Story Reader / Main Story / 15 The Last Spark / Story
After following Vera and breaching several laboratories with force, you have finally arrived at the innermost area of the city.
This place is designed to be tightly sealed. Some of the gates, however, have fallen into disrepair, and water has poured inside.
But the water disappears again after you cross the last enclosed defense line.
The silhouette of the zero-point reactor emerges from the dark like a seamount forged with metal.
The two of you walk along the chasm between the mounts.
Way above you in the dark is an all-encompassing, ghostly blue light.
It is the ocean that envelops Atlantis. Right now, it shrouds the reactor like a sky.
Separating the reactor from the force of the water is a layer of thick, transparent tempered glass.
The glass wall is so clear that it almost looks like nothing is there. Staring at it for too long, you would think that the water itself has formed the wall, unmoving.
The large, indescribable pieces of the reactor look nothing like the cutting-edge technology they are. Instead, they look like an ancient ruin, a tomb as lofty as a sleeping mountain.
Inside the tomb buries the glorious but cold dream of the Golden Age. Inside it buries a time that would no longer wake.
Why do you think they built this thing underwater?
You cannot answer her.
Plato's Atlantis ended up sinking in the ocean. But later some suggested that perhaps Atlantis had never broken the surface of the sea.
Perhaps it is the same for this reactor.
Maybe its architects back then had expected the reactor to fail from the beginning.
If the reactor goes out of control, the vast Atlantic Ocean will devour the base completely, like the tide swallowing a wave, like a wave absorbing a bubble.
How ironic. If they were prepared for failure, why didn't they just stop?
We got to this point because they were trying to control a power that wasn't theirs.
The two of you keep going forward. The blue hue of the water casts the reactor in the shade of a glacier. Walking here feels like trekking through the depths of Antarctica, setting foot on the most barren no man's land.
Suddenly, Vera holds up a hand and stops you.
Shush—
Something flashes before you.
Hidden in the dark this whole time, the culprit who sank the city has finally revealed herself.
Vera and you both recognize her at the same time. You know her.
That's... the Ascendant with the Roland guy.
She takes her battle stance.
Lamia stands at the center of the reactor alone, her expression strange and adrift, not even hearing Vera's and your footsteps approaching.
She only reacts when Vera's spear is about to hit her.
Eww... aaAAaaHH...
Stay away... stay away...
She stumbles back.
You have fought her before, which is why you are certain of one thing—
Lamia is not quite herself right now.
So the Ascendants are also looking for information on the zero-point reactor.
Lamia does not deny it, but maybe she does not even hear it.
Vera takes Lamia's silence as confirmation and charges forward with her spear.
Lamia can not dodge fast enough, and the spearhead cuts off a strand of her hair. She looks at Vera, startled and angry, like a wounded dog whose territory is violated.
Get out of here... Stay away... stay away!
At first, Lamia looks like she is going to strike back.
But then, her eyes are flooded with despair.
Eventually, all that is left in her eyes is hatred that borders on madness.
You have no idea why her emotions are changing so rapidly in mere seconds.
Sink... just sink... Let it all sink to the bottom of the ocean with me.
She steps back, and the air around her distorts.
You are familiar with that sight. She is trying to turn invisible and run.
Vera hisses before throwing the spear in her hand like a javelin toward where Lamia is standing.
It flies straight toward Lamia's face.
But the spearhead only pierces Lamia's projection. It goes right through it and buries deep into the wall behind.
She has still escaped right beneath your noses.
It is quiet again. Vera frowns, pulling her banner spear out of the wall.
What is going on here... Why would an Ascendant find out about this place?
Didn't the President say the coordinates of this location are a secret? How come even a small fish like her can find out?
Tsk. Fine, we'll let her off the hook for now.
Vera and you rush toward the control panel in the center.
...
Is it too late to read the menu?
The central control system is not as complicated as you imagine. Operation systems like this are built in a similar vein. The things you learned from Lee in your spare time have finally come in handy.
But—
Biodata identification has failed. You cannot operate it.
The connection error that appears on the screen afterward completely shatters any hope you have got.
