A cry rings out, like a green sprout breaking through the soil, like a door pushed open, like someone who has journeyed from somewhere impossibly far away, at last reaching the destination.
The room glows with buttery warmth. As the nurse lays her beside her mother's pillow, the first soft rain of summer begins to fall outside the window.
Her mother turns her head, strands of sweat-damp hair clinging to her temples, her breath still laced with the exhaustion of labor. Yet she forces her eyes wide, drinking in this tiny new life—the crumpled face, the moving hands, the delicate tuft of wet newborn hair.
She reaches out, grazing the baby's cheek with her fingertip, her voice so hushed it seems she fears waking something sacred.
Lucia...
She speaks the name twice, as though to anchor it in the world, as though to make a wish.
Though her eyelids are so heavy she can scarcely lift them, though her voice is so frayed it barely carries, she still bows her head and brushes her lips against that tiny forehead, whispering, so gently, so very gently—
As if confiding to the child in her arms, as if confiding to the world itself.
I hope... you live a life filled with happiness, Lucia.
Outside, rain murmurs against the window. Lucia stirs in her arms but does not open her eyes.
Lucia is born.
Into a world distant and strange... or perhaps not so strange after all—
Once again, she becomes her mother's child.
Bit by bit, time slips past. The day her mother fills the last page of the first baby diary, Lucia learns to speak her name.
The journal notes that her father was so jealous that day, he couldn't bring himself to eat dinner.
Later, Lucia learns to run. From the edge of the bed to the door, from the door to the yard, from the yard to the little lane her father walks down when he comes home from work. She runs faster and faster, so fast she can no longer stop herself, barreling straight into his arms.
Her father catches her, laughing as he lifts her into the air. Sunlight catches the police badge on his uniform, gleaming bright.
Lately, Lucia seems to drift into long, wandering dreams. When she wakes, she remembers nothing. Only a strange heat remains in her palms, as though she has just let go of something she'd been holding for a very long time.
She cannot recall what the dreams are about. All that lingers is a feeling she cannot name, a sense that something is yet to be finished.
Three years later, her mother finally comes home from the hospital. Lucia's father lifts her to the bedside, and there she sees a tiny life, even more fragile and new than herself.
Look, she's your little sister.
Her father's voice is soft, brimming with undisguised joy.
Mm... Little sister?
Her name is Luna. That means, from today, you're a big sister, Lucia.
You'll play together, eat together, sleep side by side... You'll teach her how to talk, how to walk...
No matter what, you have to be good to each other, alright?
Okay! I will!
Lucia nods happily. She doesn't fully grasp the words, but the knowledge that a new playmate has arrived at home is enough to bring a smile spilling across her face.
The following winter, when the first snow begins to fall, Luna is still deep in her afternoon nap.
Lucia leans on the windowsill, gazing out at a world turned white—the very shade of her own hair, and her sister's too. The snow falls heavier, deeper, until it finally blankets the trees in the yard.
Mommy! Look, look! Snow!
Her mother is in the kitchen, her hands still wet, when Lucia tugs her by the arm and pulls her over to the window.
Oh, so much snow... Isn't it beautiful? Do you like it?
She stoops low with a gentle smile, her own eyes sparkling with a wonder that mirrors her daughter's.
I love it! It's so pretty!
Then when Luna wakes up, let's all go outside and make a snowman together. What do you say?
Yeah!
Lucia nestles into her mother's arms, watching the snow beyond the window. The house is warm, a gentle aroma drifts from the kitchen, and Luna is still lost in her dreams.
She sways softly from side to side, though she can't quite tell why such happiness fills her.
All she knows is that her mother's embrace is warm, and with her baby sister here, their little home feels whole.
One morning when Lucia is five, her mother wakes to a faint rustling sound.
She makes her way to Lucia's bedroom door and finds the light already on. Crayons are scattered across the floor in a loose circle, and Lucia is sprawled on her stomach, absorbed in drawing something.
Lucia? It's still so early... What are you drawing, sweetheart?
Her mother kneels down and studies the paper. Shades of gray and white crayon cover it entirely, as if the child has drawn a great expanse of fog where nothing can be seen.
Gray and white wax fills the page, a thick mist made of crayon strokes. Inside the fog stand a few stick figures in a row, but some trail off halfway, their bodies overtaken by the gray, fading as though they are being swallowed up.
