Chapter III — New Mission
The bar was bathed in a soft glow as the last sunlight came through the portholes. With the space station's rotation, daylight and darkness took turns quickly, making it feel like time was rushing by. The sun dipped below the western horizon. All space elevators are built along the equator, ensuring an equal distance from any spaceport to the City of Dawn. At this moment, each time the bar turned towards the east, I could see the sun being devoured, bit by bit, by the curve of the Earth. I pondered whether the ancients were aware that night is the Earth's shadow cast. I saw the darkness spread from the other side as the blurred line separating day from night steadily moved toward the west. The sky didn't turn into complete darkness as the sun tucked away its last beam of light. Where the sun had just vanished, the Earth stubbornly tried to grasp those final strands of luminance. In that fleeting moment, the slender atmospheric layer came into view, revealing its exquisite colors. The Earth looked both breathtakingly beautiful and incredibly delicate, resembling a soap bubble adrift in the vast emptiness of darkness.
There was the sunset, with the final touch of afterglow disappearing over the horizon.
The lights inside the bar came on at just the right moment, drawing my eyes away from the porthole to lift my glass for another sip. It was then I noticed "The Blue Danube" resonated in the room, a piano piece from the ancient times of Earth, part of the movement to revive Earth's culture. Ancient cultures had been unearthed from the depths of forgotten tomes and data networks, and the Dawn Culture Bureau tirelessly promoted these ancient artworks across the galaxy, including this iconic piano piece. I put my glass down, giving my full attention to the divine melody from the distant past.
I've had a fondness for this bar since the beginning of my career, thanks to its view of the City of Dawn. The orbital ring of the space station rotated in parallel with the Earth, resulting in a composite force that tilted about thirty degrees from the ground, which was why the floors here were also inclined.
Without the interference of the atmosphere, the City of Dawn appeared even more vivid and awe-inspiring from here than from Earth. A massive ring spun across the sky, resembling a ring fitted by a cosmic giant around Earth, though only a section of this ring was visible; its ends fade into the Earth's far reaches, shrouded in mist as if the mythical stairway to heaven. This engineering marvel inspired countless poets to pen magnificent verses and numerous authors to set their epic tales against its backdrop, tales that traveled through the galaxy.
This is a view I could never tire of.
After a few drinks, I am slightly buzzed. For some reason, the image of that little boy's eyes suddenly appeared in my mind. I set down my glass and sighed quietly to myself. In fact, being a tour guide involves more than just guiding; as the Tourism Bureau puts it, we're all tasked with the responsibility of promoting the revival of Earth's culture. At first, I truly believed that nonsense. I still recall my very first tour, where I passionately narrated the history of each landmark, introducing the ancient grandeur of human civilization, only to be met with unexpected reactions from the tourists. Their questioning and scornful attitudes made me so furious that my face turned red, and I was on the verge of throwing punches. It was my first solo tour, and for the first time, I was bombarded with complaints, which made me worry I might lose my job.
That evening, after learning about my tough day, my colleagues took me out for dinner. An experienced coworker told me not to stress over it too much, pointing out that these wealthy tourists coming from thousands or even tens of thousands of light-years away weren't here for educational purposes: "All you need to do is go through what's listed in the tour guide manual. Whether the tourists are interested or not is up to them. You are merely a tour guide." I argued, "Isn't the Tourism Bureau supposed to shoulder the important mission of reviving Terran Sphere's culture?"
My colleagues started laughing, and one drunken buddy patted me on the shoulder and said, "Jason, don't sweat it. I was like you when I first signed up, believing in that fairy tale about our role being more than mere guides tasked with the grand duty of reviving Earth's culture. I'll tell you what—that's horseshit! Our only concern should be making those tourists happy. Just feed them what they want to hear, and never argue with the tips. I'm telling you that only the rich can afford a trip to Earth! If you keep them entertained, even their pocket change could pay off a few months of your wages."
"Imagine, if you get lucky and make a rich guy happy, one Chu-Coin could make you rich!"
"Dream on, old Larry. You must be drunk. I've never seen what a Chu-Coin looks like in my life. Most people hand out uEcoins for tips. Proxima Coins are rare enough, let alone the Chu-Coins."
"Well, you'd be surprised. I heard someone got half a Proxima Coin as a tip last time, tsk."
"Lucky bastard..."
"I don't believe it. Are you drunk?"
...
As my colleagues joked and laughed, my mood remained downhearted, unable to share in their happiness. This job was far from what I had envisioned for myself. Looking at them, a sense of loss surged within me accompanied by fear. I had dreamed of becoming an esteemed promoter of culture, playing a part in the revival of Earth's cultural legacy. Yet, seeing my peers take pride in small tips, I questioned whether this was the future I signed up for. And then there were the tourists, not here out of admiration for Earth's culture but a bunch of spies with hidden agendas.
Old Larry walked over with his glass in hand and took a seat right in front of me, "Jason, though their words may sting, there's truth in them. Ah, you bring back memories of my early days fresh out of school, full of ideals and dreams."
