395: Chapter 395 The Space Arms Race

It was September in Washington, and the summer heat had yet to fade. The press conference hall of The Pentagon was packed with journalists from around the globe. Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin stood at the podium, behind him the blue flag of the "Space Force," its hexagonal logo glinting coldly under the lights. His expression was solemn, the bags under his eyes deeper than usual.

"The United States announces that the 'Space Force' budget will be doubled. We will urgently develop space-based laser weapons to protect America's space assets."

A sea of hands went up among the reporters. A journalist from The New York Times was called upon and stood up to ask, "Secretary Austin, is this targeted at Xingchen's 'Heaven's Wrath' system?"

Austin remained silent for three seconds, his lips tightly pursed as his gaze swept across the faces of the reporters. "The United States does not target any specific country. The United States protects its own interests." His voice was calm, but anyone could hear the anxiety beneath that composure.

That afternoon, in Moscow. In the press briefing room of the Kremlin, Russian Minister of Defense Sergei Shoigu stood on the stage, the Russian national flag and the Ministry of National Defense logo behind him. His voice was sonorous but carried a certain chill. "Russia announces the restart of its anti-satellite laser project. We will protect Russia's space sovereignty."

A reporter pressed, "Is this a response to the U.S. Space Force plan?"

Shoigu smiled, a smile with that characteristic Russian grit. "It is a response to everyone."

That afternoon, in Shenzhen. In the lobby of Xingchen Headquarters, reporters swarmed Su Chen, microphones and recording pens extending toward him like a forest. "President Su, the U.S. Space Force budget has doubled, and Russia is restarting its anti-satellite lasers. What is Xingchen's take on this?"

Su Chen stood in the center of the lobby, the silver logo of Xingchen behind him. He smiled, an effortless composure in his expression. "If they want to chase us, let them. Our lasers are only for defense." He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. "However, the 'Heaven's Wrath' system is already fully deployed. It is operational at any time."

That night, in Washington. Austin watched the recording of Su Chen's interview in his office; that young face on the screen reminded him of something. He picked up the phone and dialed the White House.

September 25th, Washington. In the press conference hall of the U.S. Department of the Navy, the atmosphere was as somber as a funeral. Chief of Naval Operations Michael Gilday stood at the podium, behind him the Navy Department seal—an intertwined pattern of an anchor and an eagle. His face was weary, his eyes sunken, and his voice raspy.

"The United States Navy announces the early retirement of two nuclear-powered aircraft carriers—the USS Harry S. Truman and the USS Bush."

The reporters below erupted in an uproar. The sound of shutters was as dense as a rainstorm. Gilday continued, his voice growing lower. "The Navy budget will shift toward unmanned vessels, space-based weapons, and distributed lethality systems."

A reporter from the Navy Times raised a hand, their voice somewhat sharp. "Admiral, does this mean the end of the aircraft carrier era?"

Gilday was silent for three seconds, his gaze falling on the Navy flag on the far wall. He remembered when he graduated from the Naval Academy thirty years ago; an aircraft carrier was the dream of every naval officer. Now, he was to end that dream with his own hands. "Naval warfare is changing," he said.

That morning, at the New York Stock Exchange. Before the opening bell had even finished ringing, Lockheed Martin's stock price began to dive—eight percent, ten percent, twelve percent. General Dynamics dropped ten percent, and Newport News Shipbuilding fell twenty percent. The CNBC anchor's voice trembled. "With news of the carrier retirements breaking, shipyard stocks are plummeting. The era of the aircraft carrier has truly ended."

That afternoon, Twitter's servers were nearly overwhelmed. "#CarrierRetirement" surged to the number one global trend. Comments from netizens poured in like a tide.

"Two nuclear-powered carriers retired early. It's not that there's no money; it's that they're useless now."

"Space-based lasers can sink a ship in five seconds. A carrier? Ten seconds."

"Future naval battles won't be carrier against carrier; they'll be satellite against satellite."

"The era of the aircraft carrier is truly over."

Late that night, at the Newport News Shipbuilding yard in Virginia. The lights were still on at the construction site of the last aircraft carrier. Workers packed their tools in small groups, some silent, others speaking in low voices. An old welder stood by the dock, watching the half-finished carrier as he finished an entire pack of cigarettes.

October 20th, Shenzhen. The Xingchen Brain Science Laboratory was located in a white building in the Nanshan District, with no sign at the entrance, only a small silver logo. Inside the lab, the white walls, white floors, and white lights made everything look as sterile as an operating room. In the central testing room, a young man sat in a wheelchair.

His name was Li Wei, thirty-two years old. A car accident three years ago had broken his cervical vertebrae, leaving him with high-level quadriplegia. He had no sensation from the shoulders down; he couldn't move, write, or speak. Only his eyes could move. For three years, he communicated by blinking—one blink for "yes," two for "no." His family learned this code, but outsiders did not. He was trapped inside his own body.

