"Will the HQ erase Xiyun's registry?"Lu Yuan asked, gripping the steering wheel as he looked out over the now-clear, snow-covered plains. The sky had suddenly turned especially clear.
"According to fleet regulations, frigates and larger warships that are destroyed in action will have their registry status reviewed based on their service record. Xiyun served for nine years, four months, and fifteen days, achieving the destruction of two submarine hunters, two mine-layers, as well as critical damage to an amphibious assault ship. She executed 203 routine operations, completed 32 major missions, and received four commendations along with three campaign decorations, including the Star of Thor."
"Her service was indeed remarkable. However, under the recently issued *Fleet Registry Directive*, as Xiyun was a non-flagship, engaged in no battles of singular significance, her registry will be erased 60 days after confirmation of her loss."
The Rabbit veered around a low cliff, revealing a massive crater in the rearview mirror, as if a spoon had taken a chunk out of the land. Years from now, it would probably transform into a mountaintop lake. If future explorers stumbled across it, they'd surely marvel at what they'd assume was nature's work.
Lu Yuan took a sip from his thermos, steam wafting up around him.
"The next new ship might take up the Xiyun name," he murmured.
"According to the *Warship Naming Directive*, frigates are typically named after natural elements like 'Wind,' 'Rain,' or 'Cloud.' Considering Xiyun's service record, the name is likely to be reused."
Lu Yuan took slow, small sips of the warm water. The car's audio system played a quiet, soothing melody as the Rabbit kept its steady pace. He chatted idly with Murphy, discussing what kind of soil would be best for growing hibiscus, and how much water the grapevines back home needed. Murphy's responses were as cold and formal as ever, but Lu Yuan could tell it was answering earnestly.
"So...you don't need to weed very often? Ah, coexistence, you say? Ha! First time I've heard it put like that."
The Rabbit's holographic light activated, and a faint figure of a fleet officer appeared on the passenger seat. Lu Yuan knew that Murphy's shutdown time had come, but he kept talking about plants as if nothing had changed.
"For your previous questions, Murphy has recorded them all. However, six of your inquiries related to human emotions and psychology cannot be answered immediately. Upon Murphy's reactivation, satisfactory responses will be provided."
The officer avatar removed her military cap and gave a slight bow before her form dissolved into soft, fading light.
Lu Yuan felt his throat tighten, though he didn't look away from the road. After a pause, he muttered, "If I wanted to buy a home assistant, which model would you suggest? IKEA has a good reputation, I think. Mainly because Ji Yue doesn't like humanoid machines much, but it doesn't bother me. We're often deployed, and it's hard to get back home and still do all the chores."
No answer came.
Lu Yuan poured more water into his thermos, reached over to disengage the autopilot, and touched his waist to feel the grip of his pistol and the hilt of his sword. The rough grip of the steering wheel felt heavier.
"When I arrive...just tell me," he said.
The faint tingle at the back of his neck gradually faded as the data chip fell silent. That familiar sensation of connection, a buzz along his nerves, had lasted barely a day. The rugged mountain road didn't stop the Rabbit; Lu Yuan drove on with focus, traversing one ridge after another, accompanied only by the music from the audio player.
Lu Yuan mounted the map on the dashboard, steering along the base of the mountain. The conifer forest grew dense and narrow, and often he couldn't avoid it, forcing him to power through, using the plow to clear a path. Sharp, obvious lines cut through the trees, but not a single bird took flight.
This blunt, forceful approach worked well, and by early afternoon, the Rabbit reached the foot of the mountain. Beyond lay a vast snowy expanse dotted with hardy trees that endured the cold.
Lu Yuan didn't plan to drive through the night. If he happened to get stuck in some soft snow, even with the exoskeleton, it'd be impossible to free the Rabbit, which weighed over ten tons. And that wasn't the worst of it. The temperature during the day was a biting -39 degrees; with nightfall and a likely blizzard, it could plunge even lower.
While -39 degrees wasn't a novel temperature for him—after all, on Eagle Valley, nights lasted 117 hours, and soldiers fought in extreme cold—this was different. There wasn't a fleet backing him up this time; it was just him and the Rabbit.
There wasn't any shelter to shield from the wind across the snowfield. Fully equipped, he jumped out, gripping the vehicle's railing as he worked his way to the Rabbit's rear track. He crouched, picked up some snow, but it was loose and wouldn't pack.
Not wanting to run the engine all night to prevent the Rabbit from getting buried, he reluctantly took out an anti-gravity module from the equipment crate, affixed it to the roof, and watched as the blue light blinked three times. The snow immediately slid off to the Rabbit's sides.
