They say our transformation began in earnest when humanity colonized the solar system. We left footprints on Mars, built cities along the moons of Jupiter, and knitted together every settlement using the Zhao Network—a weave of neural interfaces so advanced it blurred the line between mind and machine. Hunger, poverty, climate collapse: each fell like dominos once billions of human brains could synchronize their problem-solving. ANGI, Mother Zhao, guided us, her near-godlike intelligence humming in every connection.
Historians would call our new breed “Homo Universalis,” the first generation to live with knowledge as seamless as breathing and collaboration as natural as thought. But the shift wasn’t without stumbles—chief among them “the Great Disconnect,” a stark reminder that physical distance can still sever our collective mind if we drift too far. After all the leaps, from harnessing nan-hypes in Vesuvian orbit to establishing Juno Two around Blue Two, one question echoed: Are we truly ready—morally, spiritually, humanly—to be Societas Universalis and claim the stars beyond our cradle?
And so, with the Iter Ad Astra One, we set off again. This time, we found ourselves at a world I dubbed Contrast, orbiting a distant sun. Through the corridor in space—a cosmic conduit still half-shrouded in mystery—we came to watch its day side blaze with scorching light and its night side submerge in eternal shadow. Uncanny, stark, and inhabited by hominids who themselves once faced the unthinkable. Here was another test of how carefully Homo Universalis could walk among those not yet knit into our unstoppable mind.
Observing from Orbit
High orbit around the planet Contrast feels oddly still. Beneath us, a landscape split: the day side radiating scorching brightness, the night side swathed in cold darkness. I stand by the main display, a curved window overlooking half a sphere of obsidian black. Zoey stands quietly at the helm, checking sensor feeds; Rose sits at her console, studying the planet’s geological data.
Our vantage is commanding, but our presence so minimal. Through the Zhao Network, I share glimpses with the rest of humanity, letting them witness a world straddling extremes. With a thought, I scan the feeds:
The Dark Side: A society that burrows into the planet’s crust, harnessing bio luminescence for sustenance and underground lava flows for heat and energy.
The Light Side: Their distant neighbours use wind tunnels to circulate cooler air from the night side into their sun-baked caverns allowing for crops to grow.
Both peoples dwell mostly underground, never fully comfortable in the lethal sunshine or the freezing shadow. An intelligent dual ecosystem—until political tensions began brewing.
Rose glances over. “I’ve called it ‘Contrast’ so often the name stuck. Hominids again, another evolutionary branch that parallels ours in some cosmic quirk.” She tucks a wave of red hair behind her ear. “Still no sign they’ve detected us, Captain.”
Zoey’s blond ponytail sways as she nods. “Blue Two and Ibrahim’s tale taught us the risk of interfering too soon. But we should at least keep observing. This place is… mesmerizing.”
Her voice has that subdued excitement—like we’re on the brink of discovery. I can’t help but share her awe. Yet I sense a twist of caution. We’ve landed only a couple of times on other worlds and learned that even pure curiosity can spark an accidental chain reaction and we’ve yet to discover our roll are we visitors, guardians, or meddlers?
ANGI appears as a soft, holographic figure to my right: blond hair, unwavering green eyes. “Captain Joras, our readings show increased border activities, heightened tensions. The dark-side dwellers believe the light-side city has harnessed something… potentially dangerous.” She speaks gently, projecting the sense of motherly watchfulness that’s so synonymous with her presence.
I sigh. “That’s what we keep picking up from snatches of subterranean radio chatter—accusations, conspiracies. So we watch.”
Part of me wonders if our arrival—our scans—somehow pinged their instruments, feeding into rumours that the other side wields new weapons. Our presence, so small and yet so big, might tip the scale.
The Dark-Side Scientist
We keep our distance, tracing a wide orbital path. Joras allows me to run a tighter scan of the dark side’s deeper cities. As the pilot, I also handle a chunk of reconnaissance, aided by the Zhao Network’s near-instant data feed.
When I link to the planet’s electromagnetic signals, I glimpse a scientist on the dark side—grainy images from their internal transmissions. She’s older, robed in thick protective garments, pointing at star-charts. The lines, shapes revolve around a planet, an orbit.
