Meanwhile, the planets throughout the galaxy beyond our solar system were deep in crisis.
Charles, the Earth diplomat who had also survived the illness, had experienced life's dramatic highs and lows. This gave him deep insight into the pandemic's impact.
He believed that Earth, as the first to emerge from the crisis, bore the responsibility of saving the galaxy. And Earth should use this opportunity to truly become interstellar.
The reason he said "truly" become interstellar was that, prior to this, Earth's relationship with other planets had been like online friends—never having actually visited each other.
Earth was too far from those planets. Even Proxima Centauri, the closest, was 4.22 light-years away.
At Earth's pre-openness level of technology, it would have taken 18,000 years to reach Proxima Centauri. After opening up, technology advanced rapidly, and now the journey took only 18 days.
Other planets' aerospace technology was even more advanced—visiting Earth should theoretically have been achievable in even shorter time.
It seemed like a vast improvement, so why had no mutual visits occurred? Because the factors to consider extended beyond time to cost; a single visit consumed enormous energy.
This was the network age. Most exchanges and cooperation could be conducted through the Interstellar Network, making costly physical visits unnecessary.
But faced with this sudden pandemic, simple online communication could no longer achieve aid objectives. So Earth acted immediately, first proposing an aid plan to the nearest Proxima Centauri—like sending charcoal in snowy weather, Proxima Centauri gladly accepted.
Life above all—no matter the energy cost, the ships had to launch. Earth's medical expert aid team had set out.
Reflecting on this filled me with emotion—I was actually one of the aid team members. After decades of dedicated work in medicine, I was finally leaving Earth with honed skills.
On Earth, I was a top epidemiologist specializing in traditional Chinese medicine, enjoying high prestige and influence. Yet this was my first time aboard a long-haul spacecraft. Though seemingly behind the times, I was actually at the forefront of all humanity.
My wife, meanwhile, was still laboring in her fields. She and I seemed separated by centuries, drifting ever further apart at an accelerating pace.
The ship had been sailing for five Earth days. The entertainment facilities and fine dining on board were dazzling. We celebrated with abandon, raising our glasses to humanity taking yet another "first step."
After five days of eating and drinking to our hearts' content, Charles and I had exhausted our entertainment and resumed our idle chatter.
"Tell me more about your wife. How did the two of you, with such a gulf between you, end up together?" Charles asked.
"A campus romance," I answered. Come to think of it, our courtship felt like it belonged to a different century—I could barely connect that weathered field-working woman with the beautiful girl from university.
"We were classmates, both studying traditional Chinese medicine. We were compatible in every way, and her grades were even better than mine. Our divergence—or rather, her divergence from the times—began with a required course."
"Was it the Interstellar Common Language course?" Charles, being a diplomat, was quick to catch on.
"Yes. No matter what major you were in, the Interstellar Common Language was mandatory.
"But she fiercely refused to take the course. This aligned with her worldview—she opposed Earth's opening up and preached isolationism. She didn't want to learn the language because it would give her a chance to yearn for the vast world outside.
"The school didn't want to lose such an academically outstanding student. Everyone from her counselor to the university leadership spoke with her, but she was immovable. She refused to take the language course and dropped out in her second year, destroying her bright future.
"That wasn't all—she also tried to stop me from taking the course.
"Even though I was terrible at languages, my views were the complete opposite of hers. No matter how poorly I did, I was going to learn it. I'm not someone who settles for the status quo, and I had no time for her rhetoric. I finished university and naturally rose to the top of the traditional medicine field.
"We still got married afterward—I worried that without her degree, she'd struggle everywhere with no one to rely on. So despite our incompatible values, I couldn't bring myself to break up with her.
"But I never expected her to give up so completely. It wasn't even about struggling to find work—she simply didn't look for a job. She took up an occupation eliminated by the modern era, reverting to a primitive lifestyle, as if her next step would be devolving into a cavewoman."
Just thinking about her laboring in the fields made my chest tighten.
"Drama indeed," Charles said. "By the way, what does she grow?"