Shen Mubai, President of Xingchen Brain Science, stood beside him, wearing a white lab coat and gold-rimmed glasses. He leaned down and said softly, "Li Wei, are you ready?"

Li Wei blinked.

At 10:30 AM, the global live stream began. A virtual keyboard appeared on the large screen, with twenty-six letters arranged in three rows, topped by numbers and punctuation. Three hundred reporters watched with bated breath, the red lights of cameras flashing. Shen Mubai stood beside Li Wei and said to the camera, "Today, for the first time in human history, a paralyzed patient will type using their thoughts."

On the large screen, the cursor began to move. Li Wei's eyes did not move, his fingers did not move, and his lips did not move. But inside his brain, an implanted electrode array was reading his neural signals—if he wanted the cursor to go left, it went left; if he wanted it to go right, it went right. The AI system decoded his thoughts in real-time, converting neural signals into characters on the screen.

The cursor moved to the word "I" and stopped. The character "I" popped up on the screen. Someone in the audience gasped.

The cursor continued to move: "want." A stir began in the audience.

"to stand."

"up."

"."

On the screen, the five characters were fully displayed: "I want to stand up."

Li Wei's eyes reddened, and tears streamed down his cheeks. In the audience, some cried, some applauded, and some choked up in front of the cameras. Shen Mubai stood next to Li Wei, his voice trembling. "The 'Xinyu System' system's first test is a success. With implanted electrodes plus AI decoding, the accuracy is 99.5%. Typing speed is 120 characters per minute."

The large screen lit up with technical parameters:

"Xinyu System" Brain-Computer Interface (BCI) System

Technology: Implanted Electrodes + AI Neural Decoding

Typing Speed: 120 characters/minute

Accuracy: 99.5%

Applications: ALS, High-level Quadriplegia, Locked-in Syndrome

Initial Donation: 1,000 units to hospitals worldwide

At 11:00 AM, Shen Mubai asked Li Wei, "What else do you want to type?"

Li Wei looked at the screen. The cursor began to move: "Thank," "you," "Xing," "chen"—"Thank you, Xingchen."

Li Wei looked at the screen, and tears flowed again. The cursor moved once more: "I," "can," "speak," "again"—"I can speak again."

The entire room stood up, and the applause lasted for three minutes. Li Wei sat in his wheelchair, using his thoughts to look at the words he had typed on the screen. For three years, he finally had a voice once again.

That noon, Elon Musk posted on Twitter: "Neuralink is adjusting its technical roadmap. The future of brain-computer interfaces is not about implanting chips; it's about understanding thoughts."

The netizen comment section exploded instantly. "Translation: Xingchen did it, we haven't." "What Musk was thinking about, Xingchen has already accomplished." "Neuralink is still testing on mice, while Xingchen already has people typing." "Musk: We're going to Mars. Xingchen: We're already there."

That afternoon, global media headlines were all about "Thought Typing." CNN's headline was: "Thought Typing—Xingchen Gives Paralyzed Patients Their Voices Back." The BBC was more sensational: "120 characters per minute, 99.5% accuracy. The era of brain-computer interfaces has arrived." The Lancet's evaluation was the most restrained but carried the most weight: "This is a milestone in the history of neuroscience."

The Twitter trending topic "#ThoughtTyping" surged to number one globally. Netizen comments flooded in like a tide.

"'I want to stand up'—five words, and I'm in tears."

"'Thank you, Xingchen'—words typed by a paralyzed patient using their thoughts."

"'What Musk thought about, Xingchen has already done.' This sentence really hits home."

"ALS patients and quadriplegics can speak again. This is the true meaning of technology."

Su Chen stood by his office window, looking out over the waters of Shenzhen Bay. Lin Wan pushed the door open and entered. "One thousand 'Xinyu System' systems have begun to be donated to hospitals worldwide."

Su Chen nodded, his gaze not leaving the sea. "ALS, high-level quadriplegia, Locked-in Syndrome. These people have been trapped in their bodies for far too long. Now, they can speak."

He thought of the line Li Wei had typed—"I can speak again." Then he thought of the news he'd seen that morning—"Aircraft carriers retired early." The same world, the same day; destruction and creation happening simultaneously. Someone was ending an era, while someone else was beginning another.

Outside the window, the sun was setting, dyeing the surface of Shenzhen Bay a golden red. 36,000 kilometers away, the "Heaven's Wrath" satellite was flying silently in orbit. 380,000 kilometers away, astronauts at the "Guanghan Palace" base were using lunar soil bricks to expand the living modules. 55 million kilometers away, Zhurong-2 was searching for more water ice on the desolate plains of Mars.

And in this office facing the sea, Su Chen said softly, "This is the true meaning of technology. Not to sink aircraft carriers, but to let paralyzed people stand up."