The mining equipment came in three containers.

  I’d seen them during inventory but hadn’t prioritized them. When you’re scrambling to recover supplies and establish basic survival infrastructure, rock-cutting tools feel like a luxury.

  Now they were essential.

  Container eighteen: laser-acoustic drilling system.

  Container nineteen: debris removal and grading equipment.

  Container twenty: reinforcement materials—structural supports, sealant compounds, atmospheric processors.

  I spent the morning hauling them to the western section of the bowl where RIKU had marked the excavation site.

  The rock wall looked solid. Unforgiving. The kind of stone that had been here for millennia and wasn’t interested in moving.

  “RIKU,” I said, standing in front of it with my hands on my hips. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Geological analysis confirms the wall is stable. Composition is predominantly basalt with minimal fracturing. Ideal for excavation and structural integrity.”

  “And the positioning?”

  “Forty meters to the cliff face. Sufficient clearance for future ocean access. Current excavation will create a climate-controlled hangar approximately fifteen meters deep, twenty meters wide, twelve meters high. Adequate for vehicle storage, equipment protection, and livestock shelter during extreme weather events.”

  I looked at the measurements she’d marked on my tablet display.

  A proper hangar.

  Not a temporary shelter. Not a survival hole.

  A permanent structure carved into the mountain itself.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

  The laser-acoustic drill was beautiful.

  Not in an artistic sense. In the way a well-engineered tool is beautiful—form following function with no wasted complexity.

  It stood on a tripod base, gyro-stabilized, with a business end that looked like a telescope mated with a industrial plasma cutter. The laser wasn’t visible when it fired—just a targeting beam that painted a red dot on the rock surface.

  But when it engaged, you heard it.

  A low hum that built into a focused pulse. Not loud. Not violent. Just… insistent.

  The acoustic component followed—ultrasonic waves that fractured the stone along the lines the laser had weakened.

  The rock didn’t explode. It crumbled.

  Neat. Controlled. Precise.

  I spent the first hour learning the controls. Angle. Depth. Pulse frequency. The drill had settings for different rock densities, different cutting patterns, different debris management strategies.

  RIKU walked me through it.

  “Begin with a perimeter cut,” she said. “Establish the opening dimensions before excavating depth. This prevents structural instability.”

  I positioned the drill and fired.

  The red targeting dot appeared on the rock. I traced the outline RIKU had marked—a rectangular opening, three meters wide, four meters high.

  The laser pulsed.

  The stone cracked.

  I moved to the debris removal equipment—a compact vacuum system with mechanical arms that scooped fractured rock into a collection bin.

  The bin filled fast.

  I hauled it to the edge of the bowl and dumped it. Returned. Repeated.

  By midday, I had the outline cut.

  A clean rectangular gap in the rock wall, maybe six inches deep.

  It didn’t look like much.

  But it was a start.

  The work settled into rhythm.

  Drill. Vacuum. Haul. Return.

  Drill. Vacuum. Haul. Return.

  Hours blurred together. My back ached. My shoulders burned. My hands cramped from operating controls that weren’t quite designed for human ergonomics.

  But the hole got deeper.

  One meter. Two meters. Three.

  By the end of day one, I’d excavated a space roughly three meters wide, four meters high, and five meters deep.

  A cave. A pocket. A beginning.

  I stood inside it, breathing hard, feeling the temperature drop as I moved away from the opening.

  The air was still. Cool. Protected.

  “RIKU,” I said quietly. “This might actually work.”

  “It will work. You are progressing ahead of schedule.”

  I smiled and walked back outside.

  The sun—or whatever passed for it here—was setting. The ocean had calmed. The wind had dropped to something almost gentle.

  I fed the animals. Ate a ration bar. Showered in the Anchorhold’s recycling system.

  Then I made tea.

  Not Valraion’s tea. That was too precious to waste on exhaustion.

  Standard-issue stuff from the supply containers. Functional. Caffeinated.

  But I used the crystal vessel anyway.

  Let it warm in my hands while I stared at the excavation site.

  Tomorrow, I’d go deeper.

  Day two was harder.

  Not because the work changed. Because my body was starting to protest.

  Construction work keeps you fit, but it doesn’t prepare you for eight hours of repetitive drilling and debris hauling while wearing an environmental suit in variable gravity and atmospheric pressure.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  My lower back locked up around hour three.

  I pushed through it.

