“Humanity’s journey lies among the sea of stars and dust, yet within that sea, there are not only stars but also abysses…”
—Records of Ancient Earth History
Along the Luochuan orbital path, cargo ships bustled back and forth. Gu Cheng shook his drowsy head and gazed through the porthole at the azure planet below. The profound vacuum stretched like an endless expanse of inky black velvet, dotted with cold, eternal pinpricks of starlight. Amid this vast, eerie silence, the Dawn—a light freighter—drifted silently, its thrusters glowing with a faint blue flame.
The dim glow of the control panel reflected in Gu Cheng’s bloodshot eyes. The flickering data streams on the screen resembled a jumble of discordant notes, fraying his already taut nerves further. A freshman at the Astronautics Academy, this was his third solo training mission—running supply runs around Luochuan—during the holidays. Less than three months had passed since he obtained his temporary pilot’s license, and the label “rookie trainee” was stamped not only on his flight log but also in the tone of every communication from the space station dispatchers.
“Dawn, this is Luochuan-3 Dispatch Station. We detect fluctuating output power in your port-side thruster. Please investigate immediately. Repeat: please investigate immediately.”
The dispatcher’s steady female voice crackled over the comms, devoid of emotion, yet it made Gu Cheng’s palms break out in a cold sweat in an instant.
He jolted upright, his fingers dancing across the control panel to pull up the thruster’s real-time parameter curve. Without an AI warning system, every data point required his own judgment. Sure enough—the green line representing the port thruster oscillated erratically, its peaks and troughs already exceeding the safety threshold. Gu Cheng swallowed hard, his mind racing through the emergency protocols memorized from the flight manual, but the words blurred into a mess. Only one phrase echoed clearly, drilled into him repeatedly by his instructors: “In the vacuum of space, a single mistake can leave you stranded forever. This is doubly true when you’re piloting a ship without AI assistance—you have only yourself to rely on.”
“Dawn copies. Investigating the fault now.” Gu Cheng forced himself to stay calm, but his voice trembled slightly despite his efforts. He silently cursed the Dawn—a clunky, outdated light freighter. To cut costs, the ship’s owner had scrapped the budget for an AI auxiliary system, leaving all navigation, monitoring, and controls to manual pilot operation.
Taking a deep breath, he rested his fingers firmly on the control stick and carefully reduced the overall thruster power, trying to stabilize the port-side fluctuations. Outside the porthole, cargo ships continued their comings and goings—some adjusting their orbits slowly, others docking with the space station—all moving in orderly fashion. Only his Dawn wobbled unsteadily along its path, like a bird that had lost its bearings.
Troubleshooting dragged on endlessly, every second stretching into an eternity. Gu Cheng checked the circuit parameters, fuel supply, and engine temperature one by one. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, sliding off his cheeks and dripping onto the cold console, leaving small dark splotches. He thought back to his first simulation flight class at the academy, when his nervous fumbling had caused the simulated spacecraft to “crash.” His instructor had clapped him on the shoulder and said: “Gu Cheng, space has no mercy for tears—it only rewards precise operation and a calm mind. Especially for you rookies, every training mission must be treated like a real-life battle.”
Finally, he pinpointed the issue: a minor clog in the port thruster’s fuel filter valve, causing an uneven fuel supply. A wave of relief washed over him. Following the emergency procedures, he activated the backup filter valve and gradually increased the thruster power. The wavy line on the screen smoothed out, and the Dawn regained its steady flight posture.
“Luochuan-3 Dispatch, Dawn here. Fault resolved. Thruster output has returned to normal.” Confidence laced Gu Cheng’s voice now, and his tense shoulders relaxed at last.
“Copy that, Dawn.” A hint of approval tinged the dispatcher’s reply. “Data readings are stable. Proceed with your mission along the original route. Remain vigilant.”
Gu Cheng let out a long exhale, his gaze returning to the control panel. Next came the critical phase of the training mission: a smooth landing at Luochuan-3 Space Station’s cargo port. Without AI precision positioning assistance, all docking parameters had to be calculated manually. He pressed his lips together, his fingertips tapping rapidly on the keyboard as he pulled up the landing coordinates, orbital inclination, and other data, verifying each figure meticulously.