In the very center stands the smallest figure, arms spread wide. But the space around her is empty. There is no one for her to hold.
Lucia, did you have a bad dream?
At last, Lucia's crayon goes still. She stares down at what she has drawn, looking just as puzzled as anyone.
I think... there was a fog. A really, really big fog.
And lots of people... they were walking in front of me. Walking so fast. I tried and tried to run... but I couldn't catch them.
Her mother draws Lucia onto her lap and gently rubs her back.
Who were they, baby? Do you know them?
I don't know... They all went away. One, then another... all gone...
She turns her hand over and shows her mother her palm. There is nothing there, nothing at all, yet she stares at the empty space for a long, long moment, as though waiting for something to reappear.
I was right there... but I couldn't do anything...
Her mother gathers her close. Lucia doesn't cry; she simply presses her face into her mother's pajama, her voice coming out soft and muffled.
Mommy... if that fog ever comes, let me protect you, okay?
A tender smile crosses her mother's face, and she bends to kiss the crown of her daughter's head.
Of course, sweetheart. My Lucia will protect me.
And Daddy too. And Luna... Everyone can stand behind me. I'll protect you all.
Alright. We'll all rely on you then, Lucia.
Lucia doesn't smile. She nods with grave seriousness, then folds the drawing carefully and slips it beneath her pillow.
The next morning, when her father rises early for his run, he discovers Lucia quietly following behind him.
She is only five, her small legs pumping furiously. After just a few hundred meters, she is already gasping for breath. When she stumbles and scrapes her knee, tears well up in her eyes, but she refuse to let them fall.
Lucia? What's all this? You want to run with me now?
I want to get strong. As strong as you, Daddy.
Oh yeah? What do you need all that strength for?
Lucia pauses to think, ticking off on her fingers one by one.
To protect Mommy, protect you, and protect Luna.
She counts to three on her fingers, then glances down at the ones still curled against her palm.
And... and lots of other people too!
Lots of people, huh?
Yeah! One day! I'm gonna protect lots and lots of people!
Her father laughs, utterly charmed, and in one smooth motion swings her up onto his shoulders.
Alright then. But first, I'll teach you how to protect yourself. Then you can protect everyone else. Deal?
Perched on her father's shoulders, Lucia sits higher than she ever has before. From up there, she can see the lane beyond the yard stretching away, far, far into the distance.
Deal!
Lucia gives her answer, her little hands tangled in her father's hair. And then it strikes her: if only she could climb a little higher, perhaps she'd see the figures hidden behind the fog.
That morning, she pushes open the door to find balloons bobbing through the living room, a cake set with sixteen candles. Luna is holding up her terminal to capture the moment, her father standing to the side with a soft smile, and her mother peeking out from the kitchen, her apron still dusted with flour.
Happy birthday!
Their voices ring out, mismatched and joyful, with Luna's rising above the rest.
Lucia stands in the doorway, frozen for a moment.
Then a smile breaks across her face, too.
Everyone is smiling because of Lucia, because she exists, just as they did sixteen years ago, on the day she first came into this world.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world.
A figure in white stands before the command tower's floor-to-ceiling windows, the cold gleam of data terminals at their back, the sweep of the entire world etched before them.
On the distant horizon, transport fleets glide into the port in tight formation. They come from different continents, some hulls still bearing the faded emblems of old borders, but now they touch down on the same runway, engines sighing into silence together.
Tens of thousands of containers settle into place like pieces on a vast chessboard, slotting precisely into their predetermined grids. Superconducting coils, high-density energy storage modules, precision-machined vacuum chamber components...
With each shipment that arrives, engineers lift their eyes from their stations, their gazes skimming past screens for just a heartbeat, as if to confirm that something is truly, steadily, taking shape.
And deep in the heart of the port, the skeleton of the zero-point engine already rises toward the sky.
This is Dominik. The above concludes Technician Report No. 0170, submitted to the World Government.
Given the extended timeframe this report covers, a brief overview of the background may help the council members better understand the context.
It has been exactly sixteen years since the Science Council's Landau probe intercepted an anomalous signal at the L2 Lagrange point.
