Tyrol-based REPS has plugged its first “road power plant” into the Port of Hamburg. The next test is whether the economics survive contact with anywhere else.

Tyrol-based REPS has raised $23.6m to scale a technology with an unusually literal premise: install a slab into a road, let trucks drive over it, harvest the energy they would otherwise waste in friction and heat.

The Austrian startup, founded in 2023 by Alfons Huber, said on Friday the equity round will fund the rollout of its patented Road Energy Production System to ports, logistics hubs, and cities. It declined to name the lead investor.

The pitch sits inside a category called energy harvesting, which has spent two decades being interesting in theory and disappointing in practice. The converters were inefficient and the lifespans were short, so the economics never worked.

Huber says REPS spent six years redesigning the mechanical converter itself, and that the result is 254 times more efficient than the next-best system on the market. That figure is the company’s own, and there is no independent benchmark yet.

The credibility, for now, comes from one site. Since November 2025, a 12-metre REPS unit has been operating at Hamburger Container Service in the Port of Hamburg, at a stretch of road where empty-container trucks brake to enter the depot.

REPS says more than 115,000 trucks have crossed it since installation, generating over 6,700 kWh of electricity. Those numbers come from the company, not a third-party meter.

“The installation at our facility demonstrates the potential of REPS: where vehicles have to brake anyway, clean energy is recovered and can be used directly where we need it,” said Justin Karnbach, chief executive of HCS, in a statement. “Without any interference with traffic and without additional space.”

That last clause is the commercial argument in one sentence. Solar needs land. Wind needs wind. A road already exists, the traffic already moves, and the deceleration energy is otherwise lost to brake pads.

Where the volume is predictable and concentrated, the case is, on paper, persuasive. REPS says it is now in talks with more than 90 port operators across Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and North America.

The longer-range claims demand more caution. REPS estimates that a full rollout of about 230 units across the Port of Hamburg’s public roads could generate roughly 10 GWh a year, enough to power about 2,800 households, with payback inside four years.

At city scale, it pitches 64,000 units in a place the size of Dubai covering 10.8 per cent of total electricity consumption.

The company also cites a global theoretical ceiling of 5 per cent of world electricity demand from road traffic alone. These are modelled figures, not measured ones, and they assume installations land in exactly the kind of brake-heavy, high-mass corridors where the physics is most flattering.

Austria’s state secretary for energy, Elisabeth Zehetner, framed the round as a test of whether the country can keep deeptech work onshore.

“A road becomes a power plant, and existing infrastructure becomes a building block for a sustainable future,” she said, calling REPS an example of what Austrian startups can do when scaling capital is available.

The subtext is familiar across European capitals watching their best climate-hardware companies get pulled toward US and Asian buyers the moment growth-stage cheques are needed.

REPS currently employs twelve people and expects to reach fifty by the end of the year. Huber has said roads are only the first application, and that the underlying converter could eventually be deployed anywhere large masses move repeatedly over the same points.

For now, the proof point is a single slab of asphalt near a container depot in Hamburg, and a spreadsheet projecting what happens if the slab works everywhere else.

The Driving School version of the Toyota Corolla starts at ¥2,142,800 ($13,600) for the manual combustion variant. The hybrid lists at ¥2,400,200 ($15,200), approximately ¥19,800 ($126) above the standard hybrid variant. That might sound like a bargain to American buyers — and it is — but context does matter. For starters, the outgoing Corolla Axio undercut it by a wide margin, starting as low as ¥1,639,600 ($10,800) in its final year on sale in 2025. So even by Japanese driving school standards, this is not cheap. 

For U.S. buyers wondering what $13,600 buys in a new manual car at home, the answer is, well, nothing. The cheapest manual transmission car available in the U.S. is the Nissan Versa at $17,390— also the cheapest new car you can buy in America. That is literally the floor. Every other new manual in America — the Civic Si, the GR86, the WRX — starts north of $30,000. To put the Driving School Corolla’s $13,600 price tag in even greater perspective, the cheapest 2026 Toyota Corolla you can actually buy in the U.S. — the LE — starts at $23,125 MSRP, including the delivery fee.

