by Cixin Liu
“A dime would be too much; the world cannot assist twenty people in committing suicide,” Lu Hai countered firmly.
“It is not suicide, but exploration. Perhaps we will not even make it past the asteroid belt right before us; perhaps we will make it to Sirius and beyond. But if we do not try, how will we know?”
“But unlike exploration, you will most certainly never return,” Lu Hai reiterated.
Ah Quan nodded. “That is true; we will not return. Some may be satisfied with a wife, kids, and a picket fence, never so much as glancing beyond their small world; others will give their very lives for even a glimpse of something no human has ever seen. I have been both; and it falls to me to choose the manner of my life, and that includes a life on a mirror, drifting through space many light years away.”
“But there is one final issue: A thousand or more years in the future, as you fly past stars at speeds of tens of thousands of miles per second, will it really mean anything at all when you send out weak signals to Earth that will only be received dozens of years, if not centuries, later?” Lu Hai asked in a cautionary manner.
Ah Quan smiled at all the world and said, “As the China Sun leaves the solar system, humanity will look up from its current state of numbing bliss and it will again see the stars; it will make us recall the dream of traveling the cosmos and rekindle our passion for interstellar exploration.”
CHAPTER
7
Sixth Goal in Life: Sail the sea of stars; Draw humanity's gaze back toward the deeps of space
Lu Hai stood on top of the Aerospace Tower, gazing toward the rapidly moving China Sun in the heavens. Its light cast countless racing shadows from the capital's skyscrapers, making the entire city look as if it were spinning in the wake of the China Sun's passage.
This was the China Sun's last orbit.
It had already achieved escape velocity. It was now leaving Earth's gravitational field, heading toward an orbit around the Sun. Humanity's first manned interstellar flight had begun its journey. Twenty were aboard this flight. Along with Ah Quan, the other 19 had been selected from among more than a million volunteers. They included three other Mirror Farmers that had worked together with Ah Quan for many years. Before even setting out, the China Sun had reached its goal: Humanity's enthusiasm for interstellar exploration had been renewed.
Lu Hai felt himself transported back to that sweltering summer night in that Western city 23 years ago, when he and that boy from the arid countryside had boarded the night train to Beijing.
As a farewell, the China Sun directed its beam toward the big cities of the world, giving the people of Earth a last chance to see its light. As a final gesture, the China Sun shone its light upon the West of China, directly illuminating Ah Quan's tiny home hamlet.
On that small road out of town, Ah Quan's parents stood together with the village folk, looking toward the China Sun in the east.
“Ah Quan, so you want to travel to distant places?” Ah Quan's father shouted into the communications link that had been set up just for the occasion, courtesy of the Aerospace Tower administrators.
Ah Quan answered him from the sky. “Yes, Father. I fear that I will not return home.”
“Are you going very far away?” his mother asked.
“Very far, Mother,” Ah Quan answered.
“Farther than the Moon?” his father asked.
For a few seconds Ah Quan's only reply was his silence. Then he said, with a voice much lower than before, “Yes, Father, farther than the Moon.”
Ah Quan's parents felt no particular pain at their son's departure; after all Quan would do great things at these places that lay beyond the Moon! What was more, in these times of wonder, they would always be able to speak to him, even when they would be worlds apart. And as they would be able to see him in their small TV, what difference did it make that they would not be able to speak to him face-to-face? It did not occur to them that there would be an ever longer delay; that his answers to their concerned questions would take ever longer to arrive. At first they would only be a few seconds, but that time would grow longer and longer. In a year’s time, every question would have to wait hours for a response.
Finally, their son would disappear altogether. They would be told that he had gone to sleep and that this sleep would last more than four decades.
Later still, Ah Quan's parents, having completed their hard, but ultimately very satisfying life of tilling that once poor and barren but now fertile land, would have one last wish: That some distant day in the future, when their son finally returned, he would see an even more beautiful home.
As the China Sun left Earth's orbit, it gradually dimmed in the eastern sky and with its light, the halo of blue sky diminished. Finally, it was just another star, dissolving into the night sky. As dawn arrived, the glow of the morning Sun had already completely swallowed its light.
The morning light also shone on that road next to the village. Now white poplars flanked its sides and a small river, the road's equal in size, flowed nearby. Twenty-four years ago to the day, in the glow of dawn, the son of a Northwestern peasant, full of hazy hopes, had slowly disappeared in the distance on this very road.
The bright light of day had long reached Beijing, but Lu Hai was still standing on top the Aerospace Tower, looking to where the China Sun had disappeared. It had embarked on its long journey of no return. The China Sun would first pass the orbit of Venus, getting as close as possible to the Sun. This would maximize both the push of the light pressure and stretch of the China Sun's acceleration. It would engage in a series of complicated changes of trajectory to accomplish this, much like an ocean-going vessel tacking into the wind.
In 70 days it would pass the orbit of Mars. In 160 days it would sweep past Jupiter. Two years later, it would leave the orbit of Pluto and become a true interstellar ship, with all of its crew already deep in cryo-sleep. Then, after 45 years, it would pass Alpha Centauri, its astronauts awakening for a brief while. A century after the China Sun first had set out, the Earth would receive news of its exploration of Alpha Centauri.