The number that indicates how much the city has sunk keeps rising, while all operation options are locked behind the command to continue submergence.
Not an unexpected ending.
But dammit, how did the goddamn fish girl manage to operate the central control system?
Right as she says that, another screen appears on the monitor.
It is the recorded footage of a meeting.
Start reporting. You first.
Not much to say. All radio communications have been unresponsive, but our equipment is fine, which means the problem is the relay and the receiving end.
What's wrong with the relay?
Neither the satellites nor the servers on the mainlands have responded, suggesting that all surface and orbital communication networks have failed.
What's the worst-case scenario?
All human civilizations outside of this base have been annihilated.
How about a less bad one?
All 240 satellites in the sky and every server in Asia, Europe, and North America fail at the same time. They're too busy fixing them to answer our call.
Lustrous does not laugh.
What is the possibility of this scenario?
The communication director does not laugh either.
Less than ten to the power of negative seventeen. I checked it before the meeting. Twice.
Understood. It means we should proceed on the basis that human civilizations have ended.
She concisely concludes before looking at the administrative director.
How's the situation inside the base?
Internal communications between the departments are stable. All personnel remains at their posts. The base is still in order.
Equipment?
Self-diagnostics is functional.
We haven't received any reports of mechanical failure.
How are our supplies looking?
Lustrous looks at the logistics director, who sits the furthest away from her.
Assuming our supply chain from the mainlands has been cut off, we can survive for a maximum of 15 months.
How do you get that number?
I calculated the minimum calories all staff members needed based on their weights, then divided the total calories of food we got in the base by that number.
It's just an estimated figure. Give me some time and I'll calculate a more accurate answer.
If we are to recreate the environment for the exploded first reactor, we need at least 21 months to figure out what happened there.
Lustrous gets lost in thought, but only for mere seconds.
How long will our supplies last if we reduce the personnel on the base?
She looks up and asks the logistics director.
The director pauses for a moment before answering.
If we stop supplying the others and move all resources to the research department, we can last 23 months. Long enough for you to complete your research.
If I may.
Please.
I don't recommend doing so.
Your reason?
Programs and machines will break down. People will get sick from the lack of nutrients. This will all slow down your progress.
Not to mention that the communication department has been trying to contact any possible survivors or groups. If we can receive support from the outside world, our immediate crisis will be resolved.
To safeguard your research, we should prioritize the different departments and cut off supplies to the least important one first.
I agree.
She nods.
Then let's sort them. We'll cut off supplies to the administrative department first, then logistics. After that, medical, communication, robotics, data, and research.
She points at the directors around the table according to the order and, at last, she points at herself.
Objections?
The silence in the conference room lasts for a few seconds.
The administrative director begins to pack up the folders on the table.
It's decided, then. I'll notify my people.
The recording of the meeting is over. The screen flickers, and you see Lustrous' figure when the image becomes clear again.
To whoever sees this record in the future, my name is Lustrous, the research director.
This recording is set to public. Anyone who tries to access the central command system will activate this video. It plays automatically just in case someone fails to notice it.
I've put our first and final "group" meeting at the beginning of this video. I assume any human with common sense would understand what has happened to our base after watching it.
Presuming that you are an intelligent life such as a human, please allow me to skip to the main point.
I'm not sure what the exact time is now. The base has been in lockdown since the outbreak. We've given up on Greenwich Mean Time and instead opted for the base's timer as the time standard in our records.
So I might be wrong about the month and day, but I think the year should still be accurate: this is the third year since the outbreak of the Punishing Virus.
We have run out of food. No one's coming to save us. The most logical conclusion is that the human race beyond this base is extinct.
I'm not good at recording history, but if you're here and you've found this, then you must be a seeker who is curious. You're like me. I feel obligated to satisfy your curiosity.
Let me briefly describe what happened after that meeting.
We started rationing the moment we initiated the lockdown. The plan went well, and it allowed us to last for a very long time with very limited resources.
When food began to run short, we came to an unspoken agreement: the core researchers were prioritized with provisions, while the others were arranged in the order of their importance, the least of which will die first.
The first one to go was the administrative department. We didn't have any higher-ups to report to anymore, after all.