Sixteen years ago today, the deep-space probe Landau detected a non-natural electromagnetic pulse lasting approximately 11.3 seconds during a routine gravitational wave scan. The primary receiver array captured the anomaly.
The pulse did not originate from any cataloged celestial radiation source, nor did its spectral signature match any known cosmic background noise model.
In short, it was a set of "information."
After sixteen months of decoding, Dr. Nithart extracted a complete data schema from the 11.3-second signal. The total volume of information far exceeded the theoretical capacity of its carrier wave.
This means the sender achieved information compression through methods we have yet to fully understand. As for the contents of the schema itself, with the assistance of linguists, we deciphered three distinct components—
First, a mathematical model based on eleven-dimensional manifold topology, describing an entirely new mechanism for particle interaction. This mechanism falls outside any known extension of the standard model, yet after exhaustive verification, its internal consistency proved flawless.
Building upon this foundation, the Science Council developed a comprehensive plan for artificial gravity field generation. I designated it Project String.
Second, a set of engineering parameters for materials and energy science. It was as if someone had already completed all theoretical derivations and experimental validations, then simply handed us the conclusions and operational procedures.
Interestingly, these parameters aligned closely with Dr. Villier's research. Inspired by this knowledge, we completed our quantum fluctuation models, making the development of zero-point energy possible.
Third, and most perplexing, at the schema's end was an unclassifiable data fragment. It wasn't mathematics. It wasn't engineering parameters. It wasn't even any recognizable form of encoded language. It was a waveform pattern resembling biological neural pulses.
Human.
I don't know yet what it carries. It could be a memory, an emotion, or merely noise. For now, I can't offer any scientific explanation for it.
Regardless, this marked the first time human civilization received a message from life beyond Earth. Two hundred years after Wayfarer 1 embarked on its journey, our world had finally received a reply.
What followed is known to you all. Driven by public enthusiasm and armed conflict alike, the world's major powers finally reached a consensus: the time had come for humanity to unite and venture beyond the cradle of Earth.
Following the signing of The New Earth Codex, the World Government emerged alongside the human unification movement. Aerospace technology received unprecedented support, and under the Science Council's leadership, planetary terraforming projects and space colonization initiatives surged forward at full force.
...
The oral report has entered its final summary when Dominik's brow furrows, almost imperceptibly. A familiar premonition hits, the kind that always visits just before an experiment goes wrong.
The Chief Technician pays no mind to this minor interruption and carries on with the presentation.
Gestalt, the Bifrost orbital accelerator, the lunar base, the Atlantic Eye, and the Zero-point Reactor scheduled for completion in six years... Over these past sixteen years, humanity has brought many dreams into reality...
A prickling urgency still refuses to fade. Almost simultaneously, voices cry out somewhere beyond the room.
...?
Dominik looks out the window, eyes going wide. A transport craft is screaming through the sky at full speed, hurtling straight toward the warehouse packed with equipment.
BOOM—
The world tears open with a deafening roar. A blinding fireball erupts skyward as the blast rips through the air, the searing heatwave surging outward, threatening to swallow half the port district.
The highest-level sirens shriek to life. Thousands of tons of industrial supplies detonate in a chain reaction, one after another, like a string of firecrackers, erupting into a sea of flames that lights up the entire coastline. Guards and firefighters surge forward, scrambling to establish a perimeter.
...
Well, well. Do you see now, little Dominik?
A woman of refined elegance sits draped in shadow, her legs crossed with languid poise. Her ornate mechanical fingers drum idly against the leather armrest.
You keep placing your faith in humanity's better nature.
But it will never, ever win against the beast of self-interest.
She exhales a slow stream of smoke, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.
Put that out, Cassandra.
Tch. Such a killjoy.
The woman shrugs, then, with a touch of knowing compliance, stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table—an ashtray placed there just for her, since no one else here smokes.
How do you expect to convince the world to erase its borders, melt down its planes and tanks and nukes, all to chase some star they'll never live to reach? And for what? A drifting bottle you fished out of space?
Hahaha, don't be absurd! These are nations built on centuries of bloodshed. Peoples, dynasties, corporations... Oh, and let's not forget the life's work of brilliant minds like myself, naturally gifted, of course, yet ceaselessly driven.