The China Sun would already be flying toward Sirius, having accelerated around Alpha Centauri's three suns, its speed having reached 15 percent of light-speed. Another 60 years later, a century after setting out from Earth, it would reach Sirius. After sweeping past the binary system of Sirius A and B the China Sun would reach one-fifth of the speed of light, heading ever deeper into the starry sky.
Given the limits of the cryogenic suspension system, the China Sun would be able to reach Epsilon Eridani, and perhaps – although the chances were very slim – even 79 Ceti; both of these star systems very likely harbored planets.
No one could know how far the China Sun would fly and what strange and wonderful worlds Ah Quan and his crew would behold. Perhaps one day they would send a message to Earth, calling them to new worlds. Even if they did, any response would take thousands of years to arrive.
But no matter what would happen, Ah Quan would always hold to his parents living in a country called China. He would hold to that small village in the dry West of that country.
And he would hold to the small road of that village, the road on which his journey began.
The Wages of Humanity
“Business is business; nothing more, nothing less.” It was the code that Mr. Smoothbore lived by.
This time, however, things had turned out to be somewhat more complicated.
The problems had started at the onset; even the setup for the contract had been all wrong. The client wanted to meet him in person. In his line of business, that was a very unusual request indeed. It had been three years, but Mr. Smoothbore could still clearly hear his instructor telling them that their relationship with a client should be no different than the relationship of their own forehead and the back of their skull: Never should the two meet. Naturally, this approach to their business was in the interest of both parties.
The location the client had chosen for their
meeting had done nothing to alleviate Mr. Smoothbore’s bewilderment; it was the opulent Grand Presidential Hall of the most exclusive five-star hotel in the entire city. Of all venues imaginable, it was probably the least appropriate to conduct their kind of business. Going by what the other side had already told him, Mr. Smoothbore knew that the contract would involve processing three pieces of work. That part of it did not trouble him at all; he never did mind going the extra mile.
The doorman opened the large, gilded doors of the Grand Presidential Hall. Before entering, Mr. Smoothbore inconspicuously reached inside his jacket, gently loosening the safety at the holster under his left armpit. It was hardly necessary; no one would do anything too unexpected in a place like this.
The large hall before him was truly magnificent, a reality of its own that seemed completely removed from the world outside. The sumptuous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were the suns of this world, shining down on the vast plains of scarlet carpet below. Glancing across the vast hall, Mr. Smoothbore saw them. It should have been one, but he was faced with thirteen. Mr. Smoothbore had not seen it coming and it did not please him. His instructor had told him that the relationship with his clients should be as one has with a lover: Having more than one is fine, but you should only meet with one at a time.
They were standing in a corner of the Grand Hall, gathered in front of two French windows. In the gap between the windows' heavy curtains he could see the sky above. Mr. Smoothbore knew exactly what they were looking at: Our Elders' spaceship was again moving to the Southern Hemisphere, coming into clear view as it passed overhead. Three years ago, the Gods had departed Earth, fortifying humanity to the shock of meeting extraterrestrial civilizations with their monumental visit from the depths of space. When the Gods had arrived, the 20,000 ships of their fleet had covered the sky; our Elders had come to Earth in but a single spaceship and that spaceship looked even less alien than the Gods' bizarre vessels. The ship now in the sky above was, in effect, no more than a giant rod with rounded ends, somewhat like a ridiculously oversized medicine capsule.
Seeing Mr. Smoothbore enter, the 13 left the windows and walked toward the large, round table at the center of the Grand Hall. Mr. Smoothbore recognized some among them and instantly part of the grandeur of the magnificent hall faded. In their presence it looked almost shabby. The most conspicuous of the group was Zhu Hanyang, a software magnate whose Orient 3000 Operating System was replacing the outdated Microsoft Windows system all across the globe. The others were almost his equal, themselves residents of the top 50 of the Fortune 500. These people's annual income was easily comparable to the GDP of entire nations. Apparently, Mr. Smoothbore had stumbled upon a Fortune Global Forum in miniature.
These people were nothing like the Honored Brother Crosscut. It seemed obvious why; Crosscut had struck it rich overnight, whereas the 13 before him were dynasts. They were the nobility of this age and they had fully internalized their wealth. It was similar in concept to the diamond ring on Mr. Zhu's hand; thin and exquisite, it almost disappeared between his slender fingers, only occasionally glinting with warm light. Its worth, however, was probably easily the equivalent of dozens of the gleaming, walnut-sized, golden baubles that adorned the fingers of the Honored Brother Crosscut.
It hardly mattered. These 13 nobles by wealth were gathered here to hire a professional hit-man to kill, and kill not one, but three. And according to his contact, this would only be the first batch.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Smoothbore paid the diamond ring no real attention. What he did look at was the three photos in Mr. Zhu's hands. The snapshots clearly showed the work for processing.
