Once shrouded by the Marker's whispers and the blood moon's nauseating crimson glare, ravaged by endless corpse hordes and mutants to the brink of collapse, the Dead Space universe has long since been cleansed of filth and reborn with unprecedented vitality.
The scars of old were smoothed by the Imperial Engineering Department's grand works. Upon the ruins of despair rose brand-new "halls" of civilization, symbols of order, reason, and prosperity.
And within this vast domain, the most eye-catching and reassuring by far is the planet retaken by the Diwuzu with supreme might and iron will, and rebuilt with lavish resources and care—
Earth, numbered "20."
It is no longer a refuge where one must struggle to survive, but a lighthouse shining in this distant star sea for the Empire, a living monument to civilization's revival.
From distant Lagrange points, this familiar blue planet is now "cradled" by a near-transparent planetary shield that sheds a soft, steady cyan-blue glow.
This planet-scale shield system, known locally as Gaia's Shield, is the Engineering Department's masterpiece—melding Forerunner, Galactic Empire, and Imperial technologies into a pinnacle of craft.
It is not a rigid wall of force, but a dynamic, highly intelligent, multilayered composite.
The outermost layer can precisely calculate and deflect even fist-sized meteoroid fragments, preventing any "nuisance" to orbital facilities or the surface;
the middle layer, like a colossal biological filter, efficiently neutralizes harmful radiation from deep space to keep the surface in the ideal band for human life;
and the innermost layer is an invisible absolute bastion woven from complex quantum encryption protocols. Any object attempting passage without top-level Imperial authorization—
whether matter or energy—will instantly trigger alarms and be met with a targeted, annihilating strike.
Though the Diwuzu Legion long ago swept clean—or drove to the far fringes to die on the vine—every known, planet-level hostile threat in the galaxy, the Empire's core creed has never slackened in times of peace—
"The people's safety is the bedrock of the Empire's survival—above all."
This ever-circling light of guardianship is the most direct, most comforting embodiment of that iron law, proclaiming the Empire's promise and power to all subjects, day and night.
Pull the "view" down to low orbit, and a space tableau unfolds more grand and busy than any sci‑fi vision of the past.
As if governed by a cosmic clockwork, countless ships of myriad forms and a profusion of large, medium, and small stations weave a living web of motion.
The stations are engineering marvels in their own right.
Some are metal hives, with swarms of small transports buzzing in and out like worker bees, swallowing and disgorging vast cargoes and travelers from across the system—and other universes;
some stand like silent lighthouses—little motion outside while inside they pursue cutting-edge physics and life-science research that will shape this universe's future;
still others are already city-sized, with complete life-support and unique ecosystems within—micro-nations floating in the dark.
Along Earth's day–night terminator, several grander orbital shipyards run like tireless beasts, day and night.
Huge alloy keels sketch the silhouettes of future warships against deep space; engineering robots, like flocks of migratory birds, work the spans; welding throws studded arcs like ceaseless festival fireworks—lighting the cold void.
At times, a brand-new ship—fresh from final assembly, armor gleaming, Imperial dragon crest and fleet number crisp—is eased from her jigs by careful tenders and, "putting to sea," joins the great river of interstellar traffic below.
This is a sweeping epic that fuses supreme power, precise order, surging vitality, and consummate prosperity.
In this airspace—a showcase of Imperial productive zenith—a super‑sleek, pristine white, three‑kilometer interstellar cruise liner labeled Starvault Wanderer adjusts attitude with a grace and lightness belying her bulk.
Her design philosophy is wholly unlike the hard‑edged, function‑forward industrial and military hulls around her—eschewing menace and severity for visual beauty and passenger comfort.
Every curve has been "hand-sculpted" by her architects. The smooth hull reflects starlight, making her feel less like a vehicle than an art piece strayed into reality and strolling the cosmos.
She has just completed a short routine hop from Mars orbit to Earth orbit, her hull carrying scarcely any residual heat from the "jump."
Now, firing a faint, ghost‑blue trickle from her efficient thruster array, she eases toward a sunlit, civilian passenger mega‑station.
Inside the Starvault Wanderer.
Step through an airtight hatch and it is as if two worlds change at once.
The vacuum, cold, heat, and stillness of outer space give way to a self‑contained "paradise."
First to meet the eye is the central hall, soaring over 150 meters high.