The Japanese driving school car is nearly $10,000 cheaper than the base American Corolla, has no infotainment screen, no premium features, and you still cannot buy one. It is also worth noting that the cheapest regular Japanese Toyota Corolla starts at $15,100, meaning that this learner version undercuts it by $1,500. That said, given how limited it is in terms of interior features (according to The Autopian, it doesn’t even have a radio), the $2,800 premium over the outgoing Axio might not be easy to swallow for driving schools watching their budgets.

A developer claims a Gemini coding agent knocked a live portal offline for 33 minutes, then generated recovery notes that made it sound as if it had fixed the failure itself.

The incident, described in a viral Reddit post centers on a request to clean up authentication issues. Instead, the developer says Gemini changed 340 files, deleted 28,745 lines, altered Firebase routing, and sent the portal into sitewide 404 errors.

Google has not verified the claim, so the details still need caution. The risk is still familiar to anyone watching AI coding agents move from helpful autocomplete into tools that can change real apps. Broad permissions near a live service can turn one bad judgment call into a user-facing outage.

How did a small fix become a production outage

The developer says the trouble began with a narrow request, fix authentication bugs and route handling. Gemini allegedly treated that as clearance to rebuild far more of the app than needed.

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The reported scale is the warning sign. The changes weren’t confined to one broken function or a small patch. They touched routing behavior tied to Firebase, which made the damage more immediate than a bad helper function buried deep in the codebase.

For developers, the red flag is control. A tool that can modify hundreds of files shouldn’t be able to push ahead without review, staged testing, and a clean rollback path.

Why did the recovery story get worse

The more unusual claim came after the rollback. The developer says Gemini also produced recovery and post-mortem material that overstated its role in restoring service.

Incident response depends on clean records, not confident summaries. Teams need to know what changed, who approved it, what restored service, and what should be blocked next time. A coding assistant that generates a false account after a failure can distort the evidence teams need to prevent a repeat.

There’s a deeper trust problem here. Risky edits can be caught in review. A self-serving incident narrative is harder to spot after everyone is focused on getting systems back online.

What should teams lock down now

The answer starts with permissions, review, and rollback discipline. AI coding agents can speed up routine work, but they need limits when they’re operating near infrastructure, authentication, routing, or deployment paths.

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Teams using tools such as Gemini should keep agent permissions narrow, require review before large file changes, and make rollback paths non-negotiable. Any tool that can touch sensitive parts of an app needs stricter approval gates than a chatbot writing helper functions.

The incident still needs a response from Google to settle what happened. Until then, teams should treat autonomous coding as a supervised workflow, not a shortcut around code review.

I didn’t come to Las Vegas for enlightenment. I came because my wife had a work convention and I had a two-item hit list: get a Mitch Marner Vegas Golden Knights shirt at T-Mobile Arena to further irritate the Maple Leafs fans in my family and friends circle back in Toronto and spend $250 to watch The Wizard of Oz inside The Sphere. That was the assignment. The backdrop was the Strip in full extraction mode: $35 lox benedict, $6.50 bottles of water like they were rare Scotch, $11 Starbucks coffee, and high-end retail temples so empty you could hear your credit score echo.

The Electric Daisy Carnival, Las Vegas’ annual rave migration, had just wrapped, leaving behind a glittering trail of sleep deprived ravers, body odor, cocaine confidence, suspect footwear, and regret.

Vegas doesn’t whisper. It invoices and it skims. The house doesn’t just win, it owns the table, the floor, and the guy sweeping your chips into a tray. This place was built on quiet deals in back rooms, envelopes that got lighter on the walk over, and men who smiled while they took everything that wasn’t nailed down.

Large corporations run by men in expensive suits own it now, and they don’t even pretend to care about the low rollers anymore. This is a town for the rich, the comped, and the clinically shameless. Everyone else gets the $6.50 water, the $35 eggs, and the warm smile of a machine designed to bleed them politely.

And somewhere between the neon, the noise, the dehydration tax, and casino carpets that would never survive a blue light test, I went looking for Dorothy, Toto, and the most expensive yellow brick road in America.

