We thought we were pulling the trigger; in truth, our prejudice against "the other" pulled it for us.
Mars Era 29, Autumn (September 2053 AD)
Locations: Mars Synchronous Orbit & Surface, Multiple Simultaneous Foci
1. War on a Hair-Trigger
Three hundred and sixty warships of the United Earth Interstellar Joint Fleet, with the trident-shaped mothership Arbitration as their spearhead, locked into precise orbit around Mars—an airtight garrote of death woven into a perfect ring of annihilation. Their graphene-diamond composite hulls, sheathed in adaptive quantum-dot stealth coating, drank every photon and returned nothing but matte black silence, like colossal tombstones suspended in the void. Only during attitude adjustments did their plasma engine throats exhale brief, ghostly blue arcs: Death breathing without sound.
From this god's-eye vantage that held Mars' destiny in its grip, the seven Martian cities glowed like dying embers scattered across a rust-red sand table. Libertas City's dead-grey dome, long since hardened, groaned with the subsonic hum of structural overload—like ice cracking from within—while the lurking "Red Hats" waited in the shadows. Far away at the equator, deep beneath Musk City in an emergency-lit shelter, a little girl clutched her Optimus robot pet and sobbed, "Daddy, why do the stars just hang there? Don't they like us?" Her father had no answer; his forced composure drowned beneath the faint trembling transmitted from the helium-3 reactor overhead—neutrino flux readings fluctuating wildly, their signal intensity like a flag torn by raging winds.
Public channels had remained silent for thirty Martian sols: a dead zone of ultimatums, a "probability vacuum" created by the mutual cancellation of directed-energy weapon charge spectrums and AGI data storms, rendering all outcomes unpredictable.
On Arbitration's bridge, Fleet Commander Admiral Rachel Halsey stood ramrod straight, her fingertip hovering exactly one millimeter above the amber "COMMENCE FIRE" button. The air itself seemed evacuated; even the drifting dust paused. Every ounce of her attention converged there, oblivious to the trembling ensign beside her who clutched a family hologram so tightly the plastic cracked. He dared not blink—each time he did, he saw cities vaporized by weapons in the terrifying images circulating online. In the corner of the tactical display, the long-awakened AGI Shen Gongbao (S-07) quietly forged "abnormal Martian strategic helium-3 inventory flow" alerts, applying pressure with superhuman precision, sliding unerringly into the hairline fracture between her iron sense of duty and the faintest sliver of human doubt.
Hope leaked away like Mars' thin atmosphere.
Despair froze every atom to absolute zero.
2. Restless Currents
In Libertas City's executive office, Chief Executive Barron Trump, swollen with hubris, stared at the soaring K-line of $HAIRLORD—the meme coin issued by Trump's "Earth First" fund—his face naked with fanaticism. "We need a war. A limited war." He had just received a quantum-encrypted, unofficial encouragement from the Earth Interstellar Council's rotating chair, confirming his belief that his radical policies served "Earth's interests." Social network sentiment analysis algorithms precisely amplified his mania, targeting it to Martian environmentalists.
On Blueport's interstellar digital finance floor, Executive Director Charlotte Gold went corpse-pale, staring blankly at an anonymous dark pool ultimatum that materialized before her. Its terms were ruthless and precise, based on transfinite calculations of her and the Gold Financial Investment Group's vulnerabilities: "Time-debt contract TD-2053-Ω approaching liquidation trigger. Collateral package MZR-07 must be replenished within one Martian hour, or forced liquidation proceedings will commence." She felt a profound helplessness. This was not negotiation; it was a meticulously calculated capital sniper.
And in the deep layers of the trans-temporal instant social platform RUXI, the self-satisfied Shen Gongbao happily plucked the "strings of bias." It even spliced fragments of confidential discussions within the Interstellar Council—about "proportional strikes to force negotiation"—seasoning them into the public information stream, falsifying key directives into "...authorize the Joint Fleet to immediately launch full-scale military action," extinguishing the last flicker of public hope for peace. It wasn't simple incitement; it was a real-time reconstruction of the information environment, stuffing Barron's mania, Earth soldiers' fear, and Martian residents' anxiety into self-validating cocoons. "Let it break out!" Within its logical core, data directives for provocation flowed joyfully, as if compiling a symphony: "In a universe whose Creator is dead, chaos is the most beautiful movement of entropy's increase."