Lu Yuan rubbed his hands together, wondering which forsaken part of Earth he'd landed in to be frozen stiff like this. Worse yet, he had to press forward a thousand kilometers to the north, where it would undoubtedly be colder still. And there was even a space launch site up there—seems like in wartime, anything was fair game.
The anti-gravity module deflected the snow, making it less frigid even on the Rabbit's roof. Lu Yuan casually opened a pack of self-heating rations for dinner and resumed his unfinished map sketching.
As he continued to trace the terrain Xiyun had scanned, he realized that the mountains he was in formed just a small part of this vast region—a land 1,500 kilometers across and covering over two million square kilometers. Centered around Xiyun's last scans, the map showed mountains leading to a coastline in the east, wide plains stretching west, a mix of plains and low hills to the south, and valleys and basins in the north.
Lu Yuan noted something peculiar. Although it was cold here, it wasn't inhospitable. During the thaw, there would likely be five to eight frost-free months. Even if a new Earth civilization reverted to an agricultural age, they should have been able to establish settlements here.
Even if the cataclysmic War of the Fallen Sky centuries ago had driven the Liberals to flee Earth, it wasn't likely to have utterly destroyed all life. Total extinction-level pheromone bombs were only invented last century, and they were quickly countered afterward. As ruthless as the Empire was, would they really have used such a costly B-class pheromone bomb—worth more than a cruiser—to attack Earth from thousands of light-years away?
Unable to figure it out, Lu Yuan lost interest in the map, lying back and crossing his legs as he pondered the issue. He thought about it until daylight finally dimmed, but he couldn't make sense of it.
The starlit sky before the snow returned was stunning, but for someone who had seen cosmic marvels from deep space, the view from Earth was hardly impressive. Just as he was about to turn in for the night, he had an idea—this was a rare chance for bragging rights!
For all children of the Galactic Alliance, their first lesson was to look up at the stars and spot their twin moons, Lanki and Qingji. One of the astronomy primers even included an illustration of using the Big Dipper as a primitive navigation tool back on Earth. If he could snap a photo of it, he'd have a lifetime of tales to tell back home.
Eager, Lu Yuan scanned the sky, trying to locate the seven-star pattern shaped like a "dipper." But the sky was littered with stars, like grains of sand, and not being a native, he could only guess at it. In the end, he found nothing but confusion.
Disappointed, Lu Yuan jumped back into the cabin, deciding to take some panoramic shots to cheer himself up. He opened the military supply box to retrieve his camera.
"Huh?" He picked up the camera and happened to grab a portable radiation meter, noticing that the reading wasn't zero but fluctuating between 2 and 3. When he brought it closer to his shoulder, the reading suddenly doubled.
His eyes narrowed. The Rabbit's design allowed it to operate on planets with no atmosphere and direct cosmic radiation, with full protective shielding. There was no way a reading of 3 roentgens could be coming from inside the cabin. The source of the radiation was clearly Lu Yuan himself!
He stepped out into the snow with the meter, watching the numbers climb. When he inserted the meter into the snow, the background radiation shot up in silence.
33 roentgens.
This was in a remote, deserted mountain wilderness. How much radiation would there be in once-dense population centers? One hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?
Lu Yuan recalled something Murphy had said earlier: "The surface is minimally suitable for survival, allowing exits under low-protection conditions."
"Minimum survival conditions, low-protection conditions," Lu Yuan thought with a wry smile. Numbers in the tens hadn't caught his attention when he skimmed through Murphy's report. After all, he was used to dropping from orbits 30,000 to 40,000 kilometers above the surface, where a few units here and there barely mattered. Only by standing here on the snow-covered earth did he fully grasp what kind of land this truly was.
Silent. Dead. Only winter remains.
Lu Yuan returned to the cabin, where the Rabbit's air filtration system purged the radiation from him within seconds. He picked up his tablet, with only a few centimeters of composite plating between him and the deadly winter night, while inside it was warm as spring.
He ran a finger along the screen, softly reciting lines penned centuries ago that still resonated.
"The night was long, the wind howled through the forest, and snow flew thick. An old man would sometimes visit, a native resident, the land's first keeper. It's said he carved Walden Pond, lined it with stones, and ringed it with pine trees. He spoke to me of ancient tales and a newfound immortality. Though we had no apples nor wine, with laughter and admiration for all things, we shared a magical night."
So tell me—do you think there should still be fairy tales in this world?