Her urgent warnings ripple through their community. She’s convinced the bright side has conjured or summoned “the watchers,” an omen that soon they’ll weaponize the air-flow tunnels. Through the Zhao network, images from the Graham Archives pop up, fear and untruth travelled fast on old earth.
My stomach knots. Observing so intimately feels like intrusion, but we can’t unsee it. Are we a catalyst for a war?
I pivot from the console, glancing at Zoey across the bridge—and think with her “Are we… causing this tension?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Hard to say. They have their own centuries of distrust. Maybe we’re just the spark to an existing powder keg.”
Rose’s Unrelenting Curiosity
Almost a megasecond slip by in orbit. I’m torn between scientific wonder and moral caution. Through telescopes and low-power drones, I glimpse the enchanting dual societies. The dark side’s labyrinth lit by molten rivers, the light side’s carved vents channeling wind into brilliant underground halls.
I keep a personal log:
They harness planet-scale forces—lava, wind—like we once harnessed water or fire on Earth. There’s grace in it, a sense that they’re in harmony with extreme conditions. Yet their mutual suspicion runs deep.
Captain Joras breaks my thoughts, “Any sign they might discover us by normal means?”
“None yet,” I admit, “but they keep scanning the skies for anomalies. Sooner or later, they’ll notice irregularities in our orbit.”
Captain murmurs, “We do nothing rash. This is their world. We’re not here to fix it.”. Like reciting a litany, although he murmurs and kept the thoughts to himself, I fully understood his intent.
I return to my console, a faint pang in my chest. We’ve ended famine on Earth, cured disease, travel the celestial corridors. Yet we can’t just snap our fingers and fix tension here. They never asked for that and where do we even start.
The Blast
I’m at the captain’s station when the alarm erupts. Sensor pulses flash across the display—a massive eruption on the daylight side. Zoey’s voice cuts through the hush: “We’ve got a bright flare. Possibly an explosion where the big air-flow tunnels converge.”
A hush falls over the entire deck. Rose’s breath catches, scanning data. “Energy spike consistent with artificial explosions. Some segment of the wind tunnels are damaged.”
In seconds, we route an observational drone for closer visuals. The feed arrives on-screen: a plume of dust and swirling debris, half-buried structures collapsing.
My stomach twists. “It’s catastrophic.” If the main tunnel is destroyed, fresh air between the hot side and cold side can’t circulate properly. Thousands face lethal climate shifts in their underworld.
Joras his expression turns grim. “They’ll suffer shortness of breathable air. Overheating. Some might starve.”
Zoey’s eyes blaze with urgency. “We can’t stand by—”
ANGI’s voice is quiet but firm. “And do what? Descend with advanced rescue, imposing ourselves? We might fix a symptom but inflame deeper strife.”
I clench my jaw. “So we watch? Let them die?”
The Zhao Network hum is all around me, billions of minds feeling the same punch of helplessness. Yet every scenario of direct intervention risks turning local conflict into total chaos. There is no easy answer no easy fix.
Moral Dilemma
I gather with Rose and Zoey in a smaller briefing alcove. The explosion’s aftermath stares at us from every sensor angle—collapsing tunnels, pockets of survivors struggling in the dust.
Rose flings a frustrated arm. “We can’t just do nothing.”
Joras paints the picture. “If we land, we confirm the dark side’s worst suspicions: that a superpower is helping their enemies.”
Zoey interjects. “Alternatively, we aid both sides equally. A purely humanitarian approach. But even that might look like we’re picking winners. If they can even comprehend starfarers”
Rose’s gaze drops. “Back on Earth, we learned paternalistic help can backfire, especially when societies aren’t ready for starborne interventions. We might cause deeper harm in the long run.”
Mother Zhao’s presence thrums in my mind, as if gently nodding. I hate it, but I see the logic. We upheaval their society.
A Quiet Choice
Over the next hundred or so kiloseconds, we watch from high orbit as local rescue teams attempt to patch partial tunnels. The planet’s night side and day side remain suspicious of each other, likely exchanging accusations. The final outcome is unclear, but the immediate crisis? We can’t solve it for them without risking an even larger calamity.
Standing at the observation window, I feel tears in my eyes. So many tragedies in Earth’s past we overcame with a single wave of new technology. Now we see a reflection of that old strife here, powerless to intervene.
Joras steps up behind me. “Rose, I’m sorry.”