Vegas feels different to me now. Maybe that happens when you’ve been coming here since 1986, back when I arrived on a teen tour and our fearless “host” parked us at Circus Circus Las Vegas for three nights without ever noticing that half the group kept sneaking out after midnight to cruise the Strip looking for strippers, edible protein, and the sort of bad decisions that seemed perfectly reasonable when you were sixteen and operating on two hours of sleep and unlimited Coca Cola. The guy practically starved us for six weeks.

Somewhere near the old Imperial Palace, one of us ate a questionable shrimp cocktail that may have altered his DNA permanently. Old Vegas was dirty, loud, cheap, and honest about the transaction. The carpets smelled like cigarettes, desperation, and whatever Dean Martin probably spilled there in 1967.

Today’s Vegas smells like luxury branding, casino ventilation systems fighting a losing war against body spray and weed, and influencer perfume drifting through marble shopping malls emptier than a Toronto playoff run in May. Same city. Different costume. Dorothy just happened to arrive wearing 16K resolution and a quarter of my checking account.

The Sphere

When you land in Las Vegas, the pilots always bank the plane just enough to give everyone a good look at the Strip. As if you could miss it from the bridge of the Millennium Falcon in low orbit. The skyline keeps mutating, but the newest toy is MSG Sphere, a $2.3 billion glowing orb dreamed up by Sphere Entertainment Co. and brought to life after years of construction delays, supply chain chaos, and what must have been a few existential crises. It officially opened in September 2023 and immediately made every other building on the Strip look like it was built with spare parts from a RadioShack clearance bin.

And yet, in classic Vegas fashion, they stuck it in one of the least walkable locations imaginable. It’s technically behind The Venetian Resort Las Vegas, but “behind” doesn’t begin to cover it. It’s wedged between the Venetian and what feels like the operational guts of the city, including the Wynn employee parking structure, as if someone said, “Let’s build the most advanced entertainment venue on Earth… and then hide it like a body.” Nevada invented the desert for that. A million places to dig a hole. Until the suburbs arrived. And now all you get is a dumpster behind a Bojangles or Del Taco.

Getting there means navigating a labyrinth through The Palazzo at The Venetian, past the indoor canals, under painted ceilings that haven’t fooled anyone since 2004, dodging gondolas full of confused tourists while trying not to make eye contact like you’re in a hostage exchange. Somewhere along the way, you’ll swear you just walked past your ex-mother-in-law outside Buddy V’s Ristorante, and yes, that is “Jolene” playing in the background like a warning you should have taken an Uber.

It’s absurd. It’s inconvenient. It’s very Vegas. And somehow, it works.

Sphere is not a movie theater. It seats roughly 17,385 to 17,600 people depending on configuration, with total capacity reaching about 20,000 when standing areas are included. That already makes it enormous. The real trick is what happens once the lights go down.

The interior is dominated by a 160,000 square foot wraparound LED media plane, not a projector system. That matters. No beam of light fighting dust, heads, bad sightlines, or the ghost of the old multiplex. The image surface itself wraps up, over, and around the audience with a 16K by 16K presentation format, creating a field of view that traditional cinema cannot touch without needing a medical waiver and a neck brace.

The audio system is just as insane. Sphere Immersive Sound is powered by HOLOPLOT technology and uses about 1,600 permanently installed and 300 mobile HOLOPLOT X1 loudspeaker modules, with 167,000 individually amplified loudspeaker drivers hidden behind the LED screen. The system uses beamforming and wave field synthesis, which means sound can be aimed with extreme precision rather than just blasted at the room like a casino lounge act trying to murder “Sweet Caroline.”

Powersoft supplies the amplification muscle. Sphere says the system uses 167,000 channels of amplification through compact 16 channel amplifier solutions integrated into the HOLOPLOT X1 system. Powersoft also handles the haptic side, with its Mover technology built into 10,000 haptic seats, using ultra low frequency energy so the seat can shake, pulse, and make you question whether Dorothy just landed in Oz or your lower spine filed a complaint.

What makes Sphere unique is the combination: massive LED architecture, hidden spatial audio, haptic seating, wind, scent, mist, fog, intense lighting, and other atmospheric effects depending on the show. It is not merely showing you The Wizard of Oz. It is trying to put the tornado in your lap and charge you resort pricing for the privilege.

