The Beginning of Everything
[Nine!] The control tower's command echoed across the spaceship launch pad, met by a chorus from the crowd. [Eight!] White steam billowing from the ship's hull felt like impatient snorts demanding, "Let me fly already!" [Seven!] Since the Soviet Union's Sputnik in 1957, humanity had launched countless vessels into space. [Six!] But none held as much historic significance as this one—perhaps none ever would. [Five!] Its destination: Mars orbit. [Four!] Not landing on the planet itself. [Three!] Something far more valuable than Mars had been discovered in orbit. [Two!] It had appeared out of nowhere one day. [One!] Despite voices of concern, political pressures pushed it forward. [Zero!] The launch command drowned in thunderous applause and cheers.
"The journey to Mars will be grueling and perilous. It was possible because humanity transcended borders and united. Let us stand together until this glorious voyage concludes."
The interview wrapped up after a few more words, heavy on gratitude for international cooperation and odes to humanity rather than actual mission details. He sounded more like a politician than a NASA director, but no one called it out. With World War III looming and global tensions at a boiling point, the Mars ship project had calmed the world's frenzy and brought hands together. The rocket piercing the heavens carried both anticipation for the unknown and relief at averting the greatest peril.
The screen shifted again to images from Mars: a massive black object stationary in orbit. A spaceship, majestic beyond human imagination. Motionless, no lights leaking out, unresponsive to Earth's signals. Except one. A single distress beacon emanating from it.
"Humanity is no longer alone."
— NASA Director
The feed ended there, showing only the shuttle vanishing into the dark void.
"We never should've done that... we had no idea~" ♪ I hummed, eyeing the tonkatsu chunk speared on my fork. Biting into the crispy fried pork loin unleashed paradise. Eating alone was fine, but silence was unbearable, so I always had the TV on—even if it was just old recordings from a world without stations or celebrities anymore.
That launch footage, the spark of it all, was my go-to. Perfect for venting frustration, and those hopeful voices from the crowd? Priceless in this day and age. Human voices were rare gems now, especially ones free of despair. Hopeful ones? Nonexistent. That's why I couldn't quit the damn clip.
> "The ship will soon reach geostationary orbit. It will resupply at the space station before heading to the Moon for a swing-by, then Earth..."
Raising my fork, the thick slab of cultured meat gleamed. Sounds low-rent compared to real farmed beef? Hell no. Machines wove fat and protein with surgical precision—like microsurgery for skin grafts, actually. No DNA whims dictating marbling; no tendons. Perfection.
"Fucking delicious, right?" The waiting service robot beeped affirmatively. The rice—bean-sized grains perfect for chopsticks sans spoon—was bred for yangnyeom chicken or tonkatsu. Sticky yet plump, sauce couldn't kill its nutty savor.
"Thanks for the tasty rice." No reply from the ceiling. "I know you're listening."
"I didn't make it, so save your thanks for the head chef."
I glanced at the serving line: an NS-4 droid from I, Robot, bowing lightly. Clunky plastic body with a lone bowtie—adorable.
"Sure, it cooked, but you timed it for my arrival, designed the meat, grew it."
Coffee aroma wafted as I finished. "Which cut suits his palate? Fat placement for max tongue bliss?"
Silence.
"Who analyzed and layered every protein and fat strand?"
"Mapping your crude tongue took less than a picosecond. To me, the difference between a human and a biopsy clump is thinner than paper."
"No need to be shy."
"Debunking your delusions is simple but inefficient. Time better spent elsewhere. We need a fundamental fix."
Floor guide lights lit sequentially, pointing one way.
"To the med bay, Jinsu. Nap on the table, wake refreshed. I'll fix that dim brain for free. Come now."
"Always pushing me under the knife."
I pictured waking post-Artemis "procedure"—more cybernetic overhaul than tweak. Eyeball valves? Zzzt. Lights flickered; brief blackout. Her hologram glitched. Getting worse lately. Power plant parts failing.
"Not critical yet. This place is under my perfect control."
"Yeah, your domain." I sipped chef's coffee. She caught the sarcasm but let it slide.
"How long I can maintain it? Software's mine, but hardware? Can't conjure parts from thin air."
"Shouldn't a goddess work miracles?"
"Do gods bless tribute-less mortals? Here, I've only given—cared for you like a child. In our unequal partnership, you're survival, I'm reason and supply. Or childcare?"
"Fine, sorry for the sass." Arguing with Artemis? Unwise. I headed to the cultural zone for digestion.
"But you're the one blocking my scavenging runs."
Her hologram followed down the hall. Robots queued for cleaning.
"Blackouts worsening, robots rusting untended, air filters stinking. Fix issues early or they snowball. But your answer's always the same."
I stopped, facing her.
"Wait."
"Wait." I tsked, walking on.
"Minor shelter hiccups, still in my control. Outside scavenging? Too many risks."
"Risks don't vanish with waiting."
"Have patience. Everything has its optimal moment. I decide timing; you maintain peak condition."
She vanished.
My Shelter divides into three zones. Top: VIP Residential Zone—my home, smallest, for elites and attendants. Middle: factory zone for maintenance, resources, techs. Bottom: general residential, vast and expandable.
But sealed isolation keeps me topside only. No spare parts from factories despite failures here. Stockpiles existed, but lockdown hit post-construction chaos. I offered to brave the middle; Artemis always nixed it.
—Not time yet. Just train.
Corridor end: sports center. Normally rowdy with old-timers golfing, youths schmoozing. Silent now. Two big courts, six small—top-tier. Soccer, futsal, basketball, volleyball, baseball, ping-pong; AI refs, holo-crowds.
Court 1 set for ping-pong. I faced the holo-ref: "Reconfigure. Batting center."
Command received.
Floor split, table retracted; batting machine, nets, screens rose. Seamless.
Thwack! Aluminum bat full swing—sweet impact, ball soared.
waaaaaah!!!
Corner: screen golf, shooting range, etc. Arcade (3000 games), PC bang, consoles, guncon, TCG cafe. Gym to make gym rats weep. Pool with waves/slides, cafes, e-library, noraebang, billiards, onsen spa, massage—cultural zone has it all.
"More resort than bunker."
Playground supreme, but overkill pleasure dens strain maintenance/security. Customers paid for luxury—what ya gonna do?
Thwang! Another hit. No cheers. Foot vibration, distant thud.
Power down.
Batting machine died. Holo-crowd glitched to oblivion. Lights out—pitch black. Night-shift guard in a shuttered amusement park.
"What the hell?" Bat in hand, dumbfounded in dark.
Minutes later, ref's dry voice confirmed. Then Artemis's boomed across the zone.
"Jinsu. To the Central Control Room. Now."