"Exactly," the old William sitting nearby, downing a large gulp of his drink. "You know, back in my day, when I was new to this, tourists from the cosmic sea were virtually nonexistent. The Tourism Bureau was a small subdivision of the Environmental Protection Department, occasionally hosting a few wealthy clients who wished to visit the surface. Only after the Earth Culture Revival Movement became a thing did we start seeing tourists from the cosmic sea. But, in my view, very few actually came for the culture. Most were just chasing a novel experience."
When will humanity finally find peace? I couldn't help feeling disheartened at the thought. Ever since the war began, the empire and rebel forces have waged relentless warfare throughout the cosmic sea. At first, both parties exercised with caution, trying not to harm the Stargates. But ever since the Panama Gate was destroyed, it was as if Pandora's box had been opened. These warring factions abandoned all rules and became ruthless in their quest for victory. Particularly, when both sides realized that attacking a Stargate as enemy fleets were traversing could cut off their reinforcements, and the warp storms and spatial distortions from the core's explosion could devastate massive nearby objects, almost every conflict resulted in the destruction of a Stargate, turning star systems into lone islands.
The war continued for centuries, leaving countless Stargates destroyed. There's an old saying that it's much easier to destroy than to build. Building a Stargate involves exploration, testing, site selection, material transport, construction, and the charging of space seeds, and it requires a minimum of six decades, with certain Stargates even taking over a century to complete.
Yet, all these efforts were worthwhile because these countless Stargates built the great Lagrange Network, closely linking the fates of all humans.
Ah, Stargates, Stargates...
I set down my glass and turned my head, looking toward the Stargate, yet I could only see both ends of the City of Dawn's ring bathed in sunlight and the boundless void. In that infinite darkness, only the stars twinkled. The L001A Stargate, hidden among the stars, was humanity's first Stargate, built over 2,000 years ago. It was connected with the L001B Stargate in Proxima and was the only portal to the Solar System. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there—solemn and eternal.
At that time, shadows stretched along the space elevator, darkening the entire station and making the ground below seem as indistinct and shadowy as the ocean depths. It's said that things used to be different. Before the construction of the City of Dawn, cities were scattered all over Earth, radiating splendidly even at night. The breakthrough in controllable nuclear fusion freed humanity from the constraints of energy, vastly expanding living spaces. Regions once deemed uninhabitable, like deserts, the Gobi, and the highlands, became viable for settlement. Soon after, human settlements expanded across land and sea, spreading as freely as colonies of bacteria.
Thanks to the magnificent Lagrange Network and Stargates, humans managed to spread across the depths of the cosmic sea. Yet, the war was destroying the network. As Stargates were destroyed, star systems were turned into lone island star systems one after another. The light of humanity's future dimmed as we descended into the abyss.
It seemed like we couldn't do anything but watch this ongoing devastation...
As "The Blue Danube" came to an end, so did my daydreaming. It wasn't anything specific that stopped my thoughts, but the alert from my personal device. A message window appeared, making me furrow my brow—it was from the director. Weird, didn't I just report to him this afternoon?
I refused to let anyone ruin my vacation, so I hung up.
Yet, my device rang again. It seems I can't dodge the bullet this time.
"Jason," came the director's voice, "Why didn't you answer my call?"
"Director, you need to realize it's outside of working hours..." I burped softly, "I have the right not to answer any work-related calls."
"Of course, of course," the director replied in a gentler tone, "but we have an emergency here. There's a new tourist group from the Grus U8232a star system, and we're short on tour guides..."
Wait, what? That didn't sound right. I became alert and quickly interrupted, "Director, unless I'm mistaken, isn't my next schedule a month from now?"
"You're right. This group wasn't on our regular schedule; they were added unexpectedly, and they're of very high priority! I can't just entrust this to anyone. You were the first person that came to mind..."
"Because everyone else is already booked, I suppose," I ruthlessly unveiled his sweet talk.
"Jason, this isn't up for debate; you are the one," the director pressed me with his authority.
"Nope, I'm on vacation," I rejected it without hesitation.
"Look! Consider this tour an overtime shift! You'll get compensatory leave afterward!"
"Overtime means double pay," I reminded him.
"Done deal! Plus, you get to keep all the tips! I knew it, Jason. You are the man! I'll shoot you the details in a bit. Alrighty then, bye."The director hung up the call quickly, leaving me no time to haggle further.
I paused, momentarily lost for words, struggling to grasp the turn of events. Why did he deviate from his usual playbook this time? I visualized a scene where two knights prepare for a duel, but then one suddenly surrenders, denying me any chance to showcase my skills. Since when has this notoriously stingy director become so generous? The double pay was merely part of my haggling strategy, and I knew it was a long shot. Negotiations usually start with proposing something utterly unacceptable to the other party, leaving a significant margin for compromise. But to my astonishment, he immediately agreed and quickly signed the contract... What the hell was that?
Damn it! This sly old fox! I could vaguely sense that I'd fallen for another trick.
If I had known, I would have asked for triple the overtime rate. I picked up my drink and finished it off in one go. Plus, the tips were rightfully mine from the start!