No matter how many treaties you sign, how many rockets you launch, or how many children you parade around singing songs, humans will always be selfish creatures terrified of getting hurt. Your darling little utopian fantasy is still two million light years away.
A light year is a unit of distance, not time, Cassandra.
...Sigh. You really have no sense of humor whatsoever, do you, little Dominik?
She waves her hand with a theatrical flourish.
Cassandra, you're a businesswoman. We operate from different positions, different fundamental perspectives. I can hardly expect you to grasp the true scope of what these initiatives will bring to Earth.
I suggest we table this discussion here. No point in squandering any more time or energy on it.
Oh, absolutely not. I've poured far too much money into you to do anything but accommodate me whenever I decide to drop by.
She helps herself to another cigarette, lighting it with deliberate, almost taunting, composure.
Ugh, I've seen plenty of idealists like you. They all end the same way. Crushed by the world, or they tear themselves apart first.
Tell you what, little Dominik. Care to make a wager?
Cassandra raises an eyebrow.
I'll bet that one day, you'll die for your ideals. While I will ride my bestial instincts straight into the history books and live on forever in glory.
...
Dominik has never been one to throw dice. Faced with the investor's sharp provocation, the Chief Technician holds steady, silent, gaze locked on the chaos unfolding along the shoreline outside.
A firefighter emerges from the wreckage, cradling a child. The little face is smeared with ash, but the child is crying, still alive. A staff member's blood, no doubt, brought all this way only to witness disaster.
Tch. The silent card again. You're no fun at all. Now, you're done with your report, yes? Can we finally get to the point? What did you actually call me here for?
I've had a new idea these past few days.
Dominik knows that every cutting word Cassandra speaks carries truth. Humanity's bestial nature is real. Greed, fear, violence—all of it, undeniably real.
But beyond the wall of flames, the soldiers of different nations, the firefighters hurling themselves into the blaze, the engineers drawn from every corner of the globe... They, too, are just as real.
Ideals and bestial instincts have never been mutually exclusive.
Humanity carries both at once. The real question is: when the darkness truly falls, which one tips the scale?
And that is precisely why I need to gather more of those ideals together.
Dominik's voice sinks low, the words seemingly meant more for Dominik's own ears than for hers.
One or two individuals can't shoulder this burden alone. Not even the best-funded laboratory in the world could manage it.
But a whole generation of people can.
Dominik returns to the desk and opens a file. On the title page sits a line yet to receive official approval:
Oh? Chief Researcher isn't enough for you anymore? Now you want to play headmaster too?
Cassandra, if you discovered that some billionaire had bundled up their entire fortune and cast it into the ocean, what would you make of it?
Hmm... Either they've lost their mind, or they're on their deathbed.
The same logic applies to the "drifting bottle" we found.
Cassandra pauses mid-gesture. For the first time, a trace of genuine gravity settles into her features.
So what? Do you honestly believe there's an E.T. waving at us from Alpha Centauri?
Formal logic rejects conclusions without premises. The same holds true for actions. I don't believe this was an act of charity. Whoever sent that message from beyond our corner of the universe did so out of necessity, not goodwill.
If I were in their position, I would send it one second before the Earth exploded.
Ha. I'd burn it all to ash before I let someone else get their hands on my fortune.
I don't know what became of them. But I do know that one person inheriting that legacy isn't enough.
I need more people to join the "Voyage". People who will take this knowledge and devote themselves to the Unification War, to scientific advancement, to pioneering the stars.
I thought this was going to be something dramatic, and it's just a school. Did you really need me to come all the way down here for this?
Money's not the issue. Just call my secretary later, the one I hired last week. Don't get the wrong person.
Cassandra stretches with the air of a child who has wearied of a game. Her expression shifts, and without another word, she makes her way toward the door.
F.O.S. will be a crucible for forging the next generation. Everyone who graduates from here must be prepared, to build a new world, and also... should the worst come to pass.
What would be the worst?
She pauses at the door, resting her hand on the handle.
...
Dominik doesn't answer. Perhaps there is no answer to give. It's a feeling, something deeper than reason, heavier than fear.
The same way a sharp, sudden ache lanced through Dominik's brow upon first seeing the human neural waveform tucked at the tail end of the signal.
As if someone, somewhere impossibly far away, had spent the last of their strength, poured out their very flesh and blood, to press something forward across the void.
