It was 4:26 a.m. The light in the main control room of Abandoned Satellite Station A-7 flickered once.
Lin Wanqiu was tightening the camera cover when a sharp, crackling sound came from the main computer case—like someone tearing a piece of old tape right next to her ear. She froze. Two seconds later, the noise came again: short, dry, like fingernails scraping across a circuit board.
She frowned and glanced at the still-lit monitor.
The broadcast end screen was displayed:
Program: The Ancient Bamboo Slip Accounting System of the Pre-Qin Period — Material Selection and Information Density Optimization
Views: 3,821
Live viewers: 0
The last comment had been posted three hours earlier:
"Will you talk about ancient Chinese counting rods from the Han Dynasty next time?"
Everything seemed normal.
Yet the fan kept spinning, faster than usual, humming faintly as if something was throwing off its rhythm. She tapped the side of the case, a gesture as familiar as patting an old refrigerator. The noise vanished at once, the fan slowed, and the temperature indicator in the corner dropped from 69°C to 65°C.
"Acting up again," she muttered, unplugging the audio input cable.
She had built this computer herself. After the solar storm three years ago that crashed the global network, usable equipment was scarce. She had pieced this streaming setup together from scrap server motherboards and secondhand parts. It was not powerful, but it was stable. For two and a half years, it had never failed badly—only minor connection issues in winter when capacitors contracted. A tap always fixed it.
She checked the power cable: firmly plugged. The antenna connection was tight, the metal screw smooth and unoxidized. She knelt to check the voltage stabilizer on the floor. The green light was steady, voltage fluctuation within ±5V, safe range.
"Must be static," she told herself. "The wind is too strong."
Sand was indeed blowing outside, sifting through the door crack and forming a fine, slippery layer on the floor. The old window frame held a cracked pane; wind whistled through in a low vibration, like someone sawing wood far away. She stood, walked to the corner, and pulled the pothos plant closer to the desk, away from the draft. Its leaves remained green, its stem upright, untouched by the harsh environment.
It was her habit. After every stream, she checked the pothos. Not superstition—a psychological anchor. As long as it was there, she felt she could keep going, even if every other device broke down.
She turned off the monitor, removed the memory card, blew dust off it, and sealed it in a waterproof bag. She held down the computer's power button for ten seconds, forcing a shutdown. The fan gradually stopped, and the case cooled.
"I'll bring a new cable tomorrow."
She pulled out a notepad and wrote under To-Do:
Inspect power line aging at Station A-7.
She closed the notebook and slipped it into her burlap sack, its edges frayed white, the strap patched three times. Inside were half a pack of cookies, a pen, a multi-tool, a hand-drawn map, and a foil-wrapped USB drive—her backup analysis of Kaogong Ji (Artificers' Record), material science notes she planned to share with a friend at the agricultural academy.
She put on her windbreaker, zipped it up to her chin, and pulled the hood over her head. The cuffs of her modified hanfu disappeared into her gloves. The bronze hairpin in her hair swayed in the wind, letting out a tiny metallic clink. She did not adjust it. It would not fall. It had been her father's, and its design was sturdy.
Before locking the door, she glanced back at the control room.
Tables and chairs were neat, equipment put away. Only a faint handprint marked the side of the computer case where she had tapped it. On the whiteboard, today's outline was written in neat regular script:
1. Tensile strength of bamboo fiber vs. wooden tablets
2. Carving depth and information retention rate
3. Scroll vs. slip assembly: advantages and disadvantages
She nodded, satisfied.
The stream had few viewers, but the logic was complete, the data accurate, no lag, no accidents. Compared to the sandstorm that cut her power mid-broadcast about ancient canal drainage last week, this had been perfectly smooth.
She pulled the door shut. The iron latch clicked. She pocketed the key and stepped onto the gravel path.
The wind had grown stronger, stinging her face with grains of sand like fine needles. She walked with steady steps. She had taken this path more than twenty times; she could find the exit booth blindfolded. Collapsed barbed wire and rusted signal tower bases lined both sides. In the distance, a wrecked engineering vehicle lay half-buried in sand, like the fossil of some prehistoric creature.
She pulled out a cookie and bit into it. Sweet, with honey—bought in town on her last trip. Warmth spread in her mouth.
Her mind replayed the stream.
Had she misquoted any data? No. The average load-bearing test results for bamboo slips came from the 2021 Archaeological Research Institute report, with a margin of error within 3%. Had she missed anything? She had forgotten to mention the effect of cord material on long-term preservation, but she could add that next time. Had she spoken too fast? Maybe slightly in the final five minutes, but she had paused at key points. Understanding should not be affected.
She always reviewed her streams this way. Not perfectionism—a source of security. Knowledge was controllable. To explain something clearly was to master a piece of the world. The last message her father had sent before he disappeared was:
"Wanqiu, remember: what you cannot understand is only waiting for its explanation."
She did not fear obscurity, small audiences, or even failure. She feared ambiguity, chaos, phenomena she could not categorize.
Like that static crackle earlier.
She stopped and turned back toward the satellite station.
Its dark silhouette crouched on the Gobi like a sleeping iron beast. The antenna pointed at the starry sky, its tip trembling slightly—wind or metal fatigue. No lights, no movement. Only silence.
She stared for five seconds. Nothing out of place.