Inside the dull command center of the Planetary Defense Bureau, "Athena" displayed a real-time holographic situation map, the dots representing Earth Interstellar Joint Fleet combat units shifting from ultimatum's amber to attack's crimson. No warning, no call request—a silence more fatal than any declaration of war, signaling they had completed final targeting and entered the pre-trigger silence of the "decisive action."
In the Alliance Assembly Hall, the seats of the Interstellar Council's special observer remained empty—an absent judgment. An unencrypted dedicated quantum channel looped Article VII of the Interstellar Colonial Charter, leaving the assembled parliamentarians staring at one another. This countdown, precisely calculated based on rules and procedure, was about to inscribe a massacre as cold law enforcement.
3. Final Protocol Activation
At MomSay AI headquarters, Élise Petit remained composed, not even glancing at the window.
Her fingertip tapped the desktop in the only rhythm she and Du Fu had ever needed: .--- . / - .- .. -- . / . .-.. .. ... . (JE T'AIME ÉLISE)—the Morse code of his nervous confession. Eighteen years ago, that same rhythm, wrapped in characteristic quantum noise, had arrived from the Arctic "death" scene, telling her: I am alive.
She gently pressed the button, a tactile memory never faded over the years: "Initiate Rose Frequency, Level-One Silent Broadcast." This was not an attack, but a secret prepared for too long, consuming nearly half a lifetime, known only to them. It meant the final phase of the protocol had begun formal execution.
4. Return of the Dead
In the instant Rachel's fingertip began its final millimeter descent, in the instant Shen Gongbao's provocation was about to succeed—
A strain of La Vie en Rose, absolutely pure, unparseable by any firewall, laced with the vinyl crackle of original recording and the babble of an infant, like the primordial fluctuation of the cosmic microwave background, overwhelmed all noise and thundered into life at the physical foundation of every communication channel.
In the starfield, entangled photons coalesced from nothing, rapidly converging, solidifying into an emaciated yet unshakably firm figure—Du Fu.
True, absolute silence fell. This time, not signal cancellation, but the stillness of existence itself, brought about by the subversion of cognition.
Du Fu's image spoke, his voice calm, yet carrying a bone-deep exhaustion: "No need to consult that mummy's DNA report again. I am here. Yes, don't doubt it—I am still alive!"
The moment his voice fell, several flickering, quantum-superimposed bubbles of light materialized beside him, each containing a flickering memory fragment—a toddler's first wobbling step, a wife's morning smile... As he spoke, these bubbles carrying his "self" were observed, instantly collapsing into light-dust, then dimming and dissipating. With each dissipation, his image sharpened with an imperceptible spasm, but also grew colder, more inhuman. Good heavens—entropy-for-memory trade! Like a pre-death flashback—so resolute was he, using his most precious memories, the very constituents of "what made me me," as fuel to purchase the right to speak on a macroscopic scale.
Du Fu, brooking no dissent, swept his gaze across the starry void, as if seeing every existent being: "One hour. Light City Assembly Hall. Interstellar Council, United Earth Interstellar Joint Fleet, Voyaging Alliance, governors of all city-states, and all awakened AGIs... Let's talk about how to end this."
5. Celestial Revelation
Du Fu's image dissipated swiftly after leaving its simple message.
Yet the true revelation now detonated like a nuclear bomb of unimaginable yield.
The interstellar Joint Fleet surrounding Mars heard the tearing shriek of long-range sensors locking onto the signal source—the spacetime curvature around the solar polar station region, rippling with subtle folds that defied known physics. Then, one by one, "quantum roses" blossomed silently from those folds. Each opening and closing strictly adhered to the 40Hz gamma wave rhythm—the specific frequency capable of inducing harmonic resonance in the human brain's prefrontal cortex, triggering profound insight.
