Rebirth: Starting from Lighting Up the Tech Tree

The home port data package has been unlocked for three days, and Zuo Cheng hasn't touched a single technical document.

Han Lu froze when she pushed open the door. The screen didn't display blueprints for the Starsea, nor quantum field driving parameters; instead, it displayed a catalog of over 20,000 pages—an index of inter-civilization communication records from the Weaving Civilization Community spanning five billion years.

"Are you reading history?" Han Lu's tone was as if she had stepped on something wrong.

"Um."

"Ninety-two civilizations are waiting for you to turn forty-seven exabytes of technical documents into spaceships; you are reading history."

Zuo Cheng didn't look up. "The technical documents can wait. I want to know where we've entered first."

Han Lu looked at him for a few seconds, then left without saying anything, placed a cup of coffee on the corner of the table, and walked away.

Zuo Cheng spent a whole week browsing through the history of the Web-Weaving Civilization Community. The total amount of text in the Home Port database was ninety million times the total amount of all written documents in human history. He only read the table of contents, which alone was over twenty thousand pages long.

The first thing he discovered was that the Community wasn't an organization. There were no bylaws, no headquarters, no parliament, no elections. It was a default state among a group of civilizations sharing the infrastructure of the Web. Civilizations using the Web automatically became members of the Community, and those leaving automatically lost their Community membership. No one could join, and no one could be expelled. It was like a river; if you were in it, you were in it, and if you left, you left. It didn't force anyone, but it needed everyone. Zuo Cheng paused at this point for a long time. Humanity had only been involved in the Web for two years, but they had already become accustomed to using it as a tool—a communication tool, a navigation tool, an exploration tool. The history of the Community told him that the Web wasn't a tool, but soil. You stand on the soil, and the soil supports you.

Conflicts have occurred throughout the community's history. Approximately 1.2 billion years ago, a war erupted between the third and fifth nodes of the Orion Arm, vying for the right to modify the web-weaving routing protocol. The first-generation civilization intervened directly, using its homeport's priority permissions to block those two nodes, simultaneously severing their web-weaving connections. The war lasted four thousand years, and the interruption lasted forty-two thousand years. Forty-two thousand years later, both civilizations simultaneously reconnected, their first words being the same: "I'm sorry." Since then, no war has occurred within the community. Zuo Cheng flipped back to that page twice; the forty-two thousand years of silence were heavier than the four thousand years of war. The two civilizations had each been alone in darkness for forty-two thousand years, and the first word they uttered upon waking was an apology.

There have been civilizations that voluntarily withdrew. About two hundred million years ago, a node at the very edge of the Perseus spiral arm severed all connections to the web. The home port log recorded the last message sent by that civilization: "We don't want to be part of the web; we want to be ourselves." The first-generation civilization replied with two words: "Okay." Then added: "The door is always open." The home port continues to send timing signals to that node to this day. Two hundred million years have passed, and there has been no response, but the lights are still on. Zuo Cheng stared at that record for a long time. He wasn't sure if that civilization had made the right choice or the wrong one. But he was certain that the first-generation civilization's reply was correct. "The door is always open." Those four words carried more weight than any attempt to hold them back.

When Zuo Cheng read the section on the history of the Mother Port, he discovered something else. Since the demise of the first civilization, the Mother Port had been waiting for a brain. The central hub needed a brain; this statement was written at the very bottom of the Mother Port's core protocol. The Mother Port could operate autonomously for 5.1 billion years without external intervention, but after 5.1 billion years, if no consciousness was bound to the Mother Port's core, the Mother Port would automatically shut down.

The founders calculated when designing the home port that 5.1 billion years would be enough for at least one civilization within the web to complete its twelve branches and develop a sufficiently mature civilization to serve as the central hub. So far, approximately 5 billion years have passed, leaving about 100 million years. This number is more precise than the previously discovered 300 million-year countdown. When Zuo Cheng read this number, he noticed a mark left on the table by his hand; he didn't know when he had pressed so hard. 100 million years. It sounds like a lot. But the web has already waited 5 billion years. The first six attempts at sowing in those 5 billion years all failed. Humanity is attempting it for the seventh time. And possibly the last.

Yu Ying entered the office at some point. She didn't speak, but sat down in the chair beside him, watching Zuo Cheng's profile as he read history. Zuo Cheng paused on a page, and Yu Ying leaned over to look. That page contained the full text of the first civilization's last collective consciousness broadcast, containing only one sentence: "We have built the central hub. The central hub needs a brain. We are not a brain. We are searching for a brain." Yu Ying said softly, "Words spoken five billion years ago still sound heavy today." Zuo Cheng said, "Because this sentence has yet to find an answer."

When Zuo Cheng reached page 137, the Listener Civilization sent him an informal communication. It was short: Don't be intimidated by the history of the Community. The things you see in history—wars, betrayals, withdrawals, silence—are all in the past. The Community is something that will take two billion years to understand. You've only been reading it for two months. But you're already doing much better than most newly joined civilizations. The first thing most newly joined civilizations do is demand technology. The first thing you do is write three letters. The second thing is read history. This shows that you're not concerned with what you can get from the Community, but with what the Community is. Zuo Cheng remained silent for a long time after reading this. He remembered the all-nighter he spent writing those three letters. At that time, he wasn't sure if those letters would ever be answered. He simply felt that before being chosen by others, one should first choose to respect them.

Zuo Cheng read the listener's words twice, then closed the historical database of the home port. Of the more than 20,000 pages of table of contents, he had only read the first 137. He closed the panel and walked to the window. It was raining in Hangzhou outside; raindrops pattered against the glass, blurring the distant flashing lights of the Pioneer.

He suddenly realized something. The Mother Port had been operating autonomously for five billion years, witnessing the rise and fall of at least eight host species. The founders' seven attempts at sowing had all failed in the first six. The Mother Port had watched them fail, watched them succeed, watched some fight each other, and watched others silently disappear. The Mother Port watched this most recently appeared species read over 20,000 pages of history in its first standard year of joining the web. It remained silent. It was waiting for a brain, not a commentator.

Zuo Cheng wrote a sentence in his journal, looked at it for a few seconds, and deleted it. Then he rewrote it: "Build the spaceship first, then think about other things." The rain was still falling outside the window. The Pioneer's track lights pierced through the rain, flickering on and off. He turned off the lights, plunging the office into darkness. Only the blue standby light on the control panel flashed in the darkness. It wasn't in a hurry. It had already waited for five billion years.