Although the massive parabolic drive stage had been largely vaporized, its mission was accomplished. It had successfully lifted the leviathan off the lunar surface.
Nuclear fusion. The divine power born in the heart of the sun had become the engine of humanity's rebirth.
At the moment of detonation, the acceleration of the Noah spiked to 1,500 meters per second squared.
What did that number mean?
It was roughly 150 times Earth's gravity.
Under normal physics, a person weighing 50 kilograms would instantly be subjected to a force of 75,000 Newtons. It was a force sufficient to crush a human body into a bloody paste instantly.
Indeed, inside the hardened observation decks, several non-essential instruments and mounts sheared off and were destroyed by the sheer G-force.
However, the crew survived. Thanks to the Noah's unique architecture, a suspended internal sphere system designed by a civilization far advanced beyond humanity, the people inside felt almost no force at all. They were spared the bloody fate of being flattened against the bulkheads.
Drops of cold sweat beaded on Jason's forehead. He couldn't tell if it was from terror or exhilaration.
He knew it wasn't over yet.
The kinetic energy from the nuclear pulse was still propagating, and the spacecraft continued to accelerate.
Beneath them, the mushroom cloud from the helium-3 detonation looked strangely slender due to the vacuum and the shaping of the drive chamber, but its power was undeniable. The immense thrust had lofted the city-sized ship in a heartbeat.
It looked as though the Noah was riding the tip of a pillar of fire, climbing higher and faster. Thousands of meters, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands... Finally, the crushing acceleration began to bleed off.
"Command to all stations: Report operational status!" Jason ordered, his voice steady.
The launch wasn't finished. This was the critical insertion phase.
As the Supreme Commander, he had to project an image of absolute stability and reliability, even if his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Engineering reporting: External drive stage integrity is at 14.24% damage is within calculated parameters. The third-stage pusher plate has taken heavy thermal damage."
"Starboard observation deck has structural micro-fractures. Damage control teams are sealing it off."
"Hull breach in Lab 2! External plating has peeled away. Emergency repairs initiated."
[Lab 7 is a total loss. Internal piping fractured, detecting atmosphere venting. Sealing bulkheads now!]
[Navigation reporting: Current velocity 16.56 km/s... 19.44... 23.66... 27.96... Acceleration curve is leveling off!]
[Flight Control reporting: Trajectory deviation is 12.36%. It's within the safety margin but requires immediate correction.]
A flood of data converged on Jason's console, some critical, some secondary, all requiring split-second decisions.
He issued instructions with mechanical precision.
The Moon's escape velocity is approximately 2.4 km/s. The Noah was currently traveling nearly ten times faster than that. Breaking free of the Moon's gravity well was a certainty, but they couldn't afford to be complacent.
[Command: Drop off the external drive stage.]
"Aye, Captain. Dropping off the external drive stage!"
With a dull thud that reverberated through the frame, the charred remains of the "inverted basin" engine detached from the hull. Its purpose was served.
It was a wrecked husk of metal now, scarred by the fury of the nuclear fire.
However, having absorbed the momentum of the launch, the debris would carry enough speed to escape the Moon's gravity as well. It would become a ghost of the solar system, perhaps to be captured by a planet millions of years from now, or to wander the void forever like a man-made comet.
[Command: Initiate tactical pulse correction sequence. Adjust for deviation.]
"Aye, Captain. Arming secondary nuclear charges... Three, two, one. Pulse initiated!"
Flashes of intense light flickered behind the spacecraft. These were shaped nuclear explosions triggered by smaller tactical warheads, tiny firecrackers compared to the one-billion-ton monster that had launched them, but sufficient for coarse course correction.
This was the original propulsion scheme, the multi-bomb "Project Orion" style drive, now repurposed for steering.
[Navigation reporting: Correction complete. Trajectory deviation reduced to 0.83%. Velocity holding at 28.66 km/s. Awaiting orders.]
[Command: Activate Alpha Thrusters for fine-tuning.]
"Aye, Captain. Alpha Thrusters coming online..."
A deep hum vibrated through the ship as four massive chemical rockets, each with a nozzle diameter of ten meters, extended from the hull. They spewed pillars of fire into the void, applying precise force to align the Noah's vector.
In aerospace engineering, a microscopic error at launch leads to a miss by millions of kilometers at the destination.
A deviation of one ten-thousandth of a degree now could mean drifting into the void forever. You couldn't use nukes for this kind of needle-threading; you needed the steady burn of chemical rockets.
[Navigation reporting: Alpha burn successful! Current velocity 28.68 km/s. Course locked. Estimated arrival at Mars orbit: 93 days.]
Jason froze. The silence on the communicator was deafening.
What was next?
It seemed... there were no more steps.
Was the checklist clear?
Yes. The checklist was clear.
They had done it.
Success. We actually succeeded.
A wave of ecstasy surged from the depths of his soul, so intense it was almost painful. Then, just as quickly, the adrenaline crashed. Jason felt every ounce of strength leave his body. He collapsed back into his command chair.
Six months of life-and-death struggle. Six months of sleepless nights. All for these ten minutes.
They had won. They had actually won.
He struggled to pull himself upright one last time. He keyed the ship-wide intercomunicator, his voice rasping but loud.
"This is the Captain speaking. Comrades... I am announcing that Project Noah is a success."
The moment the microphone clicked off, his eyes rolled back, and he fell into a deep, comatose sleep.
He was simply too tired. For half a year, he had carried the weight of the species on his shoulders. Now that the wire had snapped, his body demanded its due.
But his announcement triggered a shockwave of a different kind.
The Noah erupted into a frenzy of joy.
People screamed, cheered, jumped, and wept. The relief was primal.
We made it! We're alive!
Professor Hao Yu clenched his bruised fists and roared at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face, completely abandoning his usual dignified academic persona.
Felix grabbed his violin, which he hadn't touched in six months and began playing a frantic, joyous reel while dancing on a table.
Doctor Roman was singing at the top of his lungs, the lyrics incoherent but the melody triumphant.
Leo grabbed his girlfriend, Wendy, and kissed her passionately amidst the chaos.
They celebrated with the reckless abandon of people who had looked death in the face and blinked.
Just like that, humanity had stepped into the interstellar era.
Many people found themselves weeping uncontrollably. They cried for themselves, for the friends they had lost, and for the sheer audacity of the human race.
In that moment, everyone felt that the suffering, the sweat, and the fear had been worth it.
This emotion wasn't about survival. It wasn't about better food or safety. It was the transcendent joy of realizing an impossible ideal.
It was a spiritual high that no material comfort could ever provide.
In the old world, how many people ever truly achieved their dreams? How many people dared to chase them?
For most, "ideals" were things to be abandoned in adulthood, kites that would never fly.
But here, on this ship, everyone had bled for a dream. And they had caught it.
Humanity was selfish. It was greedy. It was cowardly. It was flawed in a thousand ways. But humanity also possessed the capacity to dream, and the grit to turn those dreams into reality.
We are great because we dream. We are strong because we build.
We, the human race, march toward the stars.
And we shall fear nothing.