Prologue
The sky burned orange against the horizon as another Prometheus-class ark tore through the atmosphere, its fusion drives painting contrails of superheated plasma across the twilight. Astro pressed his face against the grimy window of his studio apartment, watching the ship climb toward the stars with the slow, terrible grace of inevitability. Behind it, the skyline of Houston flickered with emergency broadcasts—red warnings scrolling across every surface, every screen, every pair of augmented reality lenses still functioning in the chaos below.
"Asteroid 2051-XT7 impact in 72 hours. Final evacuations concluding. Shelter protocols in effect."
The words meant nothing now. Shelter protocols. As if concrete and steel could stop a mountain of iron and ice traveling at forty-seven kilometers per second.
In the streets below, fires bloomed between abandoned cars. The evacuation convoy routes had collapsed three days ago when the last of the Selection Committee's chosen families boarded their assigned vessels. What remained was the mathematics of abandonment: eight billion human beings, and room for perhaps fifty million among the stars. The actuarial tables had been ruthless in their precision.
But twelve months ago, none of this had seemed real.
Thirteen months earlier
Astro straightened his tie for the seventh time, his reflection multiplied endlessly in the glass facade of NASA's Johnson Space Center. The building rose before him like a temple to everything he'd ever wanted—clean lines and purpose, the kind of architecture that suggested humanity might actually deserve the stars.
His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his pants, checked his watch, and mentally rehearsed his opening statement one more time. "My name is Astro Kinoshita, and I believe that humanity's future lies not just in reaching space, but in making it home."
Too grandiose. They'd think he was another dreamer with his head in the clouds.
"My research focuses on closed-loop life support systems with particular emphasis on atmospheric recycling efficiency..."
Too technical. They'd already read his transcripts.
He took a deep breath and stepped toward the entrance, badge scanner ready in his hand. This was it. Everything he'd worked for since he'd first looked up at the night sky and realized that the points of light weren't decorations but destinations. The scholarship to MIT despite his parents' doubts. The graduate program that had consumed four years of his life. The theoretical frameworks he'd built in solitude, late at night, when the campus was empty and he could think without interruption.
The pain struck like a lightning bolt behind his eyes.
Astro stumbled, his vision fragmenting into prismatic shards of agony. The world tilted sideways, concrete rushing up to meet him, and then.
Blue light bloomed in the darkness behind his eyelids, clean and electric and impossible.
Text materialized, floating in the space between thought and sight, sharp-edged letters that seemed to burn themselves into his retinas:
Task 1
"SELL EVERYTHING YOU OWN. BUILD A SPACECRAFT."
System integration not complete
He gasped, the pain receding as suddenly as it had come, leaving him crouched on the sidewalk with his hands pressed to his temples. A security guard was approaching, expression shifting from concern to wariness as he took in Astro's appearance—a young Asian man in a cheap suit, acting erratically outside a federal facility.
"You okay, son?"
Astro blinked rapidly, the blue text fading like afterimages. Migraine. Had to be a migraine. Stress-induced hallucination brought on by interview anxiety and too much caffeine. He'd read about such things in neurology papers, visual auras that could manifest as geometric patterns or even words.
"I'm doing fine," he said, straightening up. "Just... low blood sugar. I'm here for an interviewinterview
The guard's expression softened slightly. "Building Two. You sure you're feeling up to it?"
Astro nodded, not trusting his voice. The words still echoed in his mind, luminous and absurd. 'Build a spacecraft.' As if he were some billionaire tech mogul instead of a graduate student whose greatest engineering achievement was keeping his decade-old Honda running.
He made it through security, through the maze of corridors lined with photographs of launches and spacewalks and Mars rovers, through the small conference room where three interviewers sat behind a polished table like judges at a tribunal.
"Mr. Kinoshita," said the woman in the center, Dr. Patricia Chen, according to her nameplate. "Thank you for coming in today. We're impressed by your academic record, though I have to say your thesis topic was... ambitious."
