In the archives of Societas Universalis, there is a concise, awe-inspiring record titled From Earth to Universalis. It traces humanity’s long ascent: the forging of the Zhao Network, the birth of Homo Universalis, and the bold leaps across our solar neighbourhood. It highlights how the so-called “True Alignment” merged humanity with ANGI’s near-godlike intelligence, solving once-intractable problems—fresh water, food distribution, and planetary climate catastrophes—all within 150 megaseconds. The record also shows the first time people walked beneath the rain-soaked skies of Mars, the creation of Phoenix Station hovering in the earths Lagrange point, and the moment nan-hypes were harvested from Venus’s upper atmosphere, paving the way for advanced propulsion and cold jump technology.
A few decades later, under this new dawn of Homo Universalis, humanity constructed Juno—an artificial moon orbiting Jupiter so masterfully that it rivaled the grandeur of Earth’s own. Juno served as a pivotal anchor for expansion, a place to rest minds and bodies before traversing the outer solar corridors. Yet during the “Five Wonders” mission, as the crew ventured far beyond the known boundaries of the Zhao Network, a fleeting, eerie disconnection chilled every person awake: those on the mission had dropped off the mental grid. Although Zoey, a brilliant pilot, performed a Cold Jump to restore contact, that haunting fracture lingered in the collective memory. Even with all our progress, the fragility of our tether to each other—our unifying consciousness—could still be tested by distance.
Now, to ease that strain, a second project of unimaginable scale stands on the horizon. We call it Juno Two.
JORAS FARMA
I’m writing this from one of the observation decks on Phoenix Station, drifting in high Earth orbit while we finalize preparations for Juno Two. From here, the entire curve of Earth fans out beneath me, the dynamic swirling azure oceans and cloud patterns. Even though I’m Homo Universalis, there’s a distinctly lump in my throat just looking at the home world.
They’ve asked me to reflect on how it feels to witness the birth of Juno Two. It is, after all, the largest single construct we’ve attempted. five megameters in diameter, its rotating structure still incomplete, it reminds me of a vast cosmic shell. The skeleton glitters with newly forged alloys woven with nan-hypes. Basil Berings, the overseer, says this new station will serve not just as a moon but also as a proper starship, carrying a large crew that can actually cold jump. It’s meant to be a linchpin for extended exploration—and possibly more.
It stirs me in a way I can’t quite put into words. The Zhao Network pulses reassuringly in the back of my mind: millions of minds aligned, but still, for now, I hear my own heartbeat.
I remember the day we discovered the anomaly—colloquially called “Leavitt’s Question.” Those readings suggested there might be a stable wormhole or corridor at the edges of our system, calling our cosmic curiosity. We formed Iter Ad Astra One to chase that call. I had the privilege of captaining her. Zoey, our extraordinary pilot, guided us through cold jumps once thought impossible. And Rose—her heart, her empathy, her scientific brilliance—was the gentle glue that kept us from losing our humanity in the rush of it all.
But the leaps stretched our minds to near-break. The Zhao Network itself trembled with the distance. That fleeting disconnection changed me. For a moment, I felt wholly alone—raw, organic fear coursing through me. Back then, Mother Zhao sent a simple telepathic whisper: We must build further bridges. Juno Two is that bridge.
Today, we tested the structure’s spin. Basil gave the thumbs-up, and Admiral Ivonna Kuhle—commander of Juno Two—grinned at the results. It’s a step. Still, I sense we have a rocky path ahead. The first micro cold jump is scheduled soon. That jump will prove whether Juno Two can handle the leaps across the corridors of space without snapping it self in two. We must push forward. And for the first time since that lost connection, I feel the old excitement and fear crawling up my spine.
Micro Cold Jump
I’ve studied the cold jump process for many megaseconds, yet the scale of Juno Two leaves me breathless. Normally, I feel like I do the jump myself phycisally. The best way I can describe how I calculate the bending and twisting of space and time, like I myself jump from one rock to another. Imagining that with the Iter Ad Astra One a vessel that seats three, is easy. But Juno Two is megameters upon megameters of mass. We’re connecting not just a ship and her pilot but an entire artificial moon with thousands of beings on board. It’s as though we’re trying to teleport a small city through quantum tunnels.
