Chapter 2: The Countdown Inside the Cryogenic Chamber

The hum of the mechanical arm still reverberated outside the protective dome of the lunar base. Lin Shen’s fingers traced faint blue streaks on the holographic console. The tremor from the Helium-3 transport vessel docking transferred through his boots. He lowered his gaze to check the pressure readings of the final set of fuel lines. The condensation on his lenses blurred and then cleared with each breath—the base’s climate control system always faltered at critical moments like this.

“Professor Lin, this is the command module,” came the voice of intern Xiao Lu through the communicator, taut with youthful tension. “Captain Xia reports that the cryo-chamber debugging has finished ahead of schedule. All crew will commence the sleep protocol in thirty minutes.”

Lin straightened, his spine emitting a faint crack. Gazing through the transparent dome toward the cosmos, he saw the silver-gray hull of the Ark slowly pivoting in lunar orbit. The blue plume of the antimatter engine flickered like a delicate feather, the tether between starship and lunar base sizzling under the heat. This was humanity’s largest interstellar vessel ever built—a spindle-shaped assembly of sixteen modules, each etched with symbols of Earth’s great civilizations: the Mayan feathered serpent, the flying deities of Dunhuang, the Norse world tree, and the quantum resonance antenna he had designed himself. At this moment, the antenna unfurled like a silver fern leaf, pointing toward Alpha Centauri.

“Understood.” He removed his gloves, the metal rings striking the console edge with a crisp sound. The quantum storage device in his lab coat pressed uncomfortably against his thigh. Inside lay the final backup of Earth’s biological genome library—two hundred thousand plant species, fifty thousand animal species, even the DNA of the Yangtze River dolphin he had seen in his childhood. Seven years ago, during the worst ecological crisis, his mother once pointed at the dried riverbed and said to him, “Once some things disappear, not even the stars will remember.”

As the gravity buffer door of the control module slid open behind him, Xia Qing stood by the viewport. Her shoulder insignia gleamed coldly under the cabin’s light. A few strands of her short hair stirred in the recirculating air, mirroring the sharpness of her expression—so keen it could cut through space itself.

“Professor Lin.” Without turning, she tapped lightly on the tactical panel. “Cryo-chamber temperature has dropped to minus 196 degrees Celsius. The medical team confirms all crew have been injected with the hibernation agents.” The hologram flickered beside her, displaying green indicator lights for all 327 sleep pods. “You should go to your assigned pod now.”

“Wait five more minutes.” Lin placed the quantum storage device on the tactical panel. “I need to confirm the genome library backup has been uploaded to the starship’s mainframe.”

Xia finally turned, her gaze passing over the palm-sized device. Her rare pale gray eyes reminded him of the meteorite fragment she had personally shot down during the asteroid defense battle. At seventeen, she had manned the laser cannon, firing for seventy-two straight hours. The debris cloud they created in low Earth orbit still circled the planet to this day.

“You’re persistent,” she said coldly, “risking the starship’s storage resources for a bunch of DNA sequences.”

“This isn’t a gamble.” Lin activated the storage device. A virtual forest appeared in the hologram: ginkgo leaves twirling in the windless void, the tail feathers of a crested ibis sweeping through layers of electronic clouds. “If we never return, this will be proof that Earth’s civilization once existed.”

Xia’s finger hovered over the “Confirm” key on the tactical panel. Lin noticed her Adam’s apple move slightly—an almost imperceptible sign of emotion, just like when she had defended herself in the military tribunal for accidentally striking a civilian satellite.

“Upload it.” She pressed the button suddenly. A green data stream instantly flooded the entire cabin wall. “But if it overloads the mainframe, I’ll be the first to come find you after we wake.”

Lin smiled faintly and turned toward the hatch. Passing by Xia, he caught a subtle scent of fir—an invigorating agent used exclusively by the space military—mixed with the metallic tang of cleaning solvents. It reminded him of the air in the lunar base’s maintenance workshop.

“Wait.” Xia called after him, pulling a leather-bound notebook from her uniform’s inner pocket. “Keep this for me.”

It was an old-fashioned paper log, its edges frayed. Lin flipped open the first page; the ink was still fresh, the handwriting pressing through the paper: “July 15, 2123, twelve hours before the Ark’s launch. If they come to steal the sun, I’ll personally ignite the first torpedo.”

“This is for the future,” Xia’s voice was as soft as stardust. “If I die brain-dead in hibernation, or... if humanity needs to judge me, someone must know what I was thinking.”

Lin closed the log, his fingertip brushing the gold-stamped words inside the cover: “Presented to Qing by Wei Guo Xia, Victory Day of the 2105 Asteroid Defense Battle.” He suddenly recalled the records of the rear admiral who died in the command module—Xia’s father—who had shielded the tactical console with his body so his daughter could complete the final strike.

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“I’ll keep it safe.” Lin carefully placed the log into the inner pocket of his lab coat. “Just like I keep the genome library safe.”

The cold from the cryo-chamber seeped through his protective suit as Emil stood before Sleep Pod No. 3. His projection was dimmer than usual; the silicon-based energy form was unstable near absolute zero, his hair emitting faint blue sparks like fragments of a shattered galaxy.

“Dr. Lin.” He turned, his voice trembling with the distinctive cadence of the Dreamweaver species. “Do you need me to check the life support systems?”