Mr. Zhu leaned across the table and slid the photos toward him. Examining them more closely, Mr. Smoothbore could not help but feel a slight tingling of frustration. His instructor had once told him that he should always be familiar with those who might become work in the arena in which he plied his trade. At least in this city, he had done just that. Nonetheless, he was completely unable to place the three faces on the photos before him. All of them had been taken with a telephoto lens and the faces showing looked positively disheveled; they did not even appear to belong to the same species as the nobility sitting before him. Mr. Smoothbore noticed that one among them was a woman, still very young and relatively tidy, that is, when compared to the other two. At least her hair was meticulously kept, even though it was covered in dust. What really stood out, however, were her eyes. Mr. Smoothbore always carefully studied people's eyes; it was the habit of everyone in his line of business. Normally, he saw one of two expressions – eyes full of anxious desire in some or eyes that had gone dull in others. The pair of eyes in the photo, however, shone with the rare light of tranquility. Mr. Smoothbore's heart was ever so slightly moved, but the feeling vanished in a blink, disappearing without him ever becoming aware of its rise, like a thin mist blown away by the wind.
“This is the business we, the Committee for the Liquidation of Wealth, entrust to you. All our standing members are gathered here. I serve as the committee's chair,” Mr. Zhu said to open their conversation.
Committee for the Liquidation of Wealth? What a strange name, Mr. Smoothbore thought. Obviously it was made up of the wealthiest powerbrokers, but beyond that he was completely in the dark. Even so, he didn’t ponder the meaning of their name any further, well aware that it would probably be impossible to figure it out without further information.
“Their locations are noted on the back of the pictures, but be aware that they have no fixed addresses. We can only provide an approximate area, so you will need to find them. That, however, should not prove difficult. The money has already been wired to your account. First, verify its receipt,” Mr. Zhu instructed, dispassionate to the point of sounding mechanical.
Looking up at him, Mr. Smoothbore found the expression in the man's eyes to be anything but noble; his belonged to the dull and empty ones. Somewhat to Mr. Smoothbore's surprise, there was not even a trace of desire left in Mr. Zhu's eyes.
Mr. Smoothbore retrieved his cell phone and checked his account. Counting the long string of zeros after the number, he coldly answered, “First, not so much; just pay according to my bid. Second, pay half in advance and half on completion.”
“Done,” Mr. Zhu stated disapprovingly.
Mr. Smoothbore's fingers flew over his cell phone. “Sir, you can verify that I have returned the excess funds. We, too, have our professional standards.”
“In fact, we now often engage in this kind of business and we value your work ethic and sense of honor,” Xu Xueping noted with a touching smile. She was the president of the Remote Sourcing Group. Remote Sourcing had been born out of the aftermath of the full liberalization of the city's electricity market, becoming Asia's largest power company.
“This is the first batch. Please do it cleanly,” the offshore oil tycoon Xue Tong said from across the table. It was more of a declaration than a request.
“Rapid cooling or delayed cooling?” Mr. Smoothbore asked, and then immediately added, “I can explain, if need be.”
“We understand,” Mr. Zhu replied flatly, “and it does not matter. Do as you will.”
“What form of verification? Video or physical?” Mr. Smoothbore continued down his list of options.
“Neither is necessary. When you are done, we will verify it ourselves.” Mr. Zhu’s tone betrayed no hint of emotion.
“Will that be all?” Mr. Smoothbore finished.
“Yes, you can go now,” Mr. Zhu said by way of dismissing him.
Mr. Smoothbore left the hotel. Looking up at the narrow sky rising above the skyscraper canyon, he watched the slow passage of our Elders' ship. The spaceship was massive and flew at a tremendous speed. Apparently, it was in the process of reducing its orbital altitude. The ship's sleek surface was covered with brilliant, endlessly changing patterns that had an almost hypnotic affect on anyone who stared for too long. The spaceship's surface was actually completely featureless, covered only by
the perfectly reflective surface. The patterns those ground-bound observers saw were nothing other than the reflection of the Earth passing below. In Mr. Smoothbore's mind the ship was as purest silver, a thing of beauty in his eyes. He liked silver very much. It was so unlike gold, which he did not really care for, which he viewed as so calm and cold.
Three years ago before they left, the Gods had told humanity that that they had created a total of six Earths. Now, only four remained, all within 200 light-years of each other. The Gods had urged humanity to spare no effort in its technological development: It was incumbent on us to eliminate our three brothers before they eliminated us, had been the mantra.
But the notice had come too late.
They had come from one of those far away Earths – the First Earth. Not long after the Gods had left the solar system, their spaceship had entered Earth's orbit. The civilization of the alien First Earthers was twice as old as Earth's own and so humanity had come to call them “Our Elders”.
Mr. Smoothbore retrieved his cell phone and again checked his account. Honored Brother Crosscut, I now have as much as you. Even so, it still feels lacking, he thought. You, on the other hand, I guess you always felt that you already had it all and what was done was nothing, but the desperate attempt to avoid losing it…
He shook his head, trying to cast the shadow from his mind. This was not the time to think of his Honored Brother Crosscut. That was bad luck.