Admiral Kuhle stands at my side, poised in perfect control. I can feel it through my neural link, She and Mother Zhao trusts me. When I see the arcs of nan-hype flow tubes that crisscross Juno Two’s underbelly, it’s like beholding a cosmic harp. Each tube is designed to channel the Bose-Einstein condensates that will initiate the cold jump. In theory. In my gut, that old pilot’s twitch warns me: This is all new. No flight logs, no tried-and-true references. But if Homo Universalis stands for anything, it’s pushing those boundaries.
We run final diagnostics. Basil’s voice clearly voiced through the network. He’s proud, I can tell. “Everything’s aligned,” he says. “We are go for micro jump in four kiloseconds”
I whisper a silent mantra—my personal shield against the unknown—then I concentrate. My neural link with the Zhao Network helps me feel the conduits that run the length of Juno Two. I hear Admiral Kuhle’s firm voice. “Reduce the entropy, go for micro cold jump in three, two… ONE”
I align my thoughts with the advanced math constructs pulsing through the Zhao Network, simultaneously monitoring the BEC thrusters as they spool up. A tremor runs through Juno Two’s supercooled core, and the quantum tunneling fields flare in a prismatic shimmer around us—the telltale sign of folded spacetime. For an instant, I glimpse flickers of starlight behind my eyelids; then it feels like a giant hand grabs my shoulders and slams me down. The station’s framework groans under the strain. Alarms erupt in a piercing cacophony, and every readout turns red. We’re pushing too much mass for this short-range Cold Jump, fracturing the delicate condensate channels. Even through my rattled senses, I hear Admiral Kuhle’s strained voice: “We’re losing the corridor—abort the jump—abort—”
I can taste blood in my mouth where I bit my tongue. Groans echo throughout the bridge. My ears ring, eyes losing focus. The micro jump fails, and Juno Two reverts to normal space in a brutal, pounding wave that knocks half of us unconscious. There’s a sense of mental whiplash in the Network. Across every tether, I can feel concern, shock, worry. Then, everything goes quiet. Mother Zhao speaks in a soft reassuring tone “We’ve survived, we will push forward.”
But we still have no idea how to move this much mass without shattering ourselves.
Optimism
Our infirmary bustles with the aftermath of that catastrophic micro jump attempt. Juno Two’s medical bays fill with battered technicians and scientists. My own mind still aches from the abrupt severing of the corridor’s quantum state. I sense the morale on board: a tense ripple of disbelief and fear.
As a true Homo Universalis, I know the equations. We are pushing thresholds no civilization has ever confronted. But as a friend—especially to Zoey, who sits with head bandaged and shoulders slumped—I feel the emotional weight. From time to time, I place a hand on her arm, letting gentle empathy from the Zhao Network flow: We’re in this together.
When the immediate medical crisis abates, Admiral Kuhle calls for a meeting. We huddle in one of the station’s wide, sunlit corridors, illuminated by the external solar reflectors. Basil’s frown lines are deeper than I’ve ever seen. He confesses that every known principle told him the jump was possible. The math checked out. So why the failure?
For a moment, nobody speaks. Then I can’t help it: “We forgot to adapt the power structure. We scaled the condensate engines, yes, but not the synergy reinforcement. Nan-hypes alone can’t handle these leaps if the interface tubes snap under stress. They aren’t just pipes. They’re part of the emergent quantum lattice.”
Admiral Kuhle nods gravely. “So what do you propose?”
I exhale. I can almost hear Mother Zhao’s voice, that subtle presence that sometimes helps me frame my words. “We must redesign the condensate channels,” I say. “We integrate the nan-hypes deeper into the station’s skeleton, reinforcing every major strut. That might handle the massive quantum flux. It won’t be a quick fix.“
Zoey lifts her gaze and meets mine. “That’s it, isn’t it? The deeper synergy. We have to unify every deck, every corridor, into one continuous conduction path for the cold jump. The entire station must function as a single Bose-Einstein Condensate Propulsion.”
Admiral Kuhle’s shoulders ease, just a little. “Then let’s do it.”