You don't smoke, but you keep them anyway.
Cassandra lets out a light laugh, flicking a meaningful glance toward the expensive cigarettes on the table.
Oh, right, and that thing from last time... what was it? The Sefirah prototype?
I still don't understand it, but it looks interesting enough. Keep at it. I want to see results by the end of the year.
Cassandra pulls the door shut behind her, humming something off-key, and dials her secretary.
Heh. "Voyage". What a pretty word.
Three months later, on June 10th, she stands at the gates of F.O.S. Military Command College.
To be precise, the gates of F.O.S. College, which also mark the entrance to Tsiolkovsky Aerospace City.
F.O.S. is not built within any existing city. It is a super-complex constructed by the World Government near the equator, a structure with the zero-point engine as its heart and a mass driver track as its spine, the largest single edifice humanity has ever raised.
From the ground, the platform gleams like a blade of silver-white steel thrust into the clouds. The track climbs the support tower in a single, unwavering line, its far end dissolving into the blue of the atmosphere, as though a bridge truly exists, reaching from the earth to the heavens.
The day Lucia arrives, Dawn-III is already secured to the launch cradle of Bifrost. Following the directions on her terminal to the opening convocation site, she wanders instead to the observation deck overlooking the launch complex.
...
The area is already packed. Different faces, different skin tones, different accents, but every one of them wears the same cadet uniform. All were selected through the global standardized examination. Their ages range from sixteen to nineteen. Four hundred and twenty in total.
The inaugural class of F.O.S.
Before her looms the immense silhouette of Dawn-III. Behind her, her peers buzz with nervous, excited chatter. Lucia glances down at the roster on her terminal, then studies her fellow cadets gathered around her on every side.
Ugh, it's like they've crammed the entire planet into one square! Who in their right mind holds an opening convocation next to a launch site?!
And this whole look, the decor, these uniforms, this square. It's all so... hopelessly terrible! I'd love to meet the genius who thought "military chic" meant zero taste.
If it weren't for my sister, I'd be filing a transfer request right now!
Excuse me. As a member of this academy, I don't see how tearing it down in public reflects well on you. I would ask you to take back your remarks.
Huh? And who are you, exactly? Last I checked, my opinions didn't need your approval.
Adelyde. Cadet designation 004. As your peer, it is my responsibility to uphold the reputation and good order of our college.
004? Wow. Fourth place and you've already appointed yourself hall monitor?
Cadet designations are not by grades.
Oh, so there's even less to brag about.
I'm not boasting. I'm correcting the record. What you said earlier also constitutes a violation: Chapter 2, Article 7 of the F.O.S. Code of Conduct—defaming the academy's image or its facilities is explicitly prohibited.
Oh my god, a Code of Conduct citation already? I bet you're a blast at parties. Do you even have friends?
...My personal relationships have no bearing on this discussion. Please stay on topic.
So that's a no, then!
Lucia takes her place at the rear of the formation. That's where she was assigned.
Not far ahead, two students are arguing, their voices loud enough to draw a small crowd. She glances over, no more than a flicker, then looks back down to double-check the roster on her terminal.
Fewer people back here. That suits her just fine.
She slides in her earphones, leans against the railing of the observation deck, and waits for the ceremony to begin.
Crap, crap, crap. I'm gonna be late—
THUD. Something barrels into her shoulder from behind, knocking her earphones clean off.
—!
Her body reacts before her mind does, pivoting to soften the blow. She staggers forward half a step and spins around, catching only a blur: the glint of glasses, a loose sweep of hair, one flailing arm—
It's a girl her age, pitching forward in a completely uncontrolled tumble.
Arrgh!
Lucia doesn't hesitate. Her hand moves before thought, snapping out to catch the girl's forearm with precision and pulling her back.
The girl's tumble stops mid-fall, her body lurching with the leftover momentum. Her glasses slide all the way down her nose and drop.
Huh... Eh?
She makes a frantic grab with her free hand and misses. Then she crouches down to retrieve them, bending too fast, nearly pitching over a second time. Lucia has to catch her all over again.
Ahhh...!
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I was rushing and wasn't looking where I was going. Are you... are you okay...?
I'm fine. Don't walk with your head down, especially not in a crowd like this.
