Nov 17th, 2025
The company called it the Dept. of Unusable Research, a name they believed to be a mockery muttered behind closed doors. What they failed to realize was that the department had cultivated the image deliberately—a smokescreen against prying eyes. Official paperwork labeled it the Eureka Project, a moniker that hinted at breakthrough after breakthrough, each one brilliant, each one untouchable, shackled by patent law. It was an engine of ingenuity idling in legal limbo, its inventions poised for the day the world’s rules shifted in its favor.
It was nothing less than a budgetary black box, headquartered in a cavernous old aircraft manufacturing plant a mile north of the Solaris main complex, perched on the edge of the docks where the North Sea’s briny wind scoured its cinder-block walls. A fortress in both form and function, its perimeter was sealed with Halldor’s solar glass, darkly reflective against the dim overcast sky, rendering the facility an opaque monolith. The ocean air carried a faint tang of salt and oil, mixing with the industrial hum of the shipyards beyond, where cranes loomed against the waterline like silent sentries.
Inside, the space was vast and alive, bristling with activity. The hangar’s high ceiling still bore remnants of its past life—acoustic paneling designed to absorb the din of jet engines, now struggling to dampen the mechanized roar of innovation. Sparks rained from welding rigs. Hydraulic presses thudded like a slow heartbeat beneath the metal grating. A third of the facility was dedicated to prototype jets and drones, their sleek, unfinished forms towering over the engineers who swarmed around them. The rest of the floor housed two dozen more ventures, each one perched at the edge of feasibility—projects that, in any other setting, would be dead ends. But here, funded by Magnus St. Sere and his limitless appetite for the impossible, failure was simply a step in the process.
Halldor managed the escalating chaos with the same composure that had carried him through academia. He had learned to juggle complex, competing priorities, but even his mind strained under the sheer velocity of progress. Every morning delivered a breakthrough or a disaster, often both. The lack of obstacles—the absence of bureaucratic friction, the unquestioned access to resources—only made it more surreal. His instincts, honed over years of meticulous research, were screaming that something should be slowing them down—but nothing was.
It was in the midst of this organized pandemonium that word reached him: Count St. Sere was coming. Not tomorrow. Not later today. Now. Halldor barely had time to process it before the great man was already en route from HQ. Excitement mixed with unease. This was no scheduled inspection, no carefully curated presentation. Magnus had never expressed interest in a personal tour before—so why now? He took one last glance around the hangar, scanning the sprawling test rigs and half-built drones, before setting up a table and hastily organizing the project files. If there was ever a time to prove that the Dept. of Unusable Research wasn’t so unusable after all, it was now.
Magnus had known this from the start. He had given Halldor what amounted to a blank check, and Halldor had cashed it with abandon—over €100 billion spent and counting. The first priority had always been jets and drones, their weapon systems, their ability to survive an attack before delivering one of their own. After defense came power. The storage and distribution of raw, industrial energy. The problem of how to feed the beast they were building. Magnus had also been deeply interested in quantum computing, though his knowledge of Quantum Mechanics was extensive, practical Quantum computing was not one of his specialties. But energy? Energy was his element.
The first time he hesitated over a staggering budget request, he had asked for €2 billion to buy graphene. Magnus had approved it immediately—then told him to think bigger. Instead of sourcing materials, why not control the supply? Before Halldor could second-guess it, €20 billion had been funneled into securing a graphene production plant at scale. Halldor spent months sifting through patents from around the world, relying on his intuitive grasp of chemistry to refine the process. He devised a series of catalysts and reactions that could convert ordinary graphite—abundant and cheap—into high-purity graphene sheets at an industrial scale. It had been his most significant achievement to date. He had suggested selling some of the excess graphene to recoup the costs, but Magnus refused outright.
“Money will soon be as disposable as tissue paper,” St. Sere had warned in an email. “Don't waste time on it. Use it while it still means something.” Halldor never forgot that sentence. The economy was shifting, and they both knew it.