Lin noticed black fractures creeping along the edges of Emil’s projection—signs of quantum entanglement carrier overload. Three days ago, during their first conversation via the quantum resonance network, Emil’s projection had been clear enough to reveal the star-track patterns flowing across his irises.

“Your light cocoon state isn’t stable.” Lin frowned. “Is the starship’s cooling system affecting your carrier?”

Emil’s fingertips brushed the observation window of the sleep pod; frost crystallized into tiny starbursts where he touched. “Dreamweaver spirits require stellar energy to remain stable. The antimatter engine’s output on the Ark... isn’t enough.” He looked up; a thin mist veiled his blue eyes. “But it’s okay. When we reach Alpha Centauri, the energy nodes left by the Dreamweaver homeworld will be sufficient to complete the resonance.”

Lin recalled the cross-civilization dialogue from three days prior. Emil’s hologram had been sharp then, with a floating image of the Dreamweaver homeworld behind him—a planet enveloped in a purple energy cocoon, its surface flowing not with oceans, but with liquid quantum entanglement matter.

“Why did you choose humans?” Lin had asked.

“Because your civilization is crying,” Emil replied. “The quantum resonance network can capture the emotional spectrum of a civilization—Earth’s sorrow, hope, fear... stronger than any intermediate civilization we’ve encountered.”

Watching Emil’s wrist grow transparent, Lin suddenly reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder—a human gesture of comfort, though only a faint cool energy flow was felt.

“Hold on,” he said. “When we wake, we’ll be close.”

Emil smiled; purple light seeped from the cracks in his energy form. “I will. After all... I promised to show you the Dreamweaver’s ‘Star Cocoon Garden,’ where every flower is the crystallized emotion of a civilization.”

As the alarm blared overhead, Lin was preparing to enter his sleep pod. Red light bathed the cryo-chamber in the color of blood. Xia’s voice crackled over the public channel, laced with repressed fury: “All personnel, halt sleep procedures! Chairman Oleg’s private vessel is forcefully docking at Airlock A4.”

Rushing toward the command module, Lin saw Oleg’s silver hair gleaming in the emergency lights. The vice chairman wore a meticulously tailored suit and carried a secured case emblazoned with the Russian Federal Space Agency’s double-headed eagle—the very same case he had used seven years ago to push the “Lunar Helium-3 Plunder Plan.”

“Captain Xia, I have urgent cargo to board,” Oleg said with the polished tone of a politician. “It concerns the latest research on the Dreamweaver quantum resonance network.”

Xia stood firm before the airlock. The safety lock was already disengaged. “No additional cargo may be loaded without United Government approval. You know full well the Ark’s mass is nearing the antimatter engine’s limit.”

“But this is for the future of human civilization!” Oleg opened the case, revealing twelve black crystal plates arranged neatly inside. “These are technical parameters we reverse-engineered from the Dreamweaver signals. They may contain the key to interdimensional communication—”

“Enough!” Lin stepped forward, his finger nearly poking Oleg’s nose. “Have you forgotten the civilization contact protocols? Reverse-engineering advanced technology triggers exclusivity clauses and exposes Earth’s coordinates!”

Oleg took a half-step back but his gaze sharpened. “Professor Lin, you’re too naive. The so-called ‘law’ is just a lie told by advanced civilizations. When you pushed for contact seven years ago, didn’t you consider the Dreamweavers might be baiting us? They want stellar energy; we want technology. It’s a fair exchange!”

Xia twirled a dagger in her palm, the tip pressing against Oleg’s throat. “Leave the airlock within three seconds, or I will arrest you under Article 12 of the Interstellar Navigation Act for ‘Endangering Starship Safety.’”

Oleg stared into Xia’s eyes for three seconds, then suddenly laughed. He closed the case and adjusted his cufflinks with excruciating slowness. “Major Xia, you’ll regret this decision. When the Dreamweavers show their fangs, your torpedoes won’t even pierce their energy cocoons.”

The airlock alarm ceased as he departed. Xia turned, and Lin caught sight of the vein pulsating at her neck—a sign of her restrained rage.

“Inspect all cargo holds,” she ordered the accompanying soldiers. “Especially the areas Oleg might have tampered with.”

Lin touched the log in his inner pocket. Xia’s words suddenly became clear in his mind: “If they come to steal the sun, I’ll personally ignite the first torpedo.” And Oleg’s words stabbed like a thorn: “You’re too naive.”

As the cryo-chamber doors finally sealed, Lin gazed through the observation window at the starship drifting in space. The pocked surface of the moon rotated beneath. Earth hung like a blue-green marble on the horizon, the Pacific Ocean’s reflection sweeping over the Ark’s windows.

He closed his eyes as the chill of the hibernation agent coursed through his veins. In the haze, he heard Emil’s voice softly echoing through the quantum resonance network like wind stirring stardust: “Don’t worry, Dr. Lin. Civilization’s tears must find a place to rest.”

The countdown’s red light flickered at the edge of his vision: 3—2—1—0.

As darkness surged, Lin’s last thought was of the Yangtze River dolphins from his childhood, their gray backs slicing through the waves, tracing silver arcs on the water’s surface—a tear of the Earth, and a symbol of hope.

The Ark’s antimatter engine blossomed a blue-white flower in space, carrying 327 sleeping souls toward the unknown, 23 light-years away.

In the starship’s most concealed cargo hold, twelve black crystal plates warmed slightly with the engine’s vibrations, glowing with Dreamweaver script: “Technology sharing taboo has been triggered.”