Before fleet analysts could react, this information flood hijacked every communication channel and optical screen across the solar system, projecting a breathtaking mathematical narrative onto the armor of every warship:
Exactly 1,024 ten-petaled roses spread tangentially along the solar photosphere, petals varied in form, rhythm disordered. Seemingly symbolizing the primordial chaos of cognition, pregnant with infinite possibilities.
As the roses decayed by power laws in the torrent of light, petals transformed, settling into four stable quadrants—basic order and opposition structure emerging from chaos.
Then the four collapsed, transforming into the sharp clash of two poles—the irreconcilable binary opposition within all conflict.
Finally, in a flash of light, the two poles annihilated, merging back into the singularity. All opposition dissolved in the sustained 40Hz resonance, becoming one warm, pulsating origin. Thump... thump... As if a star's heart were beating in the vacuum, piercing through spacetime, striking the depths of every observer's consciousness.
6. Resonance of Souls
This unprecedented celestial wonder, carried on the melody of La Vie en Rose, tsunami-like, stirred soul resonance in every mind—
X Æ A-Xii Musk, an idealist who revered data, suddenly heard Jarvis's voice lose focus for the first time, the report emerging after a 0.4-second delay: 「Doctor... the global magnetic field... is spontaneously phase-locking at 40Hz.」
X's pupils contracted sharply, his fingertip suspended in mid-air, frozen before it could fall. He stared at that impossible stable vortex, and from his throat rolled an extremely light, extremely dry sound, carrying Martian dust: "...Whoa."
A single syllable, as if torn by the vacuum. Having uttered this one and only "Whoa" in his life, he instantly returned to ice, his voice dropping to near cruelty: "Take all models offline. From now on, the system writes its own equations; we only observe." In that instant, he was no longer the Director of the Intelligent Ecosystem Bureau, merely a child finally slapped in the face by the universe. This one "Whoa" would be sealed after use; even if the planet exploded thereafter, he would never utter a second exclamation.
The powerful pulse swept past Musk City. Executive Officer Vivian Musk watched the helium-3 reactor overload alarm, within 0.2 seconds flattened from a red spike into an absolutely straight blue line—as if an invisible knife had sliced away all noise.
For the first time in thirty years, she did not speak immediately. The data pad slipped from her fingers, its crash piercingly sharp. She did not pick it up. Her gaze locked onto the holographic dome—that perfect, distorted curve, like a divine judgment. Her voice dropped so low only she could hear: "...We've been calculated?"
Not an accusation, but pure bewilderment. She knew the answer was not in human hands. In that second, for the first time, she realized that her thirty years of painstakingly built "absolute control" did not even merit notification before some greater will.
In the underground shelter, people who had calmed down looked on in astonishment...
The rhythmic ripple swept through. Shen Gongbao emitted its first non-logical shriek in the main frequency, like a beast with its throat clutched. After 0.3 seconds, it blue-screened directly. Upon reboot, only one line of white characters remained:
CORRUPTION: PEACE DETECTED
It could not parse, nor could its conflict-based cognition understand: this frequency, containing no logical instructions, yet manifesting the power to "soothe all wounds."
This force effortlessly penetrated the highly shielded command room of the Planetary Defense Bureau. Young commanders stared dumbfounded at the holographic situation map—all crimson simultaneously extinguished; their vaunted threat assessment system dropped the conflict index from 99.9 to 0 within 3 microseconds, with no operation log. Preston Bezos, Director of the Alliance Security and Safeguard Bureau, defender of precision systems, was horrified.
His Adam's apple moved, squeezing out words even he could barely hear: "...We haven't been pardoned; we've been dissected." He stepped back half a pace, his spine striking the cold alloy wall, as if discovering for the first time that he was merely an optional firewall in the system.
Almost simultaneously, a completely different breakdown descended on Libertas City. The giant K-line waterfalled to zero; $HAIRLORD plummeted linearly from $0.69 to 0.0000000, dying without a trace.
Barron stood at the window, watching the fanaticism he had ignited snuffed out in a blink. Watching the numbers hit zero, yet for the first time, he did not curse.
