BITCOIN AI (ENG). ALEXANDR ABRAMSON
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empire. Its walls of concrete and rusted steel, patched with scavenged metal sheets, shuddered under the roar of hundreds of mining rigs working day and night. Inside, the hangar was a cave of technology: wires dangled from the ceiling like roots of a dead tree, fans growled, pushing hot air through makeshift pipes, and the floor was strewn with concrete crumbs and scraps of insulation. The air mixed the scent of molten metal with the sharp bite of ozone, while dim lamps, powered by generators, cast long shadows across the walls.
John Keller stood at the central terminal, his face bathed in the blue glow of the screen. His chestnut hair was tousled, his gray eyes sharp and feverish. On the display, "Crypto-Oracle"—the AI he’d built before the war—showed numbers that would steal the breath of any survivor: his wealth had soared past a billion Bitcoin cents. John wasn’t a billionaire in the old sense—no yachts or mansions, just warehouses, rigs, and the energy fueling his dream. He stared at the growth chart, its curve spiking upward like the faint pulse of a reviving world, and whispered to himself, “We did it. We’re alive.”
Nearby, Matt Keller tinkered with a generator straining at its limits. His calloused, oil-stained hands deftly wielded a wrench, checking cables that snaked to a wind turbine outside. His face betrayed the exhaustion of a man who’d endured too much. His patched jacket hung together with frayed thread, his boots worn to holes. He glanced at his brother, wiping his brow with a sleeve, and said in a voice hoarse from dust, “You’re a billionaire, John. And I’m still fixing this junk so we don’t freeze. Why do you need more?”
John turned, his smile thin but resolute. “It’s not about me, Matt. It’s about us. All of us. Oracle sees further than we do. It says the network can power cities, bring back light, water, life. We can rebuild Texas.”
Matt snorted, returning to the generator. “The more you talk to that thing, the crazier you sound. I’m losing you. It’s just code, brother. We’re just people trying not to die.”
“Maybe it’s alive,” John said softly, eyes on the screen. Oracle flashed a new forecast: "Network growth by 700% possible with optimization. Attack threat—85%." The numbers blinked like a warning, and a chill crept down John’s spine. His network—hundreds of rigs scattered across south Texas, from Austin to San Antonio—had become a beacon in the wastes. It mined Bitcoin, powered communities with energy and computation, but drew enemies like moths to a flame.
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