by Cixin Liu
The doctors and nurses exchanged a glance and a mysterious smile, and then pushed her bed to the window and drew back the curtain so she could look outside. Bright sunlight streamed in, and she saw tall buildings standing silently beneath a blue sky, cars passing by in a continuous stream, and a few scattered people walking in the plaza outside the main hospital building. The city was as it had been the day before. Nothing seemed different. She shot a confused look at the doctor.
“The world’s dry run has begun,” the doctor said.
“What? We’re in the children’s world already?”
“That’s right. The dry run has been in progress for over four hours.”
Zheng Chen’s first reaction was to look up at the overhead lights, something she later learned was a common response upon learning of the dry run, as if lights were a unique sign that the world was normal. The lights were shining steadily. She had passed the previous night, the eve of the dry run, mired in nightmares, dreaming of her city ablaze, of screaming in the central square with no one else in sight, as if she were the sole person left in the city. But before her eyes now was a peaceful children’s world.
“Look at our city, Ms. Zheng. Harmonious as easy-listening music,” said a child nurse next to her.
The doctor said, “Your choice about the children’s world was absolutely correct. We were too pessimistic. It looks like the kids will run the world well. Who knows, maybe even better than us. Your baby will never have the hardships you imagine. He’ll grow up fortunate and happy. Can’t you rest easy now that you’ve seen the city outside?”
Zheng Chen watched the calm city for a long while, and listened to the soft sounds that came in like a sort of music. Not easy listening, but a splendid requiem, and as she listened the tears began to flow. The baby in her arms stopped crying and opened its tiny gorgeous eyes for the first time to look in wonder at the strange world. She felt her whole heart melt and evaporate and disappear, and the total weight of her entire life transfer itself into the small being in her arms.
* * *
There was little for the small group of national leaders to do late at night in the NIT. Work in all industrial sectors had been handled by the various central ministries, and most of their time was spent observing the dry run.
“Like I said, we’ll do it better!” Huahua said excitedly after update after update appeared in the dry run reports on the big screen.
Specs shook his head dismissively. “We haven’t done anything. You’ve got blind optimism, but you should realize that the adults are still here. We’re not on suspended rails yet.”
It was a moment before Huahua got the reference, and turned to look at Xiaomeng sitting beside him.
“Life is difficult when children are all that’s left in a family, let alone an entire country,” she said, and looked out through the now-transparent walls at Beijing’s gleaming lights that surrounded them.
They all looked up through the transparent ceiling at the clusters of white lights in the night sky strong enough to outline the scattered clouds in silver, and cast human shadows onto the floor of the hall with every flash. The flashes had been frequent the past few days. These, they knew, were nuclear bombs detonating thousands of miles away in space.
Before the handover, all nuclear powers had come out and declared the total destruction of their nuclear weapons, so as to leave a clean world behind for their children. Most of the bombs had been detonated in space, although some had been shot into orbit around the sun, where they continued to be discovered and detonated in the Supernova Era.
Watching the flashes, the premier said, “The supernova taught humanity to value life.”
“Children have an innate love of peace,” someone added. “War will die out in their world.”
The president said, “You know, it’s a complete mistake to call the supernova the Dead Star. From a dispassionate standpoint, all of the key elements that make up our world come from an exploding star. The iron and silicon that form our planet and the carbon that is the basis of life were ejected into the cosmos by a supernova in some unimaginably distant past. And even if our supernova will bring tremendous death to the Earth, it may bring forth in some other part of the universe life even more stunning than this. The supernova is no dead star. It is the true creator! Humanity is lucky, for if the rays had been just a little stronger, no one would be left on Earth. Or even worse, only babies under the age of two! Perhaps it’s a lucky star for us. In just a short while only one-point-five billion people will be left on Earth, and many of the problems that previously threatened humanity will be resolved overnight. The damaged environment will slowly recover. Industry and agriculture, even at a third of their former scale, will easily satisfy all the children’s needs, enough for them to live in a world of unimaginable plenty. With no need for them to race around for subsistence, they will have more time for science and art, to build a better society. When a second supernova strikes Earth, you’ll no doubt have learned how to block its rays…”
Huahua cut in, “By then we’ll be able to trigger a supernova and harness its energy to leave the galaxy!”
His words drew applause. Pleased, the president said, “You kids are always a step ahead of us when it comes to imaging the future. The time we’ve been able to spend with you has been most fascinating. Comrades, the future is bright. Let’s take this attitude with us into the final moments.”
THE EPOCH CLOCK
At last it came time for final farewells, when everyone over the age of thirteen gathered at their final assembly points to go off to meet death. Most of the people of the Common Era left quietly without their children’s knowledge, leaving them intent on their work. Later historians believed that this was an entirely correct decision, since few people possessed the emotional strength to endure the biggest eternal farewell in history. If they had met their children one last time, human society might have utterly collapsed.
The first to leave were the most seriously ill, or those in nonessential positions. They left by various means of transport, some that made many trips, others that never returned.