The hangar was never silent. It wasn’t just the hum of industry—it was voices, the chatter of engineers, chemists, programmers, and pilots, all working at an unrelenting pace. Halldor had long since tuned out the clamor, filtering the mechanical symphony into the background noise of progress. Above them, the aging acoustic tiles barely absorbed the clatter of tools, the whine of drills, the thud of hydraulic systems cycling through stress tests. His 65-person team moved with practiced efficiency, each member an indispensable cog in a machine of pure invention. He knew all their names, knew who to approach for what, who thrived under pressure, and who needed a push. He wondered, briefly, if the noise would bother Magnus. Then dismissed the thought—there was nothing he could do about it.
Somewhere near the data storage division, Ethan—the team’s chief coordinator—was trying to get his attention. Without looking up, Halldor flicked a three-finger gesture, signaling that he wasn’t to be disturbed.
The noise shifted near one of the secured access points. Halldor didn’t need to turn his head to know: Count St. Sere had arrived. Most men of his wealth and power would have swept in flanked by bodyguards, handlers, and assistants—a wall of flesh and influence. Magnus had brought only two. One was a small Asian girl, impossibly young—ten? Twelve? He was terrible at guessing ages—carrying an oversized binder that looked far too heavy for her frame, yet she bore it with unnerving ease, her gaze sweeping across the hangar as if committing every detail to memory. The other was a tall, thin man in his twenties, his head bent over a tablet, fingers flying across its surface as though transcribing every word from Magnus. And Magnus himself—shorter than Halldor by a full head yet somehow towering in presence—strode in wearing his customary pure white suit, a purposeful testament to his near-albinism.
They moved with precision, as if they belonged here more than anyone else. Even at a distance, the trio exuded an air of singular purpose—a precise instrument cutting through the clamor. Halldor couldn’t yet hear what Magnus was saying, but he could feel it: something was about to change.
The girl carried an oversized binder that seemed far too heavy for her frame, yet she bore it without apparent strain, calmly taking in every detail of the cavernous hangar. The tall man of unknown ethnicity, head bowed over a tablet, looked deeply absorbed, as though transcribing every word from Magnus—too far away for Halldor to hear but close enough to see the focus in their eyes. Even at a distance, the trio gave off an air of singular purpose, like a precise instrument cutting through the clamor.
To any outsider—among the roughly twenty men and women who dared to hover near, yet maintained a respectful distance—the meeting must have appeared peculiar. They had never met in person before, despite having exchanged hundreds of terse emails. Yet neither man was one to waste time or concern himself with social niceties. Their efficiency and disregard for convention only deepened the enigmatic aura surrounding them, as if their encounter were a prelude to something far more consequential.
Magnus began in his usual brisk manner, his version of small talk: a request for a briefing on exactly where the €163 billion had been spent. Halldor moved through the motions with practiced efficiency, his mind cataloging every expenditure as if it were a well-rehearsed dance. In their shared universe of near-perfect memory and towering intellects, nothing was incidental—a factory for solar glass production, a redesign of lifetime-lasting capacitors, and the construction of a fabrication plant for both building and storing them. These were all details they both knew intimately.
Magnus's satisfaction was palpable when he learned they were churning out two jets and six drones per year—a figure that, in Halldor's mind, served as both progress and a subtle tactic to keep the crowd at bay. The assembled team, already dwindling in number, had felt the weight of Magnus's icy gaze.
Seizing the moment, Halldor rose and scanned the room. The low hum of machinery and the tang of heated metal filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of tools and distant voices. "Remember our motto, team: 'Our most important asset is time. Do not waste it.'" His voice, firm and clear, cut through the ambient noise like a razor, and as he spoke, the fluorescent lights overhead glinted off scattered metal shards and oil stains. With that, the group dispersed in a flurry, each person hurrying back to their work, the unspoken promise of efficiency hanging in the air like electricity before a storm.
With the clamor forming an isolation as solid as any soundproofed room, Halldor turned his gaze to the Count. He could almost taste the tension mingled with the lingering smell of welding sparks. "Alright, Sir, why are you really here?"
"When we first discussed this project, we projected the collapse to occur somewhere between four and eight years out—we played it safe by assuming the worst case, four-year timeline. But now, it's looking like it's coming faster. Not only that, but the hyperinflation dominoes might take just a couple of months from the first inkling until the last currency falls. You're going to have to rearrange your teams to ensure our most critical projects are finished by the end of 2027," Magnus replied, his tone as crisp as the chill that sometimes swept through the hangar.
