Read Novel Full Chapter 651: A Little Interlude
Chapter 651: A Little Interlude
The dark silhouette of the Nova Technologies shuttle slid through the gray cloud layer over Mexico City with an eerie, total silence.
Below, the massive, sprawling urban footprint of the valley emerged, a dense grid of concrete and steel stretching toward the mountains under the morning sun.
At Benito Juárez International Airport, the standard rhythm of global transit had been completely derailed. Tarmac areas surrounding Terminal 2 were entirely cleared of commercial aircraft, cordoned off by heavy lines of federal police and military personnel in tactical gear.
The perimeter fencing was buried under an immense, sea-of-people crowd that had been gathering since the previous night. Millions more were watching live feeds on LucidNet, their pages refreshing so quickly that the platform’s localized servers were dynamically pulling maximum bandwidth to prevent a regional lag.
Inside the cabin of the descending shuttle, the silence was absolute. Diego sat near the thick viewing window, his large hands resting flat on his knees. He wasn’t looking at the city; he was looking at his legs.
They were solid, whole, and perfectly formed beneath his jeans. He was still getting used to seeing them and using them again. For ten years, his lower body had been an empty space of phantom pain and heavy, unbending steel braces.
Now, he could feel the very faint vibration of the ship’s stabilizing fields traveling up through the soles of his shoes, into his heels, and through his calves.
It was a simple sensory feedback, but to a man who had spent a decade feeling nothing but the dead weight of a wheelchair, it was a profound, grounding truth. And it would still take him months before he could fully get used to them.
Opposite him, nine-year-old Maya was practically vibrating with a restless, child-like energy. Her mother held her hand tightly, her knuckles white with an intensity that had nothing to do with fear of the landing.
Her focus was entirely locked on the world waiting outside the thick hull of the craft. Four months ago, when they had boarded the transport to the moon, Maya was in the final, brutal stages of Type 1 Spinal Muscular Atrophy.
Her body had been a prison of fading motor neurons; her spine was curved, her breathing was shallow, and her ability to swallow or speak had been reduced to agonizing, minute movements. She had been a fragile, dying child destined for an early grave.
When Nova Technologies had selected Maya as one of the hundred global volunteers, the global media had descended like vultures. Because Nova Technologies maintained a continuous, raw livestream of the clinical trials at Lunar Base Sanctuary, the public had demanded to see the little girl’s treatment.
They wanted to watch the medical nanites dismantle the genetic error in real-time. But Elena had flatly refused. She had refused to allow her daughter’s suffering, or the intimate, terrifying process of her reconstruction, to become a global spectacle for billions of bored internet users.
While other volunteers became household names on LucidNet through the public feeds, Maya’s medical bay had remained dark, her room marked only by her assigned volunteer number. The world knew a child with Spinal Muscular Atrophy was on the moon, but they had never seen her face.
They were about to see it now.
Seated in the rows slightly opposite the volunteers were the five international observers.
Among them were representatives from Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. They sat with their secured digital files tucked away, their expressions a mix of profound professional awe and intense nervousness.
They had watched the entire recovery process from inches away, and they knew the geopolitical storm that was waiting for all of them once they hit the ground.
The shuttle completed its vertical descent, touching down on the asphalt of the military sector of the tarmac with a soft, near-imperceptible click. The heavy fusion drives whirred down into a low, quiet idle.
Immediately, the holographic displays faded.
Two other synths walked to where the circular boarding platform was embedded and stepped onto it, and then it started descending. A few seconds later, the boarding platform ascended back up.
Diego stood up first. He didn’t think about the action; his body simply executed the command, his weight shifting smoothly onto his heels. He turned to help his mother stand up.
Maya was already out of her seat. The little girl bounced on the balls of her feet, her movements carrying a fluid, effortless agility. The international delegates stood up next, straightening their suits, their breathing turning shallow as they prepared to face the external press corps.
The circular boarding platform in the underbelly of the shuttle hissed softly as the mechanical seals engaged. Slowly, the platform lowered, descending through the hull until it rested flat against the concrete of the tarmac.
The morning air of Mexico City hit them instantly—warm, heavy, and thick with the familiar, metallic scent of aviation fuel and urban exhaust. But the physical environment was immediately swallowed by the sound.
The moment the platform cleared the hull, a deafening, roaring wall of noise slammed into them. It wasn’t just the shouting of the thousands of people packed against the distant fences; it was the frantic, overlapping shouting of hundreds of journalists, state officials, and medical personnel stationed fifty yards away behind a line of black federal SUVs.
"They’re coming down! Look at the platform!"
"Is that Diego? The one from Honduras? He’s walking!"
The blinding, strobing flash of long-lens digital cameras erupted in a continuous, frantic cacophony.
Diego stepped off the platform first, his shoes hitting the rough asphalt with a solid, definitive thud. Behind him walked the other two returning volunteers from this specific regional flight—an elderly man whose advanced Parkinson’s tremors had been completely erased, and a woman who had been cured of treatment-resistant Major Depressive Disorder following a traumatic car crash.
And then came Maya, holding tightly to her mother’s hand, followed closely by the five international delegates who walked in a defensive, orderly line.
The nine-year-old didn’t walk down with the cautious, measured steps the government doctors expected. She took her mother’s hand and practically leaped off the edge of the platform. She looked out at the massive wall of cameras, her bright eyes wide with curiosity rather than fear.
The crowd outside the airport gates went absolutely feral. The security barriers groaned as thousands of people surged forward, their arms raised high as they held up their own consumer devices, desperately trying to stream the live image back into the LucidNet main hub.
Within seconds, the commentary sections under the regional feeds were moving so quickly the text became a continuous, unreadable blur of ascending characters.