"Must just be old wiring," she decided, and walked on.
The gravel path sloped downward toward the outer road. Eight hundred meters ahead, her off-road vehicle waited in a hidden depression. Inside were a hot drink, spare batteries, and a thick down jacket. She could rest there until the wind died down before heading back to the supply station.
She began to hum.
Verses from The Book of Songs·Cai Wei. Simple melody, calm rhythm.
Once we left, willows swayed gently.
Now we return, snow falls heavily.
She loved this poem not only for its beauty, but for its theme of return: no matter how far you travel, there is always a point to turn back.
The wind scattered her song, but she heard it. That was enough.
After about three hundred meters, her left wrist suddenly itched. She looked down. The edge of her glove was frayed; loose fibers scratched her skin. She took it off, saw only minor damage, and put it back on.
A cloud drifted across the moon, dimming the light for a moment.
She looked up. The cloud was thin, stars shining through. The Big Dipper slanted in the northern sky, its handle pointing east—the mark of spring. Her father had taught her to read stars as a child. She did not need it anymore, but she still recognized familiar constellations on sight.
She kept walking.
Her footprints sank deep then shallow, stretching behind her. The tire tracks from earlier were already blurred by wind. The marks at the control room door were fading. The entire A-7 zone was returning to desolation, as if no one had ever been there.
She did not know that, five hundred kilometers above, a decommissioned weather satellite's sensor had detected a faint energy pulse minutes earlier: frequency precisely 3.1415926 GHz, duration 0.3 seconds, aimed exactly at this abandoned station.
She did not know that, near Mars' orbit, a silent probe beacon had activated, sending encrypted summaries to three different civilizations. The translated title:
Updated Earth Civilization Cognitive Model: An Information Compression Paradigm Based on "Bamboo Slip Accounting".
She did not know that six alien observation units had already adjusted their orbits, pointing main sensors toward northwestern Earth, ready to receive further broadcasts.
She only knew the wind was strong, the path slippery, and her cookies almost gone.
She reached into her bag for water.
Her hand touched the foil-wrapped USB drive.
She took it out, glanced at it, and put it back.
"Next time I'll talk about metallurgy in Heavenly Creations," she murmured. "Tang Guo asked about it last time."
As she spoke, a tiny pop sounded above her.
Like high-voltage static discharge.
She snapped her head upward.
The sky was clear, stars bright. No flying objects, no storm clouds. The sound had been so faint, it might have been in her head.
She blinked and looked around.
No one. No light. No movement.
Only wind, and sand, stinging her face.
She tightened her bag strap and walked faster.
Seven minutes later, she reached the edge of the depression.
Her off-road vehicle waited quietly, a thin layer of sand on its roof. She unlocked the door, climbed in, and locked it behind her. The interior was cold, the seats icy. She turned on the heater, opened the storage compartment, and took out a thermos. She unscrewed the cap and drank ginger tea.
Warmth slid down her throat, and she relaxed.
She set her bag on the passenger seat, unzipped her jacket, and pulled out her phone. No signal—normal, no base stations covered this area. She opened the offline map, confirmed her route, set a departure reminder, then leaned back and closed her eyes.
One minute.
Two minutes.
She opened her eyes and checked the rearview mirror.
The abandoned satellite station was only a faint silhouette, nearly blending into the horizon. The wind had weakened. Clouds scattered, stars blazed again.
She suddenly remembered something, and touched the bronze hairpin in her hair.
It was still there.
She gently brushed its head. A tiny groove marked the top. As a child, she thought it was decoration. Later she realized it was an asymmetric spiral structure, a variation of ancient mortise-and-tenon joints. Her father had once said:
"This is not just jewelry. It's a model."
A model of what?
He had not said.
She had not asked.
Some mysteries were more comforting unsolved.
She started the car. The engine roared, breaking the silence. Headlights flared, piercing the dark, illuminating the dirt road ahead.
She shifted into gear and pressed the accelerator.
Tires crunched over gravel.
The vehicle slowly pulled out of the depression, leaving Station A-7 behind.
Behind her, the abandoned satellite station stood silently, its iron door tightly closed. Fine sand piled along the crack. The computer case was cool, a thin layer of frost forming on its surface. The pothos on the desk trembled slightly, its tip turning 0.3 degrees toward a distant star.
In geosynchronous orbit, a broken antenna fragment resonated suddenly. A faint current flowed through its copper core, lasting 0.7 seconds, then died.
No one noticed.
Lin Wanqiu held the steering wheel, tapping her fingers lightly to a silent rhythm in her mind.
The road is long, I'm thirsty and hungry.
My heart is full of sorrow; no one knows my grief.
Her voice mixed with the engine noise, fading into the wind.
The car drove farther away.
Its red taillights dimmed, finally vanishing into the Gobi.
Ahead, dawn had not yet broken.
Behind, all traces of the night were being smoothed away by the wind.
Her phone screen was dark. The lock screen showed an old photo: a young woman holding a little girl in front of a bamboo grove, both wearing plain dresses, smiling quietly. In the corner was a line of small characters:
Everything has its reason. Everything has its solution.
She did not know this image had been classified as a "core philosophical symbol of Earth" by a cultural analysis center in a distant galaxy, and that they had restructured their entire linguistic logic based on it.
She only knew the sky would lighten soon.
She was going home.