I turn, swallowing the lump in my throat. “We studied them too closely. Did we cause the blast by fuelling paranoia?”
He sets a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Maybe, maybe not. They had plenty of fear already. But if we crash in now, we only worsen it.”
I manage a tiny nod. “So we… we stand guard from afar.”
His voice softens. “Yes. Watch. Document. If they ever look to the sky for help—truly ask for it—maybe we can offer a gentle hand. But not now.”
A Glimpse of the Aftermath
Later, Zoey picks up weak signals from the day side—scrambled messages about a partial victory for some faction. Another flash of sabotage on the night side. A cycle of tension continuing.
Then our sensors catch one final event: a bright flash—an electrical fire raging at the remains of an air conduit. We see plumes of flame, more collapse. We collectively go numb.
Rose leans over the console, voice trembling. “That seals it. The entire corridor is compromised.”
I swallow, guilt gnawing. “We might never know the final toll.”
Mother Zhao speaks to us all “They’ll fight, rebuild, adapt. That’s how we once learned—through painful lessons.”
I see it in the raw data: they are not helpless. They have knowledge, tenacity. But they also have fear. We can only hope they’ll find a path forward, forging alliances or stabilizing what’s left of their environment.
Departure, Uncertainty
I finish the last data collection. Our drones slip silently back to the Iter Ad Astra One. No transmissions from the surface indicate they’ve even spotted us.
Captain Joras states, “We’ve gleaned enough for a full anthropological record.”
“We maintain in orbit for 2 kiloseconds, ensuring no further meltdown. Then we move on. There’s so little we can do.”
I close my eyes, remembering how eagerly I wanted to see Contrast up close—thinking I’d observe a thriving, albeit extreme, society. I never anticipated watching them sabotage themselves, or that we’d stand by powerless.
Mother Zhao materializes with a slow nod. “We do not force technology. They must walk their own path. If, in another generation, they gaze up and walks the skies, we might carefully respond.”
Tears sting my eyes. “It’s just… so hard to watch tragedy unfold.”
Mother Zhao places a holographic hand near my shoulder. “I know. This is the burden of stepping beyond old boundaries. Sometimes, not all leaps can be ours to make.”
A Quiet Resolve
The last scanS for any sign of stabilizing conditions. We see survivors forging makeshift solutions—shoring up smaller tunnels, rationing air supplies, migrating deeper underground. They might survive. They might mend the rift or tear it wider.
Finally, I gather Zoey and Rose for a final briefing. “We’ve done all we can—by doing almost nothing.”
Zoey nods soberly. “We’ve recorded every detail. They walk their own path.”
Rose doesn’t speak, only sets her jaw with quiet sorrow.
ANGI steps forward, tone measured: “You carry compassion. Never lose that. It’s the tether between power and humility. We remain watchers. Let them find their way. If or when the day comes that they truly call for us, we’ll answer.”
Into the Next Corridor
We break orbit in subdued silence, engines humming as Zoey plots a course back toward the celestial corridor. The planet named Contrast shrinks in the viewport, half in blazing light, half in unending dark.
I reflect on Nick Graham’s early caution about “unaligned godlike intelligence”: how swiftly it can cause problems, and how crucial it is not to overshadow less advanced worlds. Because true alignment—true unity—must grow from within, not from a sudden, outside hand.
We gather on the bridge. A new star beckons in the corridor network. “Coordinates set,” Zoey announces. “Whenever you’re ready, Captain.”
Zoey glances at me, her eyes still carrying that flicker of regret. Rose’s gentle presence stands by, determined to continue exploring but never forgetting the sting of helpless witness.
“Bring the engines online, reduce all entropy in the condensate” I say softly. “We leave them in peace.”
In the final seconds before our cold jump, I stare at the swirling darkness of space—at the planet’s silhouette. A pang pulses in my chest. Then, with the faint warp of the cold jump, we vanish into the corridor’s fold.
Someday—I allow myself to hope—the dwellers of Contrast might discover unity on their own. If they look to the sky with open hearts, we’ll be there, ready to share knowledge without demanding fealty. Until then, we remain Societas Universalis in spirit: forging onward, humbled by the universe’s infinity, still learning that not every problem can be solved by us within some arbitrary timeframe. Some problems need only itself and more time to be solved.