*SHE IS WALKING.*
*The girl with Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Type 1 is a death sentence. It destroys the spine before they turn two. Look at her! She’s literally jumping!*
*Diego is on his feet. No prosthetics. No braces. That’s real bone and muscle. Nova Technologies didn’t just fix them; they remade them.*
One of the two synths who had unboarded first walked ahead, with Diego, the other volunteers, and the delegates following behind it, while the second synth walked protectively behind them.
As they got close to the terminal entrance, the airport’s representatives and a selection of high-ranking government officials were already waiting.
The leading figure of the airport’s representatives immediately reached out his hand for a handshake with the leading synth, which the synth took cleanly.
"I want to be the first to say thank you and congratulations to Nova Technologies for this great achievement," he said, his tone entirely professional, though his eyes kept darting past the machine to look at Diego’s legs and the little girl skipping beside her mother.
"On behalf of Nova Technologies, we appreciate the reception," the synth replied.
Realistically, with thousands of eyes and live lenses trained on the military sector of the tarmac, the local authorities had no intention of causing a public scene.
There were no flashing weapons, no aggressive demands, and no forced detentions under the glare of a live global broadcast. Doing so would violate basic international protocols and create an immediate diplomatic crisis.
Instead, the head representative gestured politely toward the grand glass entrance of the private administrative wing. "For the security and comfort of our guests, we have arranged a direct path into the terminal away from the crowd. Standard entry processing, immigration, and health checks will be conducted in a private lounge."
This was naturally standard procedure as requested by Nova Technologies. But the representative has said it like the country was doing them a favour.
Diego fell into step behind the leading synth. The international delegates walked directly alongside the families, providing a layer of diplomatic presence that the local airport staff couldn’t easily bypass.
The group moved forward in a structured, quiet formation, crossing the threshold into the administrative wing as the heavy glass doors slid shut behind them, cutting the roaring wall of noise down to a muffled, distant vibration.
The interior of the VIP terminal was spacious, heavily guarded, and thick with an entirely different kind of tension. The open tarmac had been a public spectacle, but inside the building, the true geopolitical bottleneck became visible.
Stationed near the secure rear exits of the lounge were the official diplomatic attaches and consular staff from both Honduras and Guatemala, who had been waiting for hours to legally receive Diego and Maya.
But between the volunteers and the diplomatic exits stood a formidable wall of Mexican federal officials, senior health administrators, and state immigration directors.
Cabrera, a senior director from the Ministry of Health, stood at the center of the secure room. He held a leather-bound folio in his hands, his posture rigid as his eyes locked immediately onto Diego’s legs, then shifted to trace Maya’s fluid, balanced movements.
"Welcome to Mexico City," Director Cabrera spoke, his tone smooth, carrying the practiced polish of a seasoned bureaucrat as he stepped forward to intercept the group. "Under our standard national security and biological evaluation frameworks, we must require all incoming passengers from off-world flights to undergo a thorough medical clearance. We have a highly specialized team from the Ministry of Health waiting in the adjacent facility to ensure your biological integrity is verified before full entry is granted."
The Honduran delegate who had just stepped off the shuttle immediately moved forward, his expression tightening as he intercepted Cabrera. "Director Cabrera, I have personally overseen the medical finalization of Mr. Diego on the moon. His documentation is fully verified under the international observer protocol. My government expects him to be processed through standard customs without any administrative delays or state containment."
The Guatemalan delegate stepped up right beside him, gesturing toward Elena and Maya. "The same applies to our citizens. Their health parameters have been cleared by Nova Technologies’ core staff. Any additional medical processing must be conducted by their home nations, not on transit soil."
Cabrera’s jaw tightened slightly, his fingers pressing into the edge of his leather folio. He looked at the unyielding delegates, then at the silent Nova Technologies synths who stood like solid pillars behind the families, and finally at the consular staff who were already preparing their official diplomatic complaints.
The local authorities had wanted to use the cover of standard health regulations to isolate the miracle patients for study, but the presence of the international observers combined with Nova Technologies’ rigid protocol left them no opening.
With the ninety-day clock for LucidNet Finance actively ticking in the background of global markets, no senior director wanted to be the one responsible for triggering an institutional dispute that could destabilize their local economy.
"The health check will be restricted to a standard verbal declaration and a non-invasive biometric scan," Cabrera finally conceded, his voice tightly controlled as he stepped back, gesturing toward the immigration desks. "Please proceed to the clearing stations."
The tension in the VIP lounge began to dissolve into standard, rapid administrative movement. The two Mexican volunteers were processed first, their full family members waiting just beyond the security checkpoint to receive them with tears and quiet disbelief.
Diego stepped up to the counter next, his stride steady and completely natural as he presented his travel documents to the officer.
The immigration official stared at the paper, then looked down at Diego’s perfectly formed, muscular legs, his hands shaking slightly as he stamped the entry permit.
Maya and her mother followed immediately behind him, the nine-year-old girl standing on her tiptoes to watch the mechanical stamp descend onto her passport.
Within ten minutes, the bureaucratic hurdles were completely cleared. The two synths escorted Diego, Maya, and Elena across the final security boundary, delivering them directly to the waiting diplomatic vehicles and the private transport teams arranged by their respective countries.
As the secure transport vehicles pulled away from Terminal 2, navigating the heavily guarded perimeter road toward the city, Diego looked out the tinted window.
The massive, roaring crowds outside the airport fences were still packed tight, their screens illuminating the morning air as the news of their arrival flooded the global networks.
The world was trying to comprehend the physical reality of what they had just seen, but for Diego and the little girl sitting quietly in the seat beside him, the work was done. They had their lives back, and the future was officially beginning.