This island wasn't designed for our situation, so it doesn't have any corpse disposal facilities. We decided to administrate burials-at-sea to avoid the growth of germs and bacteria from the accumulating bodies.
Logistics was next. After that, I had to spend an extra 25 minutes each day traveling between the office and the storage to pick up the canned food and hardtacks. I had to learn how to organize files and do other trivial stuff.
It was the medical department afterward. They left behind detailed medical guides before they died. Those who remained were all very grateful for their generosity.
They were followed by the communication department. They had been diligent in their roles, trying to establish contact with the outside world, but it didn't work.
Her voice gets colder and colder as if she is just a machine with a warm, human body.
Robotics. Without those mechanics and engineers, I could only hope that nothing major broke before our research saw some results.
Data. Similarly, without the programmers, I could only pray that the servers and data banks wouldn't fail.
Research. It was our last and most essential department, the one under my lead. We made a list, and the one on top would die first. Since I was the key personnel here, they put me at the bottom.
Right, I also placed the non-staff members such as... children... in the middle. Given that they consumed less food and energy, and factoring in ethical concerns, I didn't place them in the first group to go.
Some of our colleagues had values that would have clashed quite strongly with the alternative. That could possibly stall our progress.
This is the first time I've done this kind of visual documentation. I never had to bother with this kind of trifling work in the past.
That's about it regarding the base after the outbreak. If the data department's server room is still intact, you will find our activity logs for the past three years there.
Now, I'm moving on to what we have achieved.
Zero-point reactors are highly classified, but if you're watching this right now, then you must already know that there is one such reactor in this facility.
After the lockdown, we tried to recreate the first reactor's failure in order to figure out how the Punishing Virus first appeared.
Long story short, we failed. We repeated some of the steps from the last log of that reactor and managed to create a similar environment, but the Punishing Virus didn't show up.
Correction. Not that it didn't show up—it appeared, but it was unobservable.
I don't know who is watching this right now and whether or not you have any knowledge regarding it, so I'll try my best to put it in layman's terms.
Reports from around the world and the first reactor told us what the physical effects would be when the Punishing Virus appeared. We didn't observe the virus directly, but our equipment detected those phenomena.
They disappeared soon after they manifested. Like raindrops, we couldn't see the virus, only the ripples it caused once it hit the water.
In other words, some kind of energy "absorbed" them.
If my department and I had another two years' worth of food, we might be able to figure out why it happened. But all my staff are dead now, and I just finished my last hardtack.
We've gone as far as we could. I couldn't catch the raindrop, but I found the water.
The "water" that absorbed the Punishing Virus. It'll take me way too long to explain the details, but I call that technology the "Omega File".
I've put it in my pocket. I'll be heading for the observatory at the highest part of the city after this recording.
I don't have samples and equipment to repeat our experiments, so I can't guarantee that Omega File would work outside of this base.
The cold "machine" shows a hint of warmth for a second, with sadness buried underneath it.
Regardless, seeker, or seekers—you have traveled this far. This is your reward.
I think we've completed our part remarkably. I hope you will complete yours too.
Now, seek our legacy.
Lustrous lets out a sigh.
Right, I wasn't planning to say the following in this record. Sentimental words always affect a person's rational judgment.
But I think I should give all of us one last opportunity to be capricious.
After that meeting, there were some among us who questioned if we had done the right thing.
While others were resolute in their answers. They believed we made the correct choice.
To be fair, the virus that destroyed the world was born from the first zero-point reactor. That did make many of us doubt the decision to continue our research.
But we still decided to carry out our duty til the very end.
We did not regret anything. We did what was right.
We would have chosen the same even if we could do it again. I think our colleagues in the first reactor would feel the same.
She closes her eyes.
The only thing I regret is that this is as far as we can go.
But I hope any human that sees this remembers one thing—don't forget your desire to reach the stars. Don't lose your hunger to trek forward.
Don't lose the courage to go further just because we are being plundered.
Seize it, conquer it, fall, and stand again. Keep going.
I believe humanity will have a bright future.
I'm putting everything we have in your hands.
Now... I'm going to see my colleagues.
Goodbye.
