Chapter 1435: A Conversation Across Light-Years
Under a flurry of intense preparations, the “Starsea Project,” led by the Cecile Empire, was progressing on schedule. New research facilities and technical teams were steadily taking their places, while the existing monitoring departments and the “Star Decoders” became the backbone of this new effort. From the distant oceanic realm of Antavien came word that their antenna system was ready. Linguists, logicians, and negotiation experts from the three great empires—Cecile, Typhon, and Silver—had spent days and nights in tense discussions, drafting a series of protocols for initiating contact with the alien civilization.
Faced with the daunting task of communicating with an unknown extraterrestrial society—one whose social and cultural makeup was likely to be utterly alien to the people of Loren—these top-tier experts left no detail unconsidered. Their goal was to establish mutual understanding as quickly as possible and minimize the risk of misunderstandings or conflict in those earliest exchanges. Yet, despite their best efforts, the initial proposals were repeatedly rejected.
The problem was that these drafts were either too eager to reveal technical details or too verbose and convoluted in their cultural and value-laden expressions. The earliest texts were long-winded and bloated. At first, the scholars seemed to have misunderstood the approach: they tried to convey everything in one go, using complex, polished diplomatic language that was both elegant and comprehensive, reflecting the full etiquette of a “civilized society.”
One particularly glaring example began like this: “To the sender beyond the starry sea, friend in the dark cosmos, we are the enlightened peoples of the world ‘Loren,’ responding with reason and goodwill, in the name of kings, saints, spirits, and our ancestors’ glory, we wish to reciprocate your friendly greetings and establish sincere, cooperative, and peaceful relations. We uphold…”
This document ran to ninety-three pages. Before finishing it, Gawain dismissed it with a curt “Read. Nonsense,” and sent it back. His objection wasn’t just that the text was overly pedantic and likely to confuse the alien recipients during translation. More importantly, he doubted that the sea-spirits’ barely functional communication array could survive long enough to transmit such a massive file.
After several rounds of rejection, however, something more practical finally landed on Gawain’s desk. The scholars weren’t foolish—they had simply started off on the wrong track. Once they realigned their thinking, things improved.
They pared down the message to concise, unambiguous self-introductions, simple greetings expressing the intent to communicate, and straightforward inquiries. By carefully analyzing the limited texts received from the alien civilization, experts from various fields tried to sketch out the sender’s thought patterns and communication habits. They realized the information gleaned was scant, so the scope for their initial message was naturally limited.
Gawain studied the documents Amber had brought him, his fingers tapping the desk unconsciously as he pondered. Quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, “This looks a lot more reliable…”
“The sea-spirits recommend keeping each transmission under one minute, with no more than a thousand characters per message,” Amber said beside him. “Sending signals in these small, low-density bursts will help their communication array last longer.”
“So we can’t just send a long, sprawling self-introduction all at once,” Gawain said slowly. “The best approach is to have a ‘dialogue’ with the ‘other side.’ But that depends on how they communicate. Regardless, the current drafts cover all foreseeable scenarios. Unless their way of thinking is so alien that mutual understanding is impossible, there shouldn’t be any fatal misunderstandings.”
Amber glanced at the few pages in Gawain’s hands and rubbed her temple. “Just thinking about this gives me a headache… The message has to be short enough to reduce antenna strain, simple enough for easy translation and comprehension, and clear enough to avoid misunderstandings… Dealing with an ‘alien civilization’ is really tough. Compared to this, negotiating with the Ansu nobility back in the day was a breeze.”
Gawain smiled quietly but said nothing. Amber’s eyes flicked, then she added, “Have you decided what the ‘first sentence’ should be? The experts debated for so long and still couldn’t agree. Looks like it’s up to you now.”
“The first sentence…” Gawain whispered, his gaze returning to the documents.
Most of the initial communication text had been finalized, but the crucial “first sentence” remained blank. Rosetta Augustus believed that the initial reply to the alien message should reveal as little as possible—even the so-called “harmless content” discussed for later exchanges should wait until formal communication was established. Silver Empress Belsetiya Morningstar agreed.
In short, the alliance’s best move was to respond with a single sentence at first, simply acknowledging receipt of the message and nothing more—then wait to see what the other side would say next, to decide whether to continue.
This was extreme caution, but the “first sentence” couldn’t sound overly cautious or timid, lest it betray insecurity. Nor could it carry any sharp or aggressive undertones—for obvious reasons.
“So those two have completely dumped this on you,” Amber said with a smirk. “And we’d better decide quickly. While you’re still thinking, the Ancestral Peak and Solin monitoring stations keep receiving transmissions from deep space. That civilization seems to have boosted their signal strength after adjusting their transmission mode. Now the two main stations are getting nonstop… what’s the word… oh right, ‘open mic requests’ from them.”
“They’re still sending? Looks like they’re really eager…” Gawain frowned but didn’t take his eyes off the papers. Suddenly, he knew exactly what to do.
He picked up a pen and swiftly wrote a line at the bottom of the document, confident and calm.
Amber leaned over curiously and read the clear black-on-white sentence: “Please turn off your open mic first. Thank you.” (Free translation)
The room fell silent for a few seconds. Amber slowly looked up. “…Are you serious?”
“I think it’s perfect,” Gawain nodded earnestly. “It’s polite, concise, neither servile nor aggressive. It shows our confidence without being pushy. And most importantly, it reveals nothing. It’s better than just saying ‘read.’”
Amber gave him a strange look, then after a long pause, her lips twitched. “…Historians are going to hate you.”
Gawain chuckled. “They hate you more. When you pried open my coffin lid, you probably shattered hundreds of historians’ research.”
