Chapter 1932 - Xu Laowu

"Old Xu." The familiar baritone carried a note of weary desperation. Senator Xu Yicheng, hunched over the Senate BBS trying to gauge the prevailing winds of opinion, already knew what was coming before the speaker finished. "Could I trouble you to watch the main hall again? The kindergarten just called—the child won't stop crying."

He looked up at the middle-aged face before him, a portrait of exhaustion and anxiety. Any inclination toward teasing evaporated instantly. They were old colleagues, after all, brothers-in-arms who'd weathered years together. Being reduced to the "Disgrace of the Senate" was punishment enough. Ever since the Second Plenary Session had authorized the General Office to intervene in Senators' domestic affairs "when necessary"—and under the Senators' pointed "strong suggestions"—the General Office had weaponized the implementation of the "Centralized Rearing System for Senators' Children." They'd effectively stripped Zhang Yunmi's father of his parental authority as Living Secretary, consigning both children to the nursery affiliated with the Academy.

This arrangement satisfied the Senators while condemning Zhang Yunmi's father to a peculiar bureaucratic hell. With Yunyu no longer managing the children, the nursery contacted the father for every trivial crisis. Old Zhang found himself drowning without tears, while Yunyu's complaints echoed through their household daily. Old Zhang frequently unburdened his domestic catastrophes to Xu Laowu, whose ears had developed calluses from the repetitive litanies of woe.

For such tangled messes—where household duties and emotions knotted together inextricably—Xu Yicheng, an outsider, possessed neither standing nor wisdom to intervene. He maintained an attitude of "understanding and sympathy," offering assistance where feasible, so naturally he didn't make things difficult this time either. After accepting Zhang Yunmi's father's profuse thanks, Senator Xu locked his computer desktop, pushed open his door, and stepped into the corridor.

He locked the door reflexively and traversed a hallway punctuated by the diamond-shaped transoms characteristic of local architecture. Crossing a modest courtyard, he arrived at the main hall.

From the exterior, the Senate Computing and Data Center resembled any truss-structured building common to the Bairen City Industrial Zone. The towering wrought-iron framework was infilled with locally fired red bricks, the outer walls devoid of ornamentation. At first glance it appeared indistinguishable from a large factory building that might have belonged to the former Manufacturing Commission.

Careful observation, however, revealed telling distinctions. On one side of the ground floor, steps ascended to a wide gate leading directly to the second level. The remaining three sides consisted almost entirely of solid red brick masonry—only a few narrow ventilation openings and two sentry-guarded passages interrupted the expanse. No windows. The second and third floors, by contrast, featured expansive glass windows gleaming with light. As evening approached, brilliant illumination shone from within—not the slightly flickering yellow glow of gas lamps, but the steady white radiance of electric lighting, still rare even in Lingao.

From an aerial perspective, one would observe rows of skylights arranged across the sawtooth-shaped roof for lighting and ventilation. Near the ridge, instead of the transmission shafts typical of factories, crisscrossing wire tracks created an impression of spider webs blanketing the hall—somewhat evocative of a modern art gallery from another timeline. Combined with its prominent mass, this building, completed barely six months ago and still undergoing expansion, frequently drew passersby to pause and stare. Indeed, many years hence, this so-called "Sino-New" style—which harmonized modern architectural functional structure with plain brick walls and traditional proportions, contours, and details—would become emblematic of early Austral-Song architecture.

Though this was an internal passage and the guards recognized him, entering the hall still required presenting credentials. The Data and Computing Center served as the Senate's "black technology" nucleus, harboring too many secrets and housing equipment too valuable to leave unprotected. A system of passes with varying colors and validity periods governed access, with each pass color restricting the holder's permitted locations and permissible activities.

Even Senators faced restrictions within the Data Center. The system applied universally.

Xu Laowu held the Data Center's highest-level pass. Only a handful existed, all possessed by Senators working within the facility.

"Good day, Chief!" The guard beyond the door opened the entrance to the main hall. As Senator Xu crossed the threshold, warm air redolent with ink, paper, faint cosmetics, and human presence enveloped him. Simultaneously, the staccato clicking of abacuses, the swishing of clips sliding along wires, and the low thrum of ventilation fans assailed his ears. Combined with the brilliant electric illumination, Senator Xu often experienced the disorienting sensation of returning to an old-fashioned accounting firm from his original timeline.

Proceeding a short distance, he reached the arcade at the third floor's midpoint. Against the backdrop of the enormous Star Fist National Emblem and Morning Star Flag adorning the opposite wall, one could discern clearly the two radial patterns formed by the iron wire web network.