"Theoretical multi-generational spacecraft design," added the man to her left. "Interesting work, but perhaps a bit ahead of its time."
Astro felt the prepared words die in his throat. The blue text flickered at the edges of his vision, insistent and impossible. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus.
"I believe long-term thinking is essential for any serious space program," he said. "If we're going to survive as a species, we need to start planning for journeys that might take centuries, not decades."
Dr. Chén made a note. "And what practical experience do you have with spacecraft systems?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Practical experience. As if theoretical frameworks and mathematical models weren't practical. As if the hundreds of hours he'd spent in simulation software, designing and redesigning life support systems and propulsion configurations, were just elaborate games.
"My experience is primarily computational," he said carefully. "But I've validated my models against existing systems, and the efficiency improvements are significant."
"Computational." The third interviewer, an older man with silver hair and skeptical eyes, leaned forward. "Mr. Kinoshita, we're looking for engineers who can solve real problems in real time. Space doesn't care about your theories."
The words stung because they were true, and false, and irrelevant all at once. Astro felt something cold settle in his chest, the familiar weight of disappointment wrapped in professional courtesy.
They went through the motions for another twenty minutes, asking questions he answered correctly but without enthusiasm, discussing timeline and expectations he knew he'd never meet. When they shook his hand and promised to be in touch, he could already taste the rejection.
Outside, the Houston heat pressed against him like a living thing. He sat in his car in the parking lot, hands trembling slightly as he started the engine. The air conditioning wheezed to life, blowing stale air that smelled of anxiety and failed dreams.
His phone buzzed. A text from his roommate: "How did it go???"
Astro stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How could he explain that it had gone exactly as he'd feared? That all his knowledge, all his passion, all his carefully constructed plans had collided with the simple reality that he was nobody special in a world that only made room for the extraordinary?
Instead, he typed: "Won't know for a few days."
The drive home passed in a blur of strip malls and traffic lights. His apartment complex squatted beside a highway on-ramp, brown brick and optimistic landscaping that had given up the fight against Texas heat. He climbed the stairs to his unit, key sticking in the lock that the landlord had promised to fix three months ago.
Inside, the familiar chaos of his life surrounded him: textbooks stacked in precarious towers, whiteboards covered in equations, a desktop computer that hummed and wheezed through complex simulations. The detritus of someone who lived entirely in his own head.
He sat at his desk and opened his laptop, muscle memory carrying him to the CAD program where his latest design lived in crystalline digital perfection. A theoretical spacecraft for a crew of four, designed for decade-long journeys to nearby star systems. Elegant curves and efficient systems, every component optimized for mass and reliability.
"Wasted"he gasped
The blue text flickered again at the edge of his vision, and this time " he considered doing it," but for some reason "
"Right," he said aloud, voice bitter in the empty room. "Because that makes perfect sense."
But his hands were already moving, opening new files, sketching rough parameters. Not a ship for interstellar journeys—that was fantasy. But something real. Something he could actually build with his own hands, given enough time and determination and willingness to eat nothing but granola bars
Crew of two. Five point eight meters long. Three meters in diameter. Small enough to fit in a standard garage, large enough to sustain human life for... how long? With perfect recycling systems and stored supplies, maybe six months. Maybe more.
It was a sane idea possible with enough resources and time,also most practical thing for him with a little help ,he'd ever considered.
The rejection email from NASA arrived three days later, professionally worded and utterly predictable. "While we were impressed by your academic achievements, we have decided to move forward with candidates whose experience more closely matches our current needs..."
The rejection didn't surprised me and after all if i went under nasa I couldn't fulfill my dream,but it way way too weird because few years earlier all the space research centre began recruiting a lot of people with practical experience and rather than other fields, well it's none of my business
Astro read it twice, then closed his laptop and walked to his bedroom closet. In the back, behind winter coats he'd never needed in Houston, sat a cardboard box filled with childhood treasures: model rockets, astronomy books, a telescope he'd saved three summers of lawn-mowing money to buy.