  By midday, I’d extended the excavation to nine meters deep.

  By evening, twelve meters.

  The space was starting to feel real now. Big enough to walk into. Big enough to turn around in. Big enough to imagine parking the Windwalker inside and sealing the entrance against a storm.

  RIKU monitored my biometrics.

  “Taylor. Your cortisol levels are elevated. Your movement efficiency is declining. You need rest.”

  “I need progress.”

  “Exhaustion-induced errors will cost more time than rest prevents. Sleep.”

  I wanted to argue.

  Didn’t.

  She was right.

  I sealed the excavation entrance with a tarp—temporary, but it kept dust out—and climbed into the Anchorhold.

  Asleep in minutes.

  Day three, I hit rock that didn’t want to cooperate.

  Not harder rock. Just… different.

  The laser cut fine. But the acoustic pulse didn’t fracture it cleanly. Instead of crumbling into manageable chunks, it shattered into dust and shards that clogged the vacuum system.

  I spent two hours troubleshooting.

  Adjusted the pulse frequency. Slowed the cutting speed. Increased debris clearing cycles.

  It helped. Not enough.

  “RIKU,” I said, staring at the wall. “This is going to take longer than we thought.”

  “Acknowledged. I am recalculating timeline.”

  “How much longer?”

  “At current rate… eighteen days to complete excavation. An additional three days for reinforcement and sealing.”

  “Twenty-one days total.”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about the four-week timeline she’d given me.

  That left a week of buffer before the next storm.

  Tight.

  But workable.

  “All right,” I said. “Keep going.”

  Day four, I found the rhythm again.

  The rock cooperated. The equipment worked. My body adapted.

  By evening, the excavation was fifteen meters deep and I’d started cutting lateral expansion—widening the space, creating the twenty-meter width RIKU had specified.

  The hangar was taking shape.

  Not finished. Not close.

  But real.

  Day five, I installed the first structural supports.

  Titanium beams that mounted into pre-drilled anchor points. Cross-bracing to prevent collapse. Sealant compound to fill gaps and prevent water intrusion.

  It was satisfying work.

  Precise. Measured. The kind of construction I understood.

  By day six, I had the basic frame complete.

  By day seven, the excavation was twenty meters deep, eighteen meters wide, and starting to look less like a hole and more like a structure.

  I stood at the entrance, looking in, and felt something close to pride.

  “RIKU,” I said. “We’re going to make it.”

  “Timeline remains tight. But yes. Current progress suggests completion is achievable.”

  I walked back to the Anchorhold.

  Made tea.

  This time, Valraion’s.

  I’d earned it.

  Day eight started normal.

  I woke at dawn. Fed the animals. Ate breakfast. Suited up.

  Walked to the excavation site and fired up the drill.

  Cut for two hours. Made good progress. Extended depth to twenty-two meters.

  Then RIKU spoke.

  “Taylor. Stop.”

  I killed the drill.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to review updated weather data.”

  Something in her voice made my stomach tighten.

  I pulled up the tablet.

  The weather station readings scrolled across the screen. Barometric pressure. Wind speed. Temperature.

  And at the bottom, RIKU’s storm projection model.

  The timeline had changed.

  “RIKU,” I said slowly. “When you said four weeks—”

  “That projection was based on historical storm patterns from similar planetary classifications. I have now collected sufficient local data to refine the model.”

  “And?”

  “The storm system is forming faster than anticipated. Atmospheric conditions are accelerating development.”

  “How much faster?”

  A pause.

  “You have less than two days.”

  The drill slipped from my hands.

  “Two days?”

  “Forty-six hours. Possibly less.”

  I looked at the excavation.

  At the unfinished walls. The incomplete reinforcement. The open entrance that had no door, no seal, no protection.

  “RIKU. We’re not done.”

  “I am aware.”

  “We can’t fit everything inside. We can’t seal it. We can’t—”

  “Taylor.” Her voice cut through the panic. Calm. Steady. “We adapt.”

  I took a breath.

  Then another.

  “Okay. What do we prioritize?”

  “Depth is sufficient. Width is adequate. Focus on reinforcement and entrance sealing. The animals must be moved inside. The Windwalker must be secured. Critical supplies must be protected. Everything else is secondary.”

  “Two days.”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at the mountain. At the storm coming. At the work that remained.

  “Then we don’t sleep.”

  “Agreed.”

  I picked up the drill.

  And got back to work.