Final assembly points, as they were known, were situated in relatively remote areas, a large number of them in uninhabited deserts, the poles, and even the ocean floor. Since the global population was plummeting by four-fifths, huge regions of land on Earth were now untrodden wilderness, and it was only many years later that all of the enormous tombs were discovered.
Behold, I tell you a mystery. We shall not all fall asleep, but we will all be changed, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For that which is corruptible must clothe itself with incorruptibility, and that which is mortal must clothe itself with immortality.… Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? Amen.
On the television, the pope in a long crimson gown was reading from 1 Corinthians 15, addressing the entire world in a final prayer for the Common Era.
“Time to go,” Zheng Chen’s husband said softly as he bent down to pick up the sleeping infant from the bed. Zheng Chen silently stood up and picked up a travel bag holding things for the kid, and then went to turn off the TV. She caught a glimpse of the UN secretary general’s farewell address to the Common Era:
“… Humanity has been split down the middle. Children, we trust that from this fresh wound you will bring forth radiant flowers.
“As for us, we came, we worked, and we are leaving…”
She turned off the TV and then, with her husband, took one last look at their home. They took their time, wanting to impress it indelibly onto their memory. Zheng Chen paid particular attention to the spider plant hanging from the bookshelf, and the goldfish swimming calmly in the fishbowl. If there really was a world after this one, she wanted to take this memory there with her.
Leaving the house, they saw Lin Sha’s father in the hallway. Lin Sha was on duty at the hospital and did not kno
w that the adults were leaving.
“Where’s Dr. Lin?” Zheng Chen asked.
Lin Sha’s father pointed back at the open door. Zheng Chen went in and saw Lin Sha’s mother writing on the wall with a marker, adding to the writing that already covered the walls as high as she could reach.
You’re a good kid. There’s food next to the TV. Remember to heat up the egg soup first, so you don’t catch a chill. Use the kerosene heater, not the propane stove. Remember, don’t use the propane stove! When you use the kerosene heater, put it in the hallway, and turn it off when you’re done. Remember to turn it off! There’s hot water in the thermos, and cooled boiled water in the plastic jug. Mix a little of the water in the jug with the hot water from the thermos. Remember, never drink cold water from the tap! The power may go out sometimes, but don’t light any candles. You’ll forget to blow them out when you go to bed. So no candles! There’s a flashlight and fifty batteries in your bookbag; the power might be off for a long time, so conserve the batteries. Underneath the pillow (the one on the left with an embroidered lotus flower on it) there’s a leather case with medicine in it, and instructions for how to treat different illnesses. I’ve put the cold medicine out in the open since you’ll probably need it more often. Know what you’ve caught before taking any medicine. If you have a cold, you’ll feel …
“That’s good. Now it’s really time to go,” said Lin Sha’s father, who had come in after Zheng Chen, and he took the marker out of his wife’s hand.
Dr. Lin looked blankly around her, and then mechanically picked up her small travel bag.
“We don’t need to take anything,” her husband said softly, and then gently took the bag out of her hands and set it back on the sofa. All it contained was a hand mirror, a pack of tissue, and an address book, but Dr. Lin took it with her whenever she left home. Without it, she felt like she was missing part of her body and became agitated. Her psychologist husband said that this reflected her own insecurity about life.
“We should at least take some more clothes. It’ll be cold there,” Dr. Lin mumbled.
“That’s not necessary. We won’t be able to feel it. When you think back on it, we used to take far too much stuff when we went out walking.”
The two couples went downstairs where a coach filled with passengers was waiting. Two girls came running over. They were Zheng Chen’s students, Feng Jing and Yao Pingping, who were now working in the nursery. They seemed so feeble to her, as if they themselves would have a difficult time without anyone to look after them. They had come for her baby, but Zheng Chen held her four-month-old tightly as if afraid they were child-snatchers.
“This little boy loves to cry, so give him lots of attention. He takes ninety milliliters of milk every two hours, and then goes to sleep twenty minutes after eating. If he cries when he should be sleeping, it means he’s hungry. He doesn’t usually cry if he’s wet or dirty. He may have a calcium deficiency, so I’ve put calcium supplements in this bag. Remember to give him one every day, or else he’ll get sick…”
“The bus is waiting,” her husband said, clasping her shoulders lightly to keep her from going on indefinitely, the way Dr. Lin could have filled the walls with writing. Trembling, she finally passed the baby into the delicate arms of the young nursery attendants.
Dr. Lin helped her onto the bus, where the other passengers stared at them in silence. All of a sudden her baby began bawling outside, and she jerked round as if by electric shock to look at the baby in the girls’ embrace, its tiny arms and legs flailing wildly outside the swaddling, as if it knew that its mother and father were headed out on the road, never to return. She fell faceup to the floor, and saw the sky turn red and the sun blue, and then her vision turned black and she lost consciousness.