"Something related to her former major, actually. She grows medicinal herbs. Before that, she raised scorpions."
A flicker of sympathy crossed Charles's eyes. "Actually, I can understand her."
I waved my hand, not wanting to discuss it further.
The ship continued its voyage. Over the following days, I thought a great deal about my wife. I wondered why she was so stubborn, why she defied the current of the times so willfully.
She could have had a bright future like mine. We could have completed our studies together, gone from school uniforms to wedding clothes, and side by side advanced to the forefront of Earth's medical field.
Instead, she chose to destroy herself in the prime of her life.
Farming, farming, farming—year after year of self-numbing, self-isolation, as if she had given up on life itself, trapped in an endless cycle of primitive existence.
She was just a solitary figure fighting a battle she couldn't win—not even her husband stood beside her. What could she hope for? The times wouldn't pity her, much less change for her.
Beyond the porthole was an endless void, vast and boundless. We had been sailing through space for over a dozen days. The first few days had been exciting—parties, food, drink, conversation—but now the cabin had fallen into a deathly stillness.
The universe was too vast. Despite having so many companions, loneliness arrived right on schedule. I found myself constantly recalling that earnest, stubborn girl from university, constantly recalling the woman toiling under the blazing sun in her fields.
I had long believed our marriage was already at a dead end. For nearly a decade, I hadn't looked her in the eye, hadn't listened to a word she said, had inflicted cold violence on her without restraint.
But now, in this extraordinary environment, I spent more time contemplating the past than anything else. Faced with the boundless cosmos, it seemed the only thing humans could do was think.
I had to admit I missed my wife. The space voyage was too long, my heart suspended without an anchor. I even found myself wishing that instead of looking out at the endless black void, I could see those damned fields.
Fields had boundaries—you could see the horizon, see the edges. The universe had no edges. What they called "openness" also seemed to have no end. Only Earth was an eternal home.
After this aid mission was over, I needed to go back and have a real talk with my wife. We hadn't truly communicated in so long.
Like me, everyone around me had sunk into a listless contemplation—everyone except my seat-mate, that is. Throughout the voyage, Charles had remained indefatigably energetic. From day eight, he had repeatedly tried to strike up conversations, which I politely declined, citing fatigue.
Then he spent long periods pressed against the porthole, staring out at the emptiness, constantly exclaiming, "So vast... so magnificent..."
His enthusiasm failed to infect me and instead made me suspicious. Honestly, day after day of looking out the window—what could he possibly see? Whatever grand spectacle he claimed to be witnessing was indistinguishable from closing your eyes and looking at your own inner world.
Something was off with this man. The thought crossed my mind briefly before I sank back into contemplation of the past.
It wasn't until the eighteenth day that the ship's atmosphere revived. Everyone had a palpable sense of "finally arriving." Spirits rose to match Charles's level, and the parties started up again—food, drink, music, conversation.
That day, as we neared our destination, a screen appeared before Charles.
The alien on the screen was short and thin-skinned, with a grayish-white complexion that gleamed as though slick with oil, as if wrapped in a transparent casing. They looked far less healthy than Earth's people, clearly malnourished. The pandemic had worn them to exhaustion.
This was my first time seeing what a Proxima Centauri inhabitant looked like—almost like meeting an online friend in person for the first time.
It made me realize that the so-called interstellar integration hadn't truly been integration at all. What kind of diplomacy involved no mutual visits? After centuries of communication, today was the first time we'd seen what aliens actually looked like.
And looking at them now—they seemed truly impoverished.
"Shortly, the spacecraft will land on Proxima Centauri. On behalf of the people of Proxima Centauri, I sincerely thank Earth diplomat Charles, thank Dr. Fang and your team, and thank Earth." This was spoken in the Interstellar Common Language.
My grasp of the language was poor, but I understood the gist. The Proxima Centauri representative's delivery seemed oddly flat, devoid of emotion.
After the screen message concluded, the ship's broadcast replayed the statement on a loop, again and again, to express their welcome and gratitude.