At the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, was a plastic Space Shuttle from the Kennedy Space Center gift shop. He'd been eight years old, dragging his parents through every exhibit, memorizing specifications and mission parameters while other kids played with interactive displays.
The shuttle fit perfectly in his palm, white ceramic nose and black heat-shield tiles rendered in miniature precision. He'd carried it everywhere for months, launching imaginary missions to Mars and beyond, until embarrassment finally relegated it to storage
Now he set it on his desk beside his laptop, a talisman from a time when building spaceships had seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
His phone rang. His mother, checking in with her weekly mixture of concern and gentle disappointment.
"How did the interview go, sweetheart?"
"They went with someone else."
A pause. "I'm sorry, Astro. But maybe this is a sign. There are other opportunities, other career paths..."
He closed his eyes, seeing blue text burning against his eyelids. Build a spacecraft. The most ridiculous advice anyone had ever given him, hallucinatory or otherwise.
"I know, Mom. I'll figure something out."
After she hung up, he sat in the gathering darkness of his apartment, surrounded by the accumulated weight of his failures and dreams. Tomorrow he'd start looking for a job—something to pay rent while he figured out what came next. Maybe teaching, or software development, or any of the thousand practical compromises that awaited dreamers who dreamed too much
The first component was the life support system, because everything else was meaningless if you couldn't breathe. Oxygen recycling, carbon dioxide scrubbing, water reclamation—all the unsexy engineering that kept astronauts alive while they did heroic things in magnificent voids.
He worked until dawn, fueled by coffee and the strange electric clarity that came from finally having a purpose, however insane. By morning, he had preliminary specifications for a ship that could theoretically keep two people alive indefinitely, assuming perfect maintenance and cost effective
Over the following months, as his savings dwindled and his job applications yielded nothing but polite rejections, the design grew more detailed and more real. He researched suppliers, calculated costs, mapped out construction sequences. The ship took shape in his mind with crystalline precision—every wire and valve and life-sustaining system optimized for survival in the merciless environment beyond Earth's protective embrace.
He found work eventually, a part-time position at a McDonald's near the university where he could earn enough to cover rent and ramen while spending every other waking moment on his impossible project. His coworkers were mostly students like himself, bright young people marking time between classes and futures, but none of them looked at him the way the NASA interviewers had.
Here, he was just Astro, the quiet guy who worked the early shift and never complained about cleaning grease traps. No one cared about his degrees or his theories or the spacecraft components slowly accumulating in his garage like the scattered pieces of an enormous puzzle.
The irony wasn't lost on him. While the world's greatest minds worked on humanity's greatest engineering projects—fusion rockets and generation ships and planetary defense systems that existed only in classified briefings—he assembled his tiny vessel in secret, driven by nothing more than a hallucinatory command and the stubborn refusal to accept that dreams were supposed to stay theoretical.
The blue text never appeared again, but he didn't need it to. The ship was its own imperative now, each completed component proof that impossible things were just difficult things that required more time and determination than most people were willing to invest.
By the time the asteroid was discovered—a mountain of ice and iron tumbling out of the deep void with Earth's name written in gravitational ink—his spacecraft was finished. Beautiful and compact and utterly real, hidden in pieces throughout his garage like a mechanical secret waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
But there was no launch pad in his backyard, no gantry to lift his creation toward the stars. It remained what it had always been: a magnificent gesture, a proof of concept, a love letter to the infinite written in aluminum and carbon fiber and the desperate mathematics of survival.
Astro still couldn't understand the function of the blue holographic shit that gives him headache
Chapter 1
The fluorescent lights of Jefferson Elementary's multipurpose room buzzed with the particular frequency that made eight-year-old teeth ache. I remember sitting cross-legged on the scratchy carpet, watching Mrs. Henderson fumble with the ancient projector that cast wobbly images of Saturn onto the pull-down screen. The other kids were restless—immy pooh was flicking paper footballs, casey was braiding friendship bracelets, and barb was doing that thing where he pretended to pay attention while actually counting ceiling tiles.