Year 4 of Cecile, 2491 in the Old Gondor Calendar, the last day of the Harvest Moon. The atmosphere in the Solin Great Tree’s “Starsea Project” hall was solemn and tense.
This would be the first time in history that the mortal peoples of this planet would establish contact with an alien civilization. Everything was ready. Countless eyes watched this hall. No matter the outcome today, as long as Loren’s civilization endured, what happened now would be recorded in history.
Bard Windell sat nervously in his seat. As one of the most senior “Listeners,” he was honored to be here as a principal coordinator—something he never imagined years ago. The embodiment of Lady Beltira stood at the front of the hall. As the Great Tree’s core and the foundation of the entire facility, she would coordinate and command all operations here. Before Beltira was a large-scale holographic projection showing the three imperial rulers: Gawain, Rosetta, and Belsetiya.
The three highest authorities of the alliance personally oversaw the progress.
Beside the three leaders was a special communication interface. The image of Ambassador Til from the Deep Sea Kingdom appeared on screen. She seemed to be inside a complex arcane device, surrounded by intricate runes and flickering energy sparks—this was a special amplifier set up at the magic network hub in Cecile City, designed for the distant “deep sea allies.” It ensured psychic communication between Loren and Antavien. Since the project’s core relied on Antavien’s faster-than-light communication array, this relay line was crucial.
“The Solin command center is ready. Recording devices online. Translation teams in place. Communication systems functioning normally,” Beltira’s voice broke the near-frozen silence. “The time is 12:32 PM. Based on recent patterns, we expect to receive the signal in five minutes. All units, prepare.”
Bard took a deep breath, calming the faint buzzing of his artificial heart.
As the alien civilization adjusted their transmission mode, the signal crossing the starry sea had been “self-optimizing” for some time. It was now a stable, clear, scheduled broadcast—not the sporadic signals of before. Several major monitoring stations on Loren now regularly received clear transmissions. According to plan, the alliance’s “reply” would be sent after today’s noon broadcast.
Bard steadied himself and glanced at the mechanical clock on the wall. Almost simultaneously, a report came from a nearby command post: “Ancestral Peak monitoring station reports: signal received within Ogure territory!”
The next moment, another voice came from a different post: “Solin main antenna has received the signal! Signal strength 4, average normal! Content unchanged!”
Beltira’s voice followed: “Wait three seconds after broadcast ends, then send response.”
Bard’s eyes fixed on the record board.
“…Are we really going to send this to ‘them’?” a nearby operator muttered to himself.
“Execute orders precisely,” Bard said sternly, without a trace of doubt in his duty. In this moment, he felt as if he had returned to years past, to the days when he donned armor and fulfilled his military mission. But unlike then, when his duty was to guard the homeland’s borders, today’s mission was…
To tell aliens to please turn off their open mic.
Well, he still had some doubts and hesitations, but Bard Windell kept a good attitude.
At that moment, the signal from the depths of the starsea ceased—the broadcast ended.
Three seconds later, the operations team acted without hesitation. The information, reverse-translated by the Star Decoders, was fed into the mainframe, which encoded it into the alien civilization’s unique signal pattern. Then, using the amplifier in Cecile City and the sea-spirits’ psychic resonance, the data was instantly transmitted to distant Antavien.
Across the vast ocean, the ancient starship’s faster-than-light communication array roared to life.
For the first time in a million years, a faster-than-light signal was deliberately sent out from this unremarkable little planet, instantly reaching deep into the star-studded expanse.
At that moment, the command hall fell into an unusual silence.
“We’ve received feedback from Antavian,” Deep Sea Ambassador Tyr’s voice broke the quiet. “The message was successfully transmitted, signal strength reached theoretical levels. Now we wait for a response.”
Even after Tyr’s words faded, the hall remained silent. Apart from the hum of the equipment, not a single person spoke. Many eyes fixed on the indicator light at the center of the room—the one that showed whether the main antenna was receiving a signal. Yet the light remained dark. Though only moments had passed, Bard felt as if the silence had stretched on for a century.
He heard a colleague mutter beside him, “What if the aliens are just too honest and shut down communications, refusing to contact us again?”
Bard lowered his voice. “Don’t overthink it. Especially not things that are impossible.”
“There might not be an immediate reply,” the voice of the Silver Queen Belsethia suddenly cut through the stillness from the large holographic display at the front of the hall.
“Yes,” Gawain nodded. “That’s part of the contingency plan. If no instant response comes, all listening stations will continue their routine monitoring until we initiate contact again.”
Just then, Bard noticed the indicator light at the center flicker.
The next second, an operator’s slightly excited voice shattered the tense atmosphere: “Main Solin antenna has received a signal! Routing to Channel One!”
“Decoders,” Belsethia called out immediately, “translate it as quickly as possible.”
The hall, which had seemed frozen moments before, suddenly sprang back to life. A completely new message entered the Solin main antenna’s range—clearly a response from the alien civilization. The decoders, long on standby, began translating the fresh content at once, striving to produce the most accurate interpretation in the shortest time. Bard Wendell watched the central holographic display anxiously, as letters began to appear one by one on the deliberately blank screen:
“We apologize for any distress we may have caused you.”
There was a pause, then more words appeared:
“We have received your response—and hope you understand the excitement we feel in this moment. Strangers from light-years away, we mean no harm.
“Our time is running out.
“Whether you already know or not—a ‘shockwave’ capable of destroying intelligent life is approaching the region we inhabit. Both your planet and ours will face this wave head-on.”
(Holy hell!)
(End of chapter)