical engineering. Dr. Sandra Friel, biomedical systems. Dr. Richard Keane, electrical engineering and signal processing..."
The introductions kept coming. Thirteen professors and senior researchers, spanning every discipline that might conceivably be relevant to a neural-controlled mech — neuroscience, materials science, mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, biomechanics, computer science, even a psychologist.
"And these," Ward said, turning to the last seven members of the group, "are our volunteer test subjects. All in excellent physical condition. If one doesn't take to the link, we've got backups."
Ryan shook hands with each of them. Firm grips. Direct eye contact. The kind of posture you didn't learn in a classroom.
They'd introduced themselves with first names only — no titles, no affiliations. They were polite, alert, and carried themselves with the particular economy of movement that came from years of physical training.
Ryan didn't need Ward to tell him what they were. He recognized the bearing. These weren't graduate students.
He glanced at the thirteen professors and quietly re-evaluated. If the test subjects were military, then at least some of the "academics" were too — or were here on someone's behalf who wasn't in the room.
That was fine. Expected, even. The phone call Calloway had made from his office had clearly reached the right people.
The pieces were moving faster than Ryan had anticipated. But they were moving in the right direction.
"Alright," Ryan said, looking up at Scrapper. "Let's get started."