No matter how much of a hurry you're in, you need to watch out for yourself.
Lucia glances at the name tag pinned to the girl's chest. Beside a prim, scholarly photo, the name reads: Joanne.
Slow down. You'll make it.
Th-thank you!
Lucia watches the girl vanish into the crowd, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Absently, she reaches up to touch her right ear, and then it hits her. Her earphones are gone.
To her left, a student stands holding her missing earphones.
...Thank you.
Lucia reaches out to take it, and their eyes meet.
...?
Lucia's hand pauses, just for a split second, so brief that the other person likely never notices.
A strange, inexplicable familiarity washes over her. It passes as quickly as it comes, like a gust of wind across water, the ripples dissolving before they can even form.
She takes the earphones, suddenly self-conscious, and rushes to fill the silence.
You're first class too?
My name is Lucia.
She has no idea why she's introducing herself. This is not the sort of thing she ever does.
The student nods toward her chest. Lucia looks down and sees her cadet name tag, name printed clearly and facing outward.
......
It dawns on her that her introduction was entirely unnecessary.
The student doesn't laugh, but she catches the faintest twitch at the corner of the other's mouth.
...I'm sorry.
Just then, the observation deck's speakers crackle to life. A voice tests the microphone, cutting through the chatter.
Yeah. Thank you again for the earphone.
The other student smiles, nods slightly, and glances down at the position number on the terminal, then pauses mid-step.
Looking up, the student's gaze moves from Lucia to the formation marker on the ground below.
...
Lucia glances down too. Their assigned spots are indeed side by side.
True...
Just then, the speakers around them come alive, and the crowd of students gradually falls silent.
Lucia glances at the person beside her. It only now occurs to her that she never asked for a name.
But then she feels that she doesn't really need to.
She'll know it eventually. Somehow, that feels certain.
Helloooo? Can everyone hear me?
Cassandra's voice rips through the speakers, shrill as nails raking down a chalkboard, yet laced with an unabashed, almost gleeful excitement.
At the top of the platform, a woman in a long, elegant dress climbs the temporary stage in high heels. A gust of wind pulls at her hem and her hair, laying bare the sleek mechanical framework of her right arm, which stirs a wave of hushed voices through the assembled students.
What, nervous? Don't be! Standing before you today is none other than your trustee, writer, talk show host, angel investor, and certified nutritionist—yours truly, Madam Cassandra, in the flesh!
You think any other college would roll out this kind of welcome? I think not!
She pauses, clearly expecting applause, but none arrives.
You kids are a tough crowd, aren't you?
Alright then, let's get down to business. That big metal pillar behind you? That's Dawn-III. Height? 137 meters, taller than every single one of you laid out flat and stacked on top of each other. And the price tag?
I'm not telling. You'd lose sleep.
A few stray laughs bubble up from the crowd. Cassandra's eyes flicker with pleasure, like a comedian who has just located her audience.
There we go! I was starting to worry you'd all just stand there like it's a memorial service. This is a celebration, darlings!
Now, as of today, you are F.O.S.'s first class. Inaugural cohort. Meaning? You're the first students this college has ever had. No precedent. No handbook.
No upperclassmen to ask which professors are easy graders. No old exams to panic-study from. And no one to tell you if the cafeteria food is edible, because the kitchen was only finished last week. The contractor blamed it on "transportation difficulties near the equator." Can you imagine?
But you knew all this when you applied. F.O.S. exists for one reason: to train the talent humanity needs for the "Voyage". Now, where each of you ends up on that voyage—Pluto mission control or the security booth at my private estate—that is entirely up to you.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder and throws on a smile of utter indifference.
So let me be clear. The campus is built. The funding is spent. And all of you are already here. So dropping out? Not happening. No refunds on tuition.
Which leaves you exactly one way to go.
She gestures with her microphone toward the colossal structure rising behind her on Bifrost. Dawn-III rests silently in its launch cradle, its engine nozzles catching the sunlight in a cold, blue gleam.
Upward.
As if on cue, a gust sweeps through, setting the stage banner billowing in the wind.
And because I'm feeling generous on your very first day, I've arranged a little something extra.
She points back at Bifrost, the tips of her metal fingers flashing in the sun.