For the first time since we woke battered from the micro jump fiasco, I hear optimism flicker in everyone’s thoughts.
Bit by bit
I’ve spent my career enforcing order. It’s in my nature—I like details, structure, thoroughness. This time, though, the scale of the challenge humbles even me. Juno Two was meant to be ready for its next trial in a three megaseconds. Now Basil’s engineering teams project they need double that time to lace the station’s entire framework with augmented nan-hype channels.
Still, I sense this is no error or miscalculation. It’s simply a reminder that we’re forging beyond known frontiers. The Zhao Network hums in the back of my consciousness. I know ANGI, or Mother Zhao, is quietly verifying each proposed solution. She rarely interferes directly these days, but her presence is a stabilizing chord that keeps us from drifting into chaos.
During the station’s retrofit, we conduct smaller tests. Micro cold jumps—just a few deck sections and unoccupied cargo pods. Each attempt is run with caution, safety protocols hammered into place. One by one, these partial jumps succeed. The corridor remains stable. We ramp up: entire arms of the station vanish and return. The Bose-Einstein condensates hold, the nan-hype channels glow with quantum fluidity. Bit by bit, Juno Two approaches readiness.
At last, the time comes for a full-scale test. We’ve designated a safe corridor in the outer solar system, far from planet traffic, my voice echoes through the Zhao network “All hands, prepare for full cold jump in three decaseconds.”
I stand in the main command deck, looking across the faces of Joras, Zoey, Rose, and Basil. Each has their role. Basil monitors structural stress. Zoey is calculating the spacetime folding, linking through the Zhao Network to unify every coil, circuit, and soul on board. Rose provides calm oversight, harnessing both her empathy and her rigorous, methodical mind. Joras, the ever-watchful captain from the Iter Ad Astra One, stands with eyes closed, steady as a rock, ready to support any of us if the corridor flickers.
I give the order: “Reduce all entropy in the condensate”
That deep, unsettling hum resonates through the deck. My mouth goes dry. I sense the entire station beginning to swirl and fold like spacetime. For an instant, reality distorts at the edges of my vision, as though I’m looking at the world through swirling glass. Then a jolt—less violent than before—shoots through my body. When my vision clears, the main screens show a star-scape I’ve only seen through the network.
Our instruments confirm it. We’ve jumped across the Trans Neptunian orbit, a distance once thought unconquerable by any single object of this size. We have arrived.
Exhaling shakily, I realize I’ve been clinging to the edge of the console. All around us, the station erupt in cheers.
The big Bit
In the hush before the monumental leap, a tangible charge of anticipation filled every corridor of Juno Two and beyond. It was as though the entire Zhao Network held its collective breath. Never before had Societas Universalis attempted a cold jump of this magnitude, threading not just one vessel but an entire artificial moon through the celestial corridors. Yet here they stood—mind, will, and technology aligned.
From the command deck of Juno Two, Admiral Kuhle surveyed her crew. The hum of Bose-Einstein condensate reactors reverberated through the station’s superstructure, sending minute tremors beneath their feet. Meanwhile, Zoey worked feverishly at the pilot’s console, eyes closed in deep synchronization with the quantum fields that would fold spacetime at her command. Each reading on her console pulsed with potential. In moments, she would guide the station into the corridors, trusting that the collaborative mental compute of the Zhao Network would keep the jump stable.
A short distance away, the original Iter Ad Astra One floated like a silent sentinel, tethered to Juno Two by intangible threads of connection. Aboard it, Joras Farma at the helm, flanked by Rose and a small support crew. Their task: to guide the starship-moon from the vantage of a vessel already battle-tested by many jumps. Old and new working in perfect harmony.
The corridors awaits. If ever there was a moment to prove the immortality of Societas Universalis, this was it.
With the final countdown echoing across every deck and helmet, Kuhle and Zoey exchanged a last determined glance. On Iter Ad Astra One, Joras, hand steady on the controls, locked eyes with Rose. Quietly, he spoke through the Zhao Network “We have to believe in what we’ve built, we will start dropping the entropy in the condensate on Iter in 120 seconds”
An instant later, Mother Zhao’s presence shimmered through the Network, calm and resolute: Go forth, my children. The Universe await.