Its dome is not cold metal, but a full‑resolution holo‑sky tuned precisely to shipboard standard time—
blue days with filigree clouds; nights of deep, brilliant star‑rivers; even specific astronomical wonders on cue.
The air carries a faint green from ecological gardens throughout the ship, blending with scents calibrated to relax mind and body—lifting spirits at once.
Ultra‑soft background music—composed with psychological principles—trickles like a stream, barely there, covering any ghost‑noise of ship systems and making a space of perfect calm and rest.
In the hall, passengers from across the Empire, in leisurewear of comfort and taste, with faces open and easy, enjoy themselves.
They savor dishes prepared on demand by smart kitchens—worthy of five stars—in tastefully appointed theme restaurants featuring specialties from the Solar System, Centaurus, and farther colonies;
they stroll or recline in lounges with full‑height viewports—unobstructed views down over Earth's majesty and out into deep space—laughing low with friends;
and in the fully equipped entertainment centers and immersive VR suites are wave‑pools for surfing and hot springs to steep all cares away.
Whether human, elf, Tielek, or other crew—trained, sincere, and attuned to personalized service—or servitor bots—precise, efficient, and ever ready—everyone ensures each traveler's experience is flawless.
There is no crowding, no clamor, no trace of the tension from times of scarcity—only a peaceable luxury and deep restfulness, grounded in hyper‑advanced productivity, refined social distribution, and modern management—truly accessible to every Imperial citizen.
At the hall's entrance, the most prominent sight is a holo advertisement that changes without pause, drawing every eye.
In vivid cuts, it showcases highlights of this "Grand Tour of the Imperial Core Territories":
The camera dives past the prime universe's Earth, looking down as dawn pearls the Imperial Palace's glazed tiles;
then jumps to Mars in another universe—beneath a titanic clear dome, a green city stands in sharp counterpoint to red plains far beyond;
the next heartbeat plunges under Europa's ice in some universe—alien sea life dances in ghost‑blue waters by searchlight;
last, the frame slips to "New Wangjing," tens of thousands of light‑years off the map—a planet like a giant emerald "set" in a radiant purple nebula—its unique ecology and a skyline that marries classical East with futurism, breathtaking to behold.
Every frame is exquisite—crafted to stir in any sapient the urge to explore and to see beauty.
Below, in graceful letters—Imperial standard script—clear details:
"Starvault Wanderer exclusive route: Grand Tour of the Imperial Core Territories.
Trip length: 30 standard Earth days.
Highlights: One voyage to take in the most iconic natural wonders and cultural treasures across the Empire's current domains.
Price: Supreme Enjoyment Package, special at only 800 cR (all taxes included).
Includes: Standard cabin fare, first‑entry tickets for all listed attractions, daily buffet at designated 5‑star standards, standard cabin lodging, basic onboard entertainment, and facility access, etc.
800 cR (Imperial credits)!"
Converted, its purchasing power is roughly equivalent to US$600 in the early 20th century of the prime universe—before the Empire's founding.
In today's prime‑universe Empire, with near‑infinite energy supplies, highly automated and intelligent production, and a welfare system aimed to guarantee every citizen's dignity and developmental needs through on‑demand distribution, even an Imperial citizen in a basic public service—say city environment maintenance or community culture liaison—easily nets over 200,000 cR a year after taxes.
Technical trades, researchers, and Legion support staff earn more.
In other words, this luxurious interstellar journey—across untold light‑years and a full month, covering transport, lodging, dining, entertainment, and tours—costs the average Imperial citizen only about four‑tenths of one percent of annual income.
It is an everyday "small spend"—needing no long budgeting or saving and within reach of nearly anyone, any time. The choice is perhaps no weightier than someone in the old era deciding whether to picnic on a weekend.
Naturally, minors still in the Empire's comprehensive compulsory education and skills training cannot be compared to adults with steady incomes.
But Imperial education and social welfare have likewise set out almost-free—or token-fee—broadly accessible explorations and amusements for them—interstellar camps, science expeditions, history–culture tours—ensuring the new generation can broaden horizons too.
This is the truest slice of the "Golden Age" the prime‑universe Human Empire has built under Emperor Samuel Young's grand blueprint and iron will—
not only possessing Legions and fleets that sweep the star‑sea and chill xenos and daemons to the bone to expand borders and hold order;
but, through refined and efficient social mechanisms, fairly sharing the fruits of that growth into the finest grain of every Imperial citizen's daily life.