But I was transfixed.
"This is Titan," Mrs. Henderson said, advancing to the next slide with a mechanical click. "Saturn's largest moon. Scientists believe it rains methane there."
Methane rain. I tried to imagine it—droplets of something that wasn't water falling from alien skies. My eight-year-old mind couldn't fully grasp the chemistry, but I understood the implications: there were worlds out there that operated by completely different rules.
"And this," she continued, "is 55 Cancri e. An exoplanet that's essentially a giant diamond."
The room fell silent. Even Jimmy stopped his paper football campaign.
A planet. Made of diamonds.
I raised my hand so fast I nearly toppled over. "Mrs. Henderson, how big is it?"
"About twice the size of Earth, Astro."
Twice the size of Earth. Made of diamonds. I did quick mental math with my limited eight-year-old arithmetic skills and came up with a number that seemed impossibly large. Then I thought about the gold chains my uncle wore, the ones he was always bragging about, and imagined entire planets made of that glittering metal.
"Are there gold planets too?" I asked.
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "Well, there are planets with heavy metals in abundance. Some asteroids contain more platinum than has ever been mined on Earth."
That was the moment. Right there, sitting on that scratchy carpet under those buzzing lights, listening to the projector's mechanical wheeze—that was when I understood something fundamental about the universe and my place in it.
Every human being has cardinal desires. I'd learned this from watching adults, from listening to conversations they thought I couldn't understand. My father wanted respect from his coworkers. My mother wanted security, a bigger house, better schools for me. My uncle wanted everyone to see his gold chains and know he'd made it. Most people wanted some combination of wealth, power, and admiration.
But my desire was different. Purer, maybe. Or maybe just more honest.
I wanted to live a life of luxurious peace. I wanted to do absolutely nothing except read manga until my eyes burned, watch anime until I'd memorized every frame, game until my thumbs cramped, and eat exquisite meals prepared by someone else. I wanted a mountain-top villa where servants brought me whatever I craved, where the only decisions I'd ever have to make were whether to have the tonkatsu or the tempura, whether to marathon *One Piece* or start something new.
I wanted to be beautifully, completely, unapologetically lazy.
The problem was obvious: such a life was impossible for an average person. The math didn't work. Even if I became a doctor or lawyer or whatever respectable profession my parents envisioned, I'd still be trading my time for money, still be trapped in the hamster wheel of modern existence. The only people who achieved true leisure were those born into generational wealth, and the Kinoshita family bank account definitely didn't qualify.
Unless.
Unless I broke the system entirely.
Mrs. Henderson advanced to the next slide: an artist's rendering of asteroid mining operations, all gleaming machinery and impossible wealth floating in the void.
"Currently, this is just science fiction," she said. "But some scientists believe that in the future, we might harvest resources from space."
The future. But what if it didn't have to be the future? What if someone was crazy enough, determined enough, foolish enough to try it now?
I raised my hand again. "Mrs. Henderson, how do you become an astronaut?"
She blinked, surprised by the question. "Well, typically you need to study very hard, get excellent grades, usually become an engineer or scientist or pilot, and then apply to NASA. It's extremely competitive, Astro. Only a few people are chosen."
A few people. Out of millions. The odds were astronomical—pun intended.
But someone had to be chosen. Why not me?
That night, I announced my plan to my parents over dinner. "I'm going to become a NASA astronaut, go to space, and mine diamonds from other planets so I can retire early and read manga all day."
My father nearly choked on his miso soup. My mother set down her chopsticks and stared at me with that expression parents get when they're trying to decide if their child is gifted or needs therapy.
"That's... very creative, Astro," she said finally.
At school the next day, I shared my plan with more confidence. I drew diagrams during art class, calculated impossible trajectories during math, and wrote a surprisingly detailed essay about space mining for our creative writing assignment.
Everyone laughed.