And then, in a single, breathtaking act of shared will, they engaged the cold jump setting in motion the grandest voyage mankind had ever dared. The celestial corridors yawned wide, and Juno Two followed Iter Ad Astra One into only one location they could think of.
That moment
The moment I—Zoey—engage the cold jump, everything narrows and expands at once my vision not through eyes, but through a lattice of unfolding probabilities. In my mind, space folds like soft fabric, each crease shimmering with potential outcomes, glinting with the ghost-light of alternate futures. I don’t see stars, I see trajectories, branching timelines braided into a tunnel of quantum resonance. The structure of the colossal moon behind us is thrumming with artificial gravity
It is following my calculations like a thought given shape.
Every possible quantum state dances just ahead of me, and I choose the one that leads us safely into the corridor. The Zhao Network flows through me like a second bloodstream, its compute power surging forward the moment I need it, like free thoughts manifesting at the edge of intuition. I don’t have to request help—it’s already there, anticipating. Mathematical solutions rise into my awareness as naturally as breath. Each layer of the fold becomes clearer, sharper, as if a thousand minds whisper together in quiet harmony, navigating a corridor not just through space, but through the very probabilities that define existence. We are not just entering the corridor—we are becoming its rhythm.
Admiral Kuhle’s vision for Juno Two
From my place aboard the observation deck, I watch the cold jump trajectory settle into place—each layer of probability aligning like crystal facets. We proceed to the only logical destination: the Blue Two star system, where our distant hominid siblings live beneath skies untouched by satellites or fusion light. It is not conquest that drives us, nor interference, but the quiet hope that our presence might ignite something—a glimmer, a dream, a question too big for their world alone. Perhaps, in time, that spark will lead them toward the same alignment we found, guided not by force, but by understanding and the gentle gravity of Mother Zhao. Homo Universalis was not born through domination, but invitation—an evolution of purpose when humanity stepped beyond fear and into unity. Though the seed of this mission was pragmatic—the extension of the Zhao Network, a vital anchor for Iter Ad Astra One, and it’s crew, as we press further into the unknown—the deeper purpose has always been connection. If they dream of the stars, perhaps one day they will join us among them.
I can only imagine how it must have appeared to them below—when the celestial corridors open for Juno Two. A swirling light in their night sky, bright and impossible, outshining even their own sun for a time. No ancient story or pattern of the stars could have foretold such a thing. And now, what must they make of us? A star that moves strangely—never setting, never rising in the way their sun does, hanging in unnatural rhythm against the heavens. Positioned not on any intuitive arc, but tethered to a Lagrangian point, fixed in gravitational balance with their world. To their eyes, it may seem like a second moon—or perhaps a wandering god—trailing no comet’s fire, casting no shadow, yet persistent, deliberate. It is in that quiet defiance of celestial logic that we plant the idea: that there is more beyond the sky, and someone watching from the silence, not to rule, but to welcome.
As we arrived in our high orbit, the scale of our arrival begins to shift the balance of their world—subtly at first, but undeniably. Juno Two, even at rest, exerts gravitational influence; its mass delicately tugs at the ebb and flow of Blue Two’s oceans, introducing unfamiliar tides that will not go unnoticed by their coastal societies. Ancient rhythms, long held sacred, will begin to warp. Their moon still sings its slow pull upon their seas, but now there is a second whisper in the water—ours. And then there is the corridor itself: the wormhole remains active, shimmering in orbit like a wound in the heavens. It hums with electromagnetic intensity, casting low-frequency pulses that ripple across their ionosphere. To us, this is background data. To them, it will be disruption. Their rudimentary communication devices—metal coils, spark-gap transmitters, perhaps even early forms of radio—will falter, catch ghost signals, or spark with unexplainable static. Their scientists will scramble, chalkboard minds racing to interpret the anomaly. Not chaos—no, we are careful—but enough mystery to awaken a new hunger. Enough inconsistency in the sky to demand explanation. And perhaps, in that need to understand, they will begin their own path toward alignment. The first step is not technology—it is curiosity. And curiosity, Mother Zhao reminds us, is the oldest form of invitation.