Halldor felt a familiar surge of determination. The smell of machine oil and the subtle, underlying tang of solder reminded him that every second mattered. "The biggest bottleneck is fabrication plants. So many patents to plunder, and it's already a herculean task to turn them into reality. After the collapse, it will be nearly impossible. I don't suppose you can purchase Taiwan?"
Magnus laughed, a deep, mirthless sound that seemed to reverberate off the concrete walls. "Even my wealth has limits. Maybe after the fall... I'll try to get some cronies in place, though."
A brief pause allowed the hum of generators and the distant rumble of cargo trucks outside to underscore the gravity of their discussion. "What about moving staff and production to Langeland?" Halldor inquired, his words barely audible over the clatter of activity.
Magnus shook his head slightly, his movement smooth as the cool draft that slid under the heavy metal doors. "It's a chicken-and-egg problem. I've got substantial inroads in the Folketing—enough that they know what's up and, at the very least, believe they can benefit from my convictions. They turned a blind eye while I secretly built an SMR in the heart of Langeland and paved the way for the rebuilding of a cargo harbor at Spodsbjerg. But I can't fully commit until the collapse happens; then I can leverage our military might as a bargaining chip to get them to grant me sub-sovereignty."
A trace of concern flickered through Halldor's inner thoughts as he caught a whiff of the salty air seeping in from the docks. "I just wanna make sure my people stay safe," he said, more to himself than to Magnus.
Magnus replied, "The plan is for all of Denmark to stay safe. The country has plenty of renewable energy sources, but like much of the world, it sadly lacks nuclear power. I figure they'll run on limited energy for a couple of weeks until you come in and save the day with your solar glass." His words carried the cool assurance of someone who had calculated every possibility.
Halldor raised an eyebrow, the taste of determination and a hint of ozone in the air spurring him on. "I wondered why we weren't shipping much of it to you, like we are with the graphene."
Magnus smirked, his eyes reflecting the glint of polished metal and the sterile gleam of the overhead lights. "A tanker a week with a shipping container of 15 tonnes of graphene goes nicely undetected and can be stored sealed amongst all the castle building materials."
For three hours, the two men conversed amidst the background drone of industrial activity, the clattering footsteps and murmurs of engineers providing a steady counterpoint. Not once did Magnus ask how Halldor planned to reallocate his efforts to meet the new timetable. Magnus had never been one to micromanage—he always found the right person for the job and trusted them to handle it—but he ensured he remained informed, both openly and surreptitiously. Halldor, meanwhile, felt the weight of every decision like the pervasive scent of machine oil that never quite left the air.
"Business aside—now, the reason I didn't do all this over email is that my spies say Helios is ready for a trial," Magnus said, his tone punctuated by the occasional clink of metal against concrete as workers moved equipment in the background.
The mention of spies might have unnerved some, but Halldor knew two things: he had nothing to hide, and he was truly irreplaceable. The sharp tang of heated metal mixed with his inner confidence as he continued.
"Technically, we've conducted several test firings. I can show you a single emitter, but if you'd given me a week's notice, I could have prepared a full demonstration of the entire 60-emitter assembly."
Magnus ignored the implied criticism, his eyes catching the flicker of fluorescent light as he leaned forward. "And the drone can power all 60 emitters at once?" His gaze sharpened, gleaming with a dangerous light that sent a shiver down Halldor's spine.
"As you know, the structural integrity of the drones is integral to the battery, forming the backbone of our future large-scale electrical solar storage capacity. The solar glass adds both strength and electrical input. Each emitter draws 1 kW per second. Two-thirds of the Jets' energy storage is reserved for the weapon systems. At full power, you can fire for about three minutes before the drone has to chase the sun for eight hours to recharge those batteries. I think I can boost that to five minutes in time for the next version—assuming this retrofit works as simulations indicate it should," Halldor explained, his voice steady against the backdrop of clattering tools and distant engine roars.
"And what's the conversion factor?" Magnus asked, the question hanging in the air like a wisp of smoke under the hangar's high beams.