Once the bus started up, Dr. Lin glanced absently out the window and suddenly froze stock-still at the sight of children in the distance running toward them. Despite the quietness and secrecy of their departure, they had still been found out. The children ran along the road racing as hard as they could after the bus, waving their arms and wailing, but the bus increased its speed and left them farther and farther behind. Then Dr. Lin saw Lin Sha, who stumbled to the ground and then crawled to her hands and knees and waved in the direction of the bus. Perhaps she had injured her leg, because she could no longer run after the bus and squatted on the road and buried her face in her hands, crying. Even at this distance, Dr. Lin was convinced she saw blood on her daughter’s knees, and she poked her whole upper body out the window and watched her daughter until she vanished into a point in the far distance.
When Zheng Chen came to, she was lying down on the bus headed to the final assembly point. The first thing she saw was the dark red of the seat cushions, stained, she imagined, by the blood that had drained out of her shattered heart, now dry as a bone and ready to die. But a remark from her husband kept her living a while longer.
“Our kid will have it hard, but he’ll grow up to live in a world much better than ours, my love. We should be happy for him.”
* * *
“I’ve been taking your car for most of my life, Mr. Zhang,” Yao Rui’s father said to the driver as he was helped onto the bus.
Zhang nodded at him. “This will be a long journey, Chief Yao.”
“Yes. A long journey.”
The bus started up, and Yao left the power plant he had worked at for more than two decades. Now, his thirteen-year-old son had replaced him as chief engineer. He strove to look at the plant through the rear window, but there were too many people on the bus and he couldn’t see anything. After a while, even without seeing outside he knew that they were driving up the hill he had crossed four times a day every day for the past twenty years. The whole plant complex was visible from here, and again he tried to look out, but again there were too many people to see clearly. Someone said, “Don’t worry, Chief Yao. The lights are still on.”
After another stretch of road they reached the last spot where the plant was visible, and someone else said, “Chief Yao, the lights are still on.”
As long as the lights stay on. The power plant’s greatest threat was an outage to its own supply, but so long as it remained lit, it could handle any problem, no matter the scale. Their bus skirted the edge of the city and entered the flow of traffic leaving on the expressway. Then someone said, “The city lights are still on, too.”
That was something Chief Engineer Yao could see for himself.
* * *
“Wei Ming of Division 115, Fourth Regiment, for post change,” Wei Ming said, saluting his father.
“Wei Jianlin of Division 115, Fourth Regiment, handing over post. Conditions normal in this regiment’s defense zone during this duty period,” his father said, saluting back.
The gray fish belly of dawn was just starting to light up the eastern horizon, and all was quiet around the frontier post; the snowcapped peaks were still asleep. No lights had been on in the Indian frontier post opposite them all night, as if it had been abandoned.
They spoke little, nor was there any need to speak. Lieutenant Colonel Wei Jianlin turned and with difficulty straddled the horse his son had ridden out on, and then headed off to camp, where he would take the last bus to the final assembly point. At the end of the long road down the mountain, he turned back and saw his son watching him leave, standing ramrod straight in front of the outpost, motionless in the chill wind, and next to him against the blue-white of the morning, the boundary marker.
* * *
The Epoch Clock started ticking as soon as the adults had all gone. This clock could be found all over, on TV screens throughout the world, on practically every webpage, on every urban digital billboard, and standing tall in the central plaza of every city. It didn’t look like a clock at all, but took the form of a green rectangle made up of 61,420 pixels, each of which represented a final assembly point, linked through satellite signal with the status of each assembly point worldwide. When a green dot turned black, it meant that everyone at
that assembly point was dead.
When the entire clock turned black, no one over the age of thirteen would be left on Earth, and children would formally take over global administration.
When the green dots would go out was up to the assembly points themselves. Some equipped everyone on-site with a wrist sensor that monitored life signs, and would eventually send out a death signal; this device was known as an “oak leaf.” The third world had a simpler method: The green dot would automatically turn off at the time estimated by doctors. None of the dots ought to have been turned off manually, since everyone at the assembly points would have lost consciousness well before death, but it was later discovered that the green dots at some assembly points had indeed been switched off by human hands. This mystery was never explained.
The design of the assembly points differed across countries and cultures, but in general they were situated in enormous caves dug underground, where people gathered to spend their final moments on Earth. Every assembly point held roughly one hundred thousand people, but some of them had upward of a million.
The vast majority of the last written words left by the people of the Common Era at the final assembly points recorded their experiences and emotions of bidding farewell to the world, but vanishingly few mentioned anything about the assembly points themselves. One thing was certain: All of them passed their final moments in peace, and where there was still strength, they held concerts and parties.
One holiday observed in the Supernova Era was Final Assembly Day. On that day, people gathered at the various underground plazas that were final assembly points to experience the final moments of the people of the Common Era. The Epoch Clock showed again across all media, its green dots turning once again to black. Shadowy crowds lay down throughout the dank, lonely space, lit by just one hazy floodlight high on the cavern’s roof, the silence made only heavier by the sound of innumerable people breathing. Then they would become philosophers, contemplating life and the world anew.