You, my dears, will be the first human beings to witness Dawn-III's full-thrust test firing in person. It's big. It's spectacular. It's breathtaking. And it costs an absolutely obscene amount of money.
You think any other college would roll out this kind of welcome? I THINK NOT!
This time, a real stir ripples through the crowd.
A gasp here, an eager slap on a friend's shoulder there. Joanne's face lifts among the sea of cadets, her eyes bright as beacons behind her lenses. Not far away, even Ophelia stands with her mouth wide open.
Here's what comes next. Once Dawn-III launches, it'll complete final assembly at the International Space Station. Then, near the Moon, it begins its acceleration toward Alpha Centauri, at one ten-thousandth the speed of light.
Three years after that, it crosses the Kuiper Belt and gradually accelerates to one percent of light speed before reaching the Oort Cloud. And yes, in case you were wondering, this is all coming out of my pocket. Every last cent.
It's a magnificent story, isn't it? Grand. Dazzling. Almost impossibly distant.
But here's the part that matters. Starting today, every single one of you is the lead in that story. The responsibility is already at your feet, whether you asked for it or not. And all of humanity is counting on you to rise.
Your "voyage" begins now, children.
And that's a wrap on your trustee's speech! Scene!!
She retreats to the edge of the stage, leans against the railing, and fishes a lighter from her pocket. At last, she lights the cigarette she's been holding off on all this time.
Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't smoke here...
Oh, I know.
She lifts her gaze alongside the students, the ember in her hand still glowing, undimmed.
The launch site's broadcast system switches to the standard mission channel. A mechanical voice begins counting down overhead.
Dawn-III full-thrust test sequence is now initiated. All observation points report safe distance.
T-minus 120 seconds. Propellant loading complete. All valves entering standby.
Thick white steam pours from the base of Bifrost's launch cradle as liquid oxygen flashes through the feed lines into vapor. The water deluge system is primed and ready. The great silver blade seems to draw a deep, shuddering breath.
Lucia moves forward, an unconscious step, her eyes lifted to the sky.
T-minus 60 seconds. Main control confirms engine pre-cool is complete. All systems go for automatic countdown.
Silence falls over the crowd without being asked. Gathered on the deck are over four hundred young students, standing closer than ever before to one of the most powerful creations in human history.
Different skin, different breath, different words, yet now every face is turned upward, toward a single shared direction.
T-minus 30 seconds. Ignition sequence armed.
Adelyde stands ramrod straight, eyes fixed and unwavering. Ophelia has, for once, forgotten to complain, her mouth hanging slightly open. Joanne clutches the hem of her uniform, the reflection of the launch pad shimmering in her lenses.
Lucia stands at the very back of the formation, the wind brushing through her hair. Past row after row of her classmates' heads, she takes in the sight of Dawn-III.
And then, for reasons she cannot quite name, her gaze drifts lower, landing on the back of someone's head in a row ahead.
It's the person who picked up her earphones earlier, head tilted back in quiet, steady wonder.
T-minus 10 seconds.
A few voices in the crowd begin to echo the countdown, soft and tentative, as if afraid of disturbing something sacred.
Then more join in, scattered and uneven at first, yet somehow weaving together into a single, natural whole.
The world goes silent for a single, suspended heartbeat, then—
Light.
Brighter than lightning, it erupts from Dawn-III's tail. The sound comes next: a shockwave that tears through the water curtain, through the concrete, through the chest of every living soul, vibrating their bones until they sing.
The entire Bifrost trembles. The water curtain flashes into a rolling white fog. Thousands of tons of thrust slam the column of fire into the flame trench, and the superheated air wraps around the orange-red plume like a river set on fire.
Dawn-III does not lift off. This is only a ground test. But the sound alone is enough to startle every bird for dozens of kilometers into panicked flight, enough to make every teenager gathered here feel it deep in their bones: humanity has become a civilization that can reach for the stars.
Lucia remains at the very back of the formation. Applause sweeps outward from somewhere ahead, rippling all the way to the edges of her vision. She doesn't clap. Her hands rest at her sides, her face unreadable.
But she never looks away. The peak of Bifrost pierces the clouds, aimed straight at the heavens. A trail of gray-white exhaust still hangs in the sky, like a forgotten brushstroke left behind on a canvas of blue.