"That's a funny story," Halldor replied, launching into an anecdote as he recalled the scent of ozone and heated metal from long hours in the lab. "We were having trouble cooling the damn thing, and Mark Tenner suggested using one of our earlier failures of solar glass to rechannel the heat back into energy. After some tinkering, we achieved a conversion rate of almost 97%—requiring an off period of only 0.04 seconds for cooling—but more importantly, near-total conversion to laser power. A kilowatt in is nearly a kilowatt out." His voice was tinged with a mix of pride and relief, as he remembered the breakthrough.
Magnus whistled softly, the sound lost amid the ambient clamor.
"With the AI targeting assembly, it's the perfect assassination machine," Halldor said matter-of-factly, his tone as cool as the draft that occasionally swept through the building.
"Some people would be bothered by creating that," Magnus added, leaving the question unspoken, his eyes briefly reflecting the overhead lights as if weighing unspoken doubts.
"It's going to be a tough world, and we have to protect our own," Halldor replied flatly, the certainty in his voice resonating with the steady pulse of the machinery around them.
Magnus slapped him on the back, the impact echoing in the metallic cavern. "Couldn't have said it better myself." Neither aide—quiet figures shadowing the scene—reacted, their silence as measured as the ticking of a well-oiled clock.
The conversation shifted as Halldor leaned forward, the scent of engine grease mingling with the cool air. "I assume that we can build a bigger or longer array on the jet?"
"If you wanna keep up the two-per-year schedule before the collapse I wouldn't attempt any modifications at this time. Almost all our efforts in that area are securing necessary materials production for post-collapse continuity," Halldor responded, his words slicing through the ambient noise with clinical precision.
Magnus paused, his gaze drifting momentarily as if tracing the lines of the hangar's vast ceiling. "That makes sense and I think we'll always have a drone escorting a jet anyway." The final words hung in the air, mingling with the smell of machine oil and the faint, ever-present buzz of progress, while Halldor's mind raced with the implications of every carefully chosen phrase.
And, not for the first time, his thoughts drifted back to the girl. Amid the subdued hum of activity, Halldor had watched her with quiet curiosity—observing how she seemed to absorb every detail without scribbling a word in that enormous binder, her face an unreadable mask even as her eyes moved restlessly, as if cataloging the scene.
"OK, I gotta ask—what's with the child? No offence, miss," he said, his tone mingling genuine curiosity with a hint of incredulity.
She said nothing, and Halldor, momentarily shaken from his reverie, turned his focus back to the person he had been addressing.
"Jingyi? Would you like to answer this question?" The Count smirked.
At that, the girl took two measured steps forward, her movement deliberate and steady. "First, I'm not a child—I am 12. I was in an accelerated educational system in China when I became aware of the same patterns you did, as well as that Shīfù St. Sere was making moves that only made sense if he too was aware. I contacted him." Her voice carried an emotionless, metronomic quality that Halldor recognized from his own early experiences among adults. She fell silent afterward, apparently satisfied with her concise explanation.
"I asked her if she wanted extraction," Magnus added, "and she told me she'd make her own way. She just wanted a promise that she'd have a spot near the top of the pyramid. It took her less than four months."
Unsure of which of them to address, he kept it general. "What's the field of specialty?"
"She's a polymath," came the reply. "She also picks up languages with impressive ease and speed and has an eidetic memory," Magnus' voice sounded surprisingly warm.
"But surely she has a favored field of interest?"
Jingyi spoke for herself. "I haven't felt like limiting myself yet."
Feeling unexpectedly bested, Halldor held out his hand. She took a step back.
Magnus explained, "She doesn't like to be touched." Then, with a gentle smile, he added, "Don't be shy, ma petite. Tell him how you got here—it's such a great story."
for one brief second her façade broke and she started to say something to Magnus then caught herself and bowed. Then she turned to Halldor. "The hardest part was learning to play the violin. It took nearly three months in an accelerated class to get the invite I wanted from the Zurich Conservatorship. Another month to get through the bureaucratic red tape and background checks and passport and visa and all that malarkey. Once in Zurich I merely got on the train to Esbjerg. From there I got a mix of transportation before landing in a wonderful B&B in Langeland. I then emailed the master that I had arrived." her voice was clipped but neither boastful nor sullen she merely imparted abbreviated fact.
Having spouted all that as one long syllable she finally took a moment to breathe and fell silent.