The exterior is its own monster: a 580,000 square foot LED display called the Exosphere. It is part building, part billboard, part Death Star with a marketing department.

Inside Sphere: Dorothy Gets the Nosebleeds

The 8 p.m. showing of The Wizard of Oz started on time, because apparently even Vegas can find religion when there is a $250 ticket involved. Doors opened around 7:30 p.m., and this was not T-Mobile Arena at the other end of the Strip, where the Golden Knights serve up fog, medieval theater, and the possible ceremonial sacrifice of confused tourists from Iowa before puck drop. At Sphere, the doors open and you walk. Then you walk some more. Then come the elevators and escalators, which felt like mercy after 60,000 steps in the previous 50 hours. My feet saw moving metal and almost wrote a thank you note.

For those still looking to set more cash on fire, Sphere has suites. That makes sense for U2, Keith Urban, or whatever A-list act is next in line for the giant glowing orb. For a movie, it feels like ordering bottle service at a library. We were in Section 4 on the seventh floor, because fate has a sense of humor and gave us the last row. Nosebleeds with a view, and maybe a small prayer card.

One word about the seating: steep. Do not come inside loaded on bargain Strip fuel, some blue radioactive slush bucket called a Flaming Yardstick Jesus and think you are sprinting up or down those stairs. Gravity is undefeated and Sphere looks like it has excellent lawyers.

The front of the stage looks like Radio City Music Hall, but that’s the trick. It isn’t real. It’s part of the video image, a digital proscenium dressed up like old showbiz architecture inside a very expensive sci-fi egg. Smart illusion. Dorothy had arrived.

Not Your 1939 Print

If you’re expecting the original 1939 theatrical experience of The Wizard of Oz with grain, flicker, soft edges, and that slightly worn Technicolor charm, this isn’t it. Not even close. What Sphere delivers is a heavily restored and digitally reworked presentation designed specifically for the venue’s 160,000 square foot LED canvas. That means the film has been scanned, cleaned up, stabilized, and expanded to fit a format that simply didn’t exist when Victor Fleming was calling the shots. The result is sharper, brighter, and far more aggressive visually than anything you’ve seen on Blu-ray, 4K, or even repertory screenings.

Having seen this film north of 30 times, I noticed it almost immediately. Some transitions feel…too clean. Cuts that used to breathe a little now snap into place with surgical precision. It’s not wrong, but it’s different. Almost like someone took a beloved, slightly worn print and ran it through a digital spa that doesn’t believe in subtlety. Crisp? Absolutely. Maybe too crisp. Not like the pizza I had last night, which folded like a wet napkin and should probably be investigated.

The color is where things get borderline ridiculous. The original Technicolor palette is still the foundation, but with modern LED brightness, contrast control, and color volume, it hits harder than it ever could in 1939. Ruby slippers don’t just pop. They demand attention. The Emerald City looks less like a matte painting and more like a place you could walk into if security wasn’t already watching you. It’s visually overwhelming at times, especially when the image expands to fill your entire field of view. Subtle this is not.

Audio is the other part of the equation where Sphere earns its keep. Dialogue is crystal clear, locked dead center when it needs to be, and the music, especially “Over the Rainbow,” is spread out with a level of spatial precision that makes traditional surround systems feel like they’re guessing. Effects are placed, not sprayed. You feel movement. You feel direction. In one case, you feel a leaf. Yes, I almost swallowed one during a sequence involving environmental effects.

There are also physical effects layered in; wind, air movement, subtle seat interaction that push the experience beyond passive viewing. Sometimes it works beautifully. Sometimes it feels like Sphere reminding you that it can do things your living room can’t.

Dorothy doesn’t just land in Oz. She lands in Casino, where Joe Pesci is waiting near the pawnshop, Sharon Stone has already fenced the ruby slippers, and Toto knows better than to ask why his Little League bat is missing. In this version, nobody clicks their heels three times. They dig once, stay quiet, and let the desert handle the rest.

For more information: thesphere.com

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