Barceb called it stupid. Caiey said I was weird. Even Mrs. Henderson, bless her heart, gave me one of those indulgent smiles adults reserve for children who say they want to be dinosaurs when they grow up.
But I never stopped believing.
Fifteen years later, sitting in the dusty back corner of the university library with NASA's rejection letter still fresh in my memory, I can still hear that laughter echoing in my head. The condescending chuckles, the eye rolls, the whispered comments about "that weird kid with the space obsession."
The library smells like old paper and rotten books. Late afternoon sunlight filters through tall windows, casting long shadows across tables where students pretend to study while actually scrolling through social media. I've claimed a corner table, far from the main thoroughfares, where I can spread out my notebooks without attracting attention.
The page in front of me is covered with sketches—rough drawings of spacecraft that probably violate several laws of physics and definitely violate every principle of sound engineering I've learned. But they're mine, and they represent something more than just mechanical diagrams.
They represent the first step toward proving everyone wrong.
"BUILD A SPACECRAFT."
The blue text had appeared in my vision for exactly three seconds, clear as day, impossible to dismiss as imagination. I've tried to rationalize it—stress hallucination, sleep deprivation, some kind of neural misfire brought on by crushing disappointment. But the more I think about it, the more I realize it doesn't matter what caused it.
What matters is that it's exactly what I needed to hear.
NASA rejected me. Fine. They want perfect candidates with perfect records and perfect attitudes who will follow perfect procedures to achieve perfectly mundane goals. They want team players who dream of serving humanity and advancing scientific knowledge and other noble, selfless objectives.
They don't want someone whose ultimate goal is to get rich enough to never work again.
But here's the thing they don't understand: my selfish motivation might be exactly what's needed. Because while they're forming committees and conducting studies and writing reports about the theoretical future of space mining, I'm willing to actually do it. I'm willing to risk everything on a crazy plan because the alternative—accepting a normal life—is unacceptable.
I flip to a fresh page and start sketching again. This time, I will try to be more systematic. Basic propulsion. Life support. Navigation. Communication. Each system is a problem to be solved, a challenge to be overcome.but they are damn so costly
"Well that day earlier Kinoshita has requested to allocate funds for his project from the university resource management department which consists of 4 core members who are exceptionally talented and they are henceforth given the power inorder to foster the future generations the government has set up such systems"
"Is that a spacecraft?"
The voice startles me. I look up to see a girl standing beside my table, her arms full of textbooks. She's maybe five-foot-four, with straight black hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and glasses that have seen better days. I recognize her from several of my engineering classes—always sitting in the front row, always asking the kind of questions that make others look dumb,ofc nerdy type personality
Yuki Tanaka. Class topper. The kind of student who makes everyone else's GPA look embarrassing.meh
"Maybe," I say, instinctively moving to cover my sketches and smirked saying "hehe none of your business"
She said "Ha" it was my mistake talking to guys like you who need serious therapy
"You know about spacecraft design?" I asked
"I know about physics." She shifts her textbooks, and I notice the titles: *Fundamentals of Astrodynamics*, *Rocket Propulsion Elements*, *Orbital Mechanics for Engineering Students*. Heavy reading, even for an overachiever. "Mind if I sit? This table has the best lighting."
I gesture to the empty chair across from me. She settles down, opens her books, and begins reading with the kind of focused intensity that suggests she's not just studying—she's absorbing whoa damn it why don't i have such an innate talent for studying
For several minutes, we work in companionable silence. I continue sketching while she takes notes in handwriting so neat it could be printed. Occasionally, she glances at my drawings, and I catch her making calculations of prices for the materials needed.
"You're serious about this," she says eventually. It's not a question.
I set down my pencil and really look at her. There's something in her expression—not mockery or condescension, but genuine curiosity. Maybe even recognition.
"Everyone thinks I'm crazy," but they are too dumb to understand the way of rich people.
"Everyone thought the Wright brothers were crazy too." She closes her textbook and leans forward slightly. "But crazy and impossible aren't the same thing. The physics of spaceflight are well-established. The engineering challenges are significant but solvable. The real obstacles are economic and regulatory."