One terminus connected to a service counter reminiscent of the Delong Bank lobby. Messengers and clerks in grey naturalized citizen uniforms continuously ascended the stairs before the entrance, delivering sheaves of documents to the counter. Female clerks behind it, also grey-uniformed, checked and organized materials before issuing receipts listing type and page count, stamping them, and returning them to the submitters. After labeling the materials, they placed them in overhead folders and, with a gentle push, sent them flying toward designated zones in the rear hall. With a satisfying whoosh, folders glided toward high platforms labeled for specific "Reporting Groups," where they were swiftly retrieved. Surrounding each platform stood rows of Ikea-style wooden desks and chairs. Retrieved materials were distributed by group leaders to desk-bound clerks for calculation, verification, and summarization into standardized data tables. Following typically a burst of dense abacus percussion, original materials were consigned to small carts awaiting warehouse storage on the first floor, while summarized data tables were inserted into fresh folders and sent flying once more along the web-like tracks toward a counter at the hall's rear. After verifying count and quality, female clerks at this counter continuously passed through a door, delivering data tables into a glass-partitioned sanctum behind them.

Senator Xu knew what resided within those walls: the absolute divine artifacts of this timeline—dozens of computer terminals for input and the servers powering them. Thanks to these sacred relics, this was one of precious few rooms in Lingao—indeed, in this entire timeline—to possess a ground-source heat pump air conditioning system. Even the intake air underwent multi-stage filtration to minimize dust and contaminants entering the chamber.

Those laboring inside were female trainees he'd cultivated personally. Recalling their initial appearance for training still made Senator Xu want to tear his hair out. Training a cohort of illiterate ancient women who didn't speak Mandarin to operate computers ranked among the most arduous accomplishments of his existence—this timeline and the previous combined. Many times, Senator Xu had entertained fantasies of thrashing several of them with a rattan cane. For a period, the Computing Center became the third-largest consumer of standard rattan canes manufactured by the Wood Processing Factory.

Yet after exhausting Xu Laowu physically and mentally, reducing trainee girls to tears begging for their parents, and driving Feng Nuo pale from round-the-clock computer repairs and system installations for months on end, traditional Chinese diligence and eagerness to learn seemingly activated. After eliminating approximately two-thirds of trainees, Xu Yicheng successfully cultivated the inaugural cohort of operators capable of essentially independent function.

This group could execute general data entry tasks with remarkable proficiency. With them mentoring subsequent recruits, the process finally simplified somewhat. But Senator Xu soon discovered these girls clutching objects against their chests and murmuring incantations before assuming their stations. One day, unable to suppress his curiosity, Senator Xu semi-forcibly extracted one such item from a girl's bodice—a small wooden pendant painted with a fox head. Investigation revealed the cause: the Senator who initially developed the data entry interface, seeking expediency, had used FoxPro's fox head as the splash screen. Thereafter, the legend that Fox Immortals inhabited these mystical shells proliferated throughout the Senate Planning Agency's Data Center.

Events proved these immortals' power immense—thoroughly demonstrated during the previous Engine Operation. Population statistical analysis and material loss assessments that historically consumed years or even decades were completed within weeks with these divine artifacts' assistance. Not only could relevant department leaders consult them real-time on their computers, but even the Senate's "soy sauce" backbenchers could access remarkably detailed and specific data via the BBS. Though judging from sparse replies and anemic click counts, most such data held minimal significance for these Senators. Yet among the Executive Committee and relevant bureau personnel, the Data and Computing Center had irrefutably established its reputation. This presumably explained why this building secured construction funding at such high caliber.

However, Senator Xu understood these formidable divine artifacts would inevitably fail someday. Feng Nuo reminded him daily. Beneath the glamorous façade lurked trembling maintenance anxiety. Xu Laowu never visited the server room—partly because he didn't truly comprehend the internal technology, partly to minimize disturbance. In that tranquil, fully enclosed constant-temperature-and-humidity sanctum, fewer visitors meant better conditions.

This consideration had been thoroughly integrated into the building's design. Before long, input data tables would no longer be archived as currently practiced, but transferred to the adjacent hall currently under construction. There, a cohort of clerks would attempt manual data aggregation and decomposition, conducting statistics directly by hand or via the planned future mechanical computers, submitting final reports while synchronously updating several massive data tables occupying entire walls and corresponding large demonstration sand tables.

This methodology had previously seen deployment in the Planning Agency, Ministry of Finance, and Ministry of Civil Affairs. Now the Planning Agency resolved to promote it comprehensively, introducing it to the Computing Center for larger-scale operation—gradually filling gaps and replacing the constantly degrading computer systems. Feng Nuo's tireless advocacy for the electromechanical computer system in previous phases stemmed precisely from recognizing this inevitable trajectory.

(End of Chapter)