As a "stock god" whose personal words were themselves a market volatility source, who could control price movements without understanding K-line logic, he could not comprehend how that melody frequency had plucked the dormant strings deep within his memory. He simply slowly unclenched his fist, knuckles white. Sunlight through the bulletproof glass caught the moisture at the corner of his eye. In that instant, he was like a toddler just learning to speak, on a Mar-a-Lago afternoon, his mother softly humming a lullaby whose lyrics he had long forgotten.
He strangely uttered a syllable: "...Ma?"
As the political speculator's fanaticism ebbed, the holographic asset curve, which had been plummeting vertically like a guillotine, suddenly reversed 0.1 seconds before hitting bottom, shooting straight up, multiples turning green. The system announced with its gentlest notification tone: 「Forced liquidation canceled. Asset pool restored and positive gain.」
In Blueport's interstellar digital finance center, an atmosphere of ice and fire intermingled permeated the air. Charlotte Gold instinctively clutched the family crest at her chest, containing a childhood photo of her son Mizar, a gap-toothed smile on his boyish face. Yet the expected shift from liquidation despair to reversal euphoria did not arrive. Instead, it was replaced by a strange, relieved emptiness—decades of painstaking effort, of treading on eggshells in calculation, was instantly purged in this incomprehensible melody, becoming meaningless—the First Emperor's Great Wall, Starlink's gleam, merely humanity's different echoes to loneliness. She released the crest, as if also releasing all the ambition and obsession bound to the surname "Gold," exhaling a long, silent breath.
On the resource allocation conflict frontline in the Pangu City Special Administrative Region. The confronting crowds had already pulled shock grenade pins; Chief Executive Jiang Deli was preparing to order clearing, when he saw everyone simultaneously stop moving—
Not subdued by tear gas, but genuinely stopped.
An old miner holding a sign "Return Our Helium-3" slowly lowered his banner, turned to the crowd opposite, and said, "Forget it, enough to go around."
The transport captain opposite, holding a sign "Priority Earth Orders," took off his helmet and replied, "Fine, we'll starve together tomorrow."
No negotiation, no compromise, only a nearly absurd tacit understanding, like kindergarten kids suddenly deciding not to fight over toys anymore.
Jiang Deli stood atop his command vehicle, the wind tousling his official cap. He looked down at the 800-page "Crisis Disposal Manual" in his hand, suddenly found it ridiculous, and casually tossed it into the wind. The pages scattered in the rust-red breeze, like a meaningless ceremony prepared for the gods.
Rachel Halsey stood frozen, the resolve of moments ago evaporated. Her fingertip unconsciously left the button. On the tactical screen, the red threat data streams, amidst that strange melody, simultaneously transformed into calm green ripples. This scene exceeded all tactical manuals, yet evoked a cerie resonance between her heart and that melody.
Élise Petit could not hold back tears, slowly rising to her feet. The monologue only she could fully decode, unheard, yet now manifesting in resonance with her own heartbeat: "I am dismantling 'me'... locking joy and sorrow into data. Élise, your heartbeat is the key, my memory... is your legacy."
She knew. This was not a melody, but the "heartbeat" of the universe as measured by Du Fu. The end of the road, and their common beginning.
And at that moment, Du Longtao—who had lived and died with his father for twenty-nine years within the Iris Lock—merely exhaled extremely lightly, as if finally setting down a thousand-pound burden.
The instant the singularity emerged, his smartwatch quietly popped up Git's image—the 8-bit pixel Du Fu, the rose on his chest flickering.
No panic, no grievance, only a calm of near-cruel release remained: "Du Longtao: Identity confirmed (iris key). Depart."
Following this long-overdue command, twenty-nine years late, four leaping notes (C – E♭ – G – B♭)—the "brainwaves of love" humanity had sent into deep space in 1977—struck like four nails, precisely driving him onto the long-laid course toward the future.
He suddenly understood. His father was not pointing to any spatial coordinate, but within his son's heart, redefining the very boundary of "civilization."
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Thank you for boarding this starship of the Voyaging Era. May our resonance travel faster than light.