It turns the right to explore the stars, savor alien cultures, and enjoy life's leisure from an extravagance for a tiny class of privilege into an everyday, reachable, ordinary and real happiness, woven into common life.
It is not just material plenty—but a "raising" of civilization's state.
Inside a standard passenger cabin.
If the liner's public spaces are shared "halls" full of art, then the standard cabin is a private "palace" crafted for each traveler—luxury and comfort with intelligent convenience.
This is no cramped berth but an elegant space over 70 square meters with clear zones.
Underfoot lies a soft, springy, warm‑tone sound‑absorbing floor. The walls are smart surfaces—opacity and display content tunable—currently showing a soothing starfield.
By the oval view‑port sits the lounge—a humane sofa and a small tea table.
Outside, Earth turns in blue with the deep of space—a perpetual moving mural.
A frosted glass divider gently sets off the sleep zone from the lounge. A broad double bed rules the center—linens plainly of top materials—inviting to the eye.
The separate bath is wet–dry split—with smart constant‑temperature water recirculation—and a small whirlpool tub for two.
The mini‑bar stocks nonalcoholic drinks and snacks, all included in fare, for the taking.
Lighting offers modes from lively "Dawn" to romantic "Sunset," each one‑tap.
And this is merely a "standard" cabin on this ship.
In the Human Empire today, interstellar liners like the Starvault Wanderer are as countless as sand in the desert.
Fierce competition drives civilian interstellar lines to pour thought into service—and especially into cabins where passengers spend most time—pushing comfort, tech feel, and spatial use to the limit, trying to outdo rivals in every detail to win more travelers.
This room's fit-out would shame many a five‑star suite before the Empire's founding.
On one wall, a full‑panel holo silently runs a travel promo for Earth‑20—majestic landscapes and vibrant rebuilt cities trading frames.
In a corner, the time reads:
"Imperial Calendar: Year 0058, May 25, Standard Time 14:32."
That marker means it has been nearly three years since the gate between the prime universe and the Dead Space universe opened, linked, and stabilized.
In that not-long span, Imperial reach and reconstructive power have profoundly remade this once-gutted world.
Just then—
"Still not packed?"
A mature man's voice—tinged with helplessness but full of forbearance—broke the calm.
"What's the rush, rookie."
A moment later a woman answered—slightly lazy, with a distinctive warmth and a tease—completely at ease.
Look toward the sound.
At the vanity, a woman sat straight before a smart mirror.
Her cropped black hair set off a face already exquisite.
She wore a tailored, stylish dark‑red silk sleep set—soft and close—tracing a figure still lithe and striking.
She seemed to have just finished basic skincare and was unhurriedly studying her reflection, lightly combing her fringe.
The man stepped out from the wardrobe.
He had changed into dark leisure trousers and a soft light‑gray knit—casual wear that did not hide a straight, strong frame.
He came to the vanity and stood behind her.
The mirror showed his face—
the iconic golden center‑parted hair set just so; most striking, he had shaved the stubble that used to lend a trace of wear—showing features still sharp and handsome though time had left its mark at the eyes.
The blue gaze—once hard and wary—was now easy, gentle—smiling a little as it met the woman's in the mirror.
The man and woman were the Investigation Department's legends—founders in all but name—
Leon S. Kennedy and Ada Wong.
Per Imperial records—and the simple, meaningful gold bands on their ring fingers—Ada's legal surname now is Kennedy.
Yes—three years ago, once the gate stabilized and order was first set, the two "partners" who'd been entwined half a life—through trials of death and tests of feeling—were wed before friends, bound by Imperial law and its protection.
Ada's lips curved as she looked at Leon through the glass, her tone carrying that signature, unreadable tease:
"It's just a thirty‑day trip. Do you really need to gear up and charge out in five minutes like an emergency op?
Relax and enjoy your vacation, Mr. Kennedy."
Leon set his hands gently on her shoulders and shook his head—smiling with a touch of self‑mock and all fondness:
"Alright, alright—you're right, Mrs. Kennedy. Just used to being on time, I guess I need a little practice at this slower life."
For them, this voyage isn't mere sightseeing. It is a long‑delayed honeymoon—a chance to bid farewell to old smoke and fire and truly start savoring the peace and plenty the Empire has brought.
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