"So you don't think it's impossible?"
"I think it's improbable. But improbable things happen every day." She pauses, then adds, "The question is why you want to do it."
The honest answer is that I want to get rich enough to spend the rest of my life doing nothing. But somehow, I don't think that's what she wants to hear. And more importantly, I'm starting to realize it's not the complete truth anymore.
Yes, I still dream of my mountain-top villa and endless leisure.
I feel the possibility of proving everyone wrong. Of taking all that laughter and condescension and transforming it into the fuel for something unprecedented. Of showing the world that sometimes the crazy ideas are the ones that change everything.
"I want to show that it can be done," I say finally. "Everyone says it's impossible, but they're wrong. They're thinking too small, too safe, too conventional. Space is full of resources just waiting to be claimed. The only thing stopping us is fear and lack of imagination."
She studies my face for a long moment. "And after you've shown it can be done? What then?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I could give her the simple answer—get rich, retire, live happily ever after. But looking at her serious expression, her obvious intelligence, her stack of advanced textbooks, I realize she's asking something deeper.
She's asking if I'm serious enough to see this through. If I have the commitment to turn a sketch into reality, to transform a childhood dream into an actual spacecraft capable of reaching the asteroid belt and returning with enough wealth to change everything.
"Then I guess we will find out what's really possible,"
She nods slowly, as if this answer satisfies some internal evaluation. "We?"
The word slips out before I can stop it, but once it's said, I realize I mean it. This isn't just about recruiting help for my crazy plan. It's about recognizing that some dreams are too big for one person, no matter how determined.
"I mean, if you're interested," I add quickly. "I know it sounds insane, and the odds are terrible, and most people would consider it career suicide, but—"
"The Japanese have a phrase," she interrupts. "*Nana korobi ya oki*. Fall seven times, stand up eight. It means persistence in the face of failure."
She gathers her books and stands up, but before she leaves, she tears a corner from one of her notebook pages and writes something on it. She slides it across the table to me.
A phone number.
"I'm in the lab most evenings," she says. "Building things. Testing theories. Making the impossible slightly less impossible." She pauses at the edge of my table. "Your spacecraft design needs work. But the core concept isn't crazy. It's just early."
"Well I smirked and said well that because I read too many sci-fi novel I guess it's in my genius blood"
She walks away, leaving me alone with my sketches and a scrap of paper that might be the most important thing anyone's ever given me.at least if it succeeded I'd be a trillionaire.
All is I see a beginning.the path of a trillions dollar empire
The late afternoon light is fading, and the library is starting to empty. Students pack up their belongings, heading back to dorms and apartments and normal lives governed by normal ambitions. But I remain at my corner table going through books about space ,usually only few people come to the library.because of the development of complex electrronic gadgets, common people can read as many book as they want with new ai developement and neural link transfer, but the reason I'm here is because whenever I use a electronic device I get this temptation to play games and read mangas .
Then again I saw the exact same thing ,is it a new brain glitch ?
"BUILD A SPACECRAFT."
Maybe I hallucinated those words. Maybe they were just my subconscious mind giving voice to what I already knew I had to do. But as I sit here, surrounded by the quiet rustle of pages and the distant hum of fluorescent lights, I realize it doesn't matter where the directive came from.
What really matters is that I'm finally ready to follow it.
I flip to a new page and begin sketching again. This time, I draw more carefully, more thoughtfully. I consider thrust vectors and fuel efficiency and radiation shielding. I think about orbital mechanics and reentry trajectories and the thousand other problems that stand between a dream and reality.
But I also think about eight-year-old me, sitting on a scratchy carpet, learning about diamond planets and golden asteroids. I think about all the people who laughed, who dismissed my dream as childish fantasy.but times have changed and it is now 2050
And now I'm smiling thinking about the future that beholds me
Because tomorrow, I'm going to start making my own spacecraft and get ultra rich
Day 1 complete