The next sixty days saw humanity undergo the most complete reorganization in its history. Borders dissolved. Armies were reclassified as engineering corps. Factories shifted from producing consumer goods to forging components for the lunar repair mission.
The core beings provided blueprints for a crystal-growth device that could mend the filter—but there was a catch: the device had to be activated inside the Moon. It needed to be at the bottom of a massive crater on the far side, directly above the fractured crystal core.
"We need to transport 30,000 tons of materials to the Moon and build this in thirty days," the chief aerospace engineer said, pointing to the holographic blueprint—a complex web of crystalline structures and energy conduits.
"That's ten times our current capacity."
The core beings offered a solution: they could manipulate Earth's magnetic field to create a "matter stream tube" to the Moon. It was similar to a space elevator, but without a physical structure—using magnetic forces to funnel materials into orbit.
The cost, however, was staggering.
Maintaining the channel would require three times the total power output of Earth's global grid. It would disrupt the magnetic field, knocking out communications and navigation systems worldwide.
Aurorae would dance over the equator; satellites would fall from the sky; electrical grids would collapse in unprotected regions. It would be chaos—but it was the only way.
"Do it," the UN Secretary-General said, his voice firm. "We have no choice."
In the first week, 80% of Earth's electricity was diverted to thirty-seven massive transmission stations scattered across the globe.
From space, the planet glowed with blue light spots. Each extended upward like luminous threads, converging into a river of light near lunar orbit.
Li Zhe watched from the mission control center in Beijing, his eyes fixed on the hologram—Earth and Moon connected by a bridge of light, a lifeline forged from magnetism and hope.
By the second week, the first construction materials hurtled along the stream at 100 kilometers per second, leaving trails of blue fire in their wake.
The core beings established three control nodes on Earth, their bodies merging with the magnetic field. Blue arcs of electricity rippled across their stone skin as they guided the stream.
One wrong move, and the entire channel would collapse—taking thousands of tons of materials with it.
The third week brought the lunar base's rapid construction. Fifty thousand volunteers worked in shifts, twenty-four hours a day, wearing force-field suits provided by the core beings.
They weren't clothing, but a shimmering barrier that protected them from the Moon's vacuum and extreme temperatures. In low gravity, they lifted steel beams as if they were feathers, assembled crystalline components with precision, and calibrated the growth device.
Li Zhe, now stationed at the lunar command center, stared out the observation window at Earth—small, blue, fragile—hanging in the black velvet of space. The light stream connecting the two worlds looked like an umbilical cord, binding humanity's fate to the Moon.
"Progress: 73%," the system announced. "Estimated completion four days ahead of schedule."
Li Zhe allowed himself a small smile. Maybe they could do this. Maybe they could repair the filter before the fleets arrived.
But the smile faded as the alarm blared—sharp, urgent, shattering the moment of hope.