He maneuvered the Dawn to adjust its attitude slowly, fine-tuning the thruster intensity to reduce the ship’s speed gradually. Outside the porthole, the outline of the space station’s cargo dock grew clearer—the silvery docking tunnel stretched outward like an open arm, waiting to embrace the incoming vessel. Gu Cheng’s eyes were fixed on the distance and attitude metrics on the screen, the veins on his forehead pulsing faintly. Every adjustment he made was gentle yet deliberate, fearing that even the slightest miscalculation would result in a docking failure.
“500 meters from the dock. Attitude stable. Speed normal.” He muttered to himself, as if cheering himself on. As the distance closed, he began to tweak the thruster force to counteract the residual orbital inertia. When the Dawn’s alignment with the docking tunnel narrowed to within a few centimeters, he steadied the control stick resolutely. The spacecraft glided forward, and with a soft click, it locked securely into the docking port. A green indicator light flickered to life immediately.
“Docking confirmed. Lock engaged. Welcome to Luochuan-3, Dawn.”
The space station’s automated system chimed through the cockpit speakers, replacing the dispatcher’s voice.
Gu Cheng’s taut nerves finally snapped completely, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He leaned back in his seat and let out a long, silent breath, as if expelling all the tension that had built up during those heart-stopping thirty minutes. Cold sweat soaked the lining of his flight jacket, clinging uncomfortably to his back.
After a brief respite, he knew the mission was far from over. Training mission scores depended not only on flight performance but also on the efficiency and protocol compliance of cargo handover. Rubbing his aching eyes, he initiated the post-landing standard procedures on the console: shutting down the main thrusters, activating the mooring engines to maintain attitude stability, opening the pressure equalization valve for the airlock between the ship and the space station, and finally sending the cargo manifest and a request to open the docking hatch to the station’s Cargo Management Department.
“Dawn to Luochuan-3 Cargo Management. Cargo manifest transmitted. Requesting permission to open Docking Bay B7 for unloading operations.” Gu Cheng’s voice was steady now, tinged with the hoarseness of a mission completed.
A cool but professional voice responded over the comms: “Copy that, Dawn. Permission granted to open Docking Bay B7. Pilot is required to bring the electronic signing board to Cargo Hall 3 to complete handover procedures. Note: your stay is time-limited—unloading and post-flight inspection must be completed within two hours.”
“Understood.” Gu Cheng replied. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, stretching his stiff muscles from hours of tense operation. Through the porthole, he saw space station ground crew in dark blue uniforms—piloting small tractors and cargo robots—lined up neatly outside the docking tunnel, waiting for the unloading to begin.
When he opened the ship’s inner hatch and stepped onto the metal corridor connecting the Dawn to the space station, a distinctive “space station smell” hit him—a mixture of machine oil, metal, and recirculated air. The corridor was brightly lit, and his footsteps echoed off the hollow metal walls. Several ground crew members were operating equipment nearby; when they spotted him emerging in his flight jacket emblazoned with “Astronautics Academy—Trainee,” a flicker of recognition crossed their eyes, followed by a hint of casual indifference. To them, a rookie student with a temporary license, flying a beat-up manual freighter, was hardly worth noticing—more of a potential hassle that required extra care.
The cargo hall was bustling with activity. Pilots of various spacecraft, cargo owners’ representatives, and ground dispatchers milled about. Electronic screens scrolled with ship names, waybill numbers, and berth assignments. The hum of announcements, chatter, and machinery merged into a busy din. Gu Cheng followed the signs toward Cargo Window 3.
Behind the window sat a middle-aged male staff member with a stoic expression. His name tag read: Cargo Dispatcher—Zhao Ming. Gu Cheng handed over the electronic signing board. “Good day. I’m Gu Cheng from the Dawn, here to complete the handover for Berth B7.”
Zhao Ming didn’t look up, his fingers swiping quickly across the screen to pull up the information. “Dawn… Gu Cheng… Astronautics Academy trainee?” He glanced up at Gu Cheng, his gaze mirroring the ground crew’s—perfunctory and evaluative. “Hmm, manifest received. Standard supply goods. Unloading progress shows 65% complete. Wait over there—you can sign off only after the full unloading and verification are finished.” He nodded toward a rest area on the side of the hall, where a few other pilots sat waiting.
“Alright, thank you.” Gu Cheng nodded in response.
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