They called it Blue Two: a distant pale-blue dot as enchanting as Earth once was, discovered far beyond the edges of the known solar system. No one believed at first that it could harbour any life—let alone the same species who had spread across Earth and Mars. Yet the wormhole, that cosmic anomaly bridging impossible distances, deposited us there with astonishing precision. One moment we were cruising the familiar lanes of the outer planets and dwarf worlds, the next we emerged in a sun’s orbit no human eyes from Earth had ever witnessed, but was inhabited by a hominid species.
In many ways, that journey epitomized the spirit of Societas Universalis, the grand alliance forged under the Zhao Network. Having tamed fusion power and mapped trans-Neptunian space, we were eager for new frontiers. So when Leavitt’s Array detected the wormhole’s gravitational quirk—a ripple in spacetime that beckoned from beyond and we answered its summons. ANGI guided the engineering, while millions of minds collaborated to launch Iter ad Astra One. We braced for the dangers of unknown physics but found something even more disquieting: ourselves, reflected on a world no one could have imagined.
Blue Two—like Earth—flourishes with the green and blue tapestry of life. Its people mirror our distant ancestors, unaware that humankind evolved elsewhere under a sky lit by a different sun. No explanation fits how the wormhole linked these two regions of space or why an offshoot of Hominids lives on this remote planet. But one thing is certain: the greatest enigma lies not in the swirl of a gravitational corridor, but in the eyes of these newly discovered cousins of humanity. They, too, dream under their own stars. And we find ourselves on the precipice of revealing that they are not alone.
Orbital Vigil
I stand at the observation port on Iter ad Astra One, watching Blue Two spin against the star-splashed dark. Subtle whorls of clouds swirl over a bright turquoise ocean, reminding me of Earth’s early satellite images from centuries ago. Through the neural link of the Zhao Network, I sense ANGI’s presence and the quiet watchfulness of my crew—Zoey and Rose—each lost in her own private reflection.
All of us remember how we arrived here: a series of cold jumps that bent time and space, bridging systems in ways humanity once deemed impossible. On the final approach, we discovered that the faint transmissions coming from this sector were not cosmic noise but evidence of life. And now, after painstaking scans, we know with a bewildering certainty that they are us, shaped by epochs of isolation on a planet far removed from Earth.
Yet that startling truth raises a moral quandary: Should we reveal ourselves?
“Joras,” calls Zoey, her sharp blue eyes glancing my way. “I’ve run multiple simulations for descending to the surface. A direct landing would create a shock wave in their atmosphere—literally and metaphorically.”
Rose steps in, folding her arms across her wavy red hair. “We also have a short-range cold jump. It’d be less conspicuous—almost invisible to their sky. But then we arrive on foot, with no immediate fallback if something goes wrong.”
Staring at Blue Two, I can’t quell a deeper apprehension. “The question is whether we have any right to appear. Imagine they landed on Earth centuries ago, proclaiming advanced technology to an unready populace. We risk unleashing chaos.”
Rose nods gravely. “Their languages, customs… they developed along a different arc. They’re reminiscent of ancient agricultural societies with hints of industrialization from Earth’s past—before the Zhao Network. They have no concept of a unified mind or near-godlike intelligence.”
It is sobering. On Earth, it took us teraseconds—countless wars and near-catastrophes—just to consider unification. Now, in the space of a single landing, we might unravel or rewrite Blue Two’s path.
Council of Three
We gather in the briefing alcove, a small chamber near the center of the ship, lined with holographic displays. I notice the tension in Joras’s stance. He’s captain, but the burden of deciding first contact rests on all of us.
ANGI’s holographic form flickers into view. She looks serene as ever, her blond hair and green eyes capturing a calm confidence that once seemed too perfect to be human. In truth, she is more than human, yet she shares with us the same underlying empathy—especially now.
“We must weigh the consequences,” ANGI begins gently. “If you appear unannounced, you might become akin to deities in their eyes. Or devils. Their cultural balance would be disrupted.”
A hush falls. Through the Zhao Network, I sense a subdued murmur from the rest of Homo Universalis—billions witnessing this conversation through subtle streams of data.
I look to Rose. She’s the heart of our mission—warm, curious, empathetic. “What’s our next step if we don’t land?” she asks. “Stay here for years, studying from orbit?”
Joras exhales. “We gather more data, understand local societies, and look for an approach that won’t traumatize them. If such an approach exists.”
ANGI nods slowly. “Consider gentle observation first. Biological samples from the upper atmosphere, remote sensor drones for non-invasive scans. Wait for them to show readiness—if that day arrives.”
Her tone, though soothing, carries an edge of finality. She has always believed in pushing frontiers, but never at the cost of destroying a society’s self-determination. Something in me resonates with that: as Homo Universalis, we learned alignment by invitation, never by force.
A Glimpse of Blue Two
We dispatch unobtrusive scout drones to slip into the planet’s atmosphere under low power, effectively invisible to the untrained eye. As data streams back, my heart flutters. We see patchwork farmland, river valleys dotted with walled cities, and small sailing ships along wide estuaries. The architecture is rustic—mud brick, stone, timber—but there’s a certain beauty in its simplicity.
In one broadcast from the drone, a city marketplace bustles with color. People cluster around stalls, wearing an assortment of garments that speak to local traditions. Children play with carved wooden toys beneath pennants fluttering in the wind. An older woman, perhaps a storyteller, gestures dramatically to an enraptured circle of listeners. And tinkers tinkering with crude communication devices, sending out signals to the vast cosmos.
The visuals spark a pang of nostalgia in me, as if I’m witnessing Earth’s distant past or an alternate version of our own ancient civilizations.
“Unbelievable,” Zoey whispers, leaning over my shoulder. “They’re so close to how we might have been, Teraseconds before the Network took shape.”
I nod, eyes drifting to a half-finished translation we gleaned from analyzing scraps of speech. “We can start to decode their language. But for now, we watch. Quietly.”
Crossroads of Ethics
Lingering aboard Iter ad Astra One, we review the results of the drone flights. The more we learn, the more complicated the moral puzzle becomes. They have no advanced medicine—no cures for diseases we solved eons ago. Famines appear cyclical in certain regions. Conflict occasionally flares between neighboring city-states.
We could end that suffering so easily—one shipment of supplies could feed thousands. A single “immunity lattice” introduced to their water system might banish disease. In the old, pre-Zhao era, these gifts might have seemed miraculous. Now, they’re straightforward technologies that Homo Universalis invented teraseconds ago.
Yet ANGI’s caution remains. Unrequested intervention would upend their natural path. It might liberate them from immediate hardships, but at what cost to their cultural identity, their autonomy?
I stare at the swirling planet below. “We can’t pretend we don’t see their need,” I say, voice catching slightly. “Are we hypocrites if we simply watch them suffer?”
ANGI appears, arms gently folded. “Empathy is crucial, Captain, but so is humility. Even Homo Universalis had to walk its own journey, you’ve been in the Graham Archives. If we rush in as saviors, they may become dependent or lose the chance to unite on their own terms.”
Zoey, quiet until now, steps closer. “Perhaps we can share knowledge discreetly—nudge them into discovering solutions themselves. Something that kindles growth without subjugation.”
Rose raises an eyebrow. “Like a small beacon of ideas, taught in a subtle exchange? That could be even trickier to manage ethically.”
Silence. Our thoughts swirl with the tension: Interfere or stand aside?
The Surface Approach
Despite the risk, we can’t leave without understanding more—there are too many unknowns about how this offshoot of humanity came to exist. Blue Two might offer vital clues about the origin of the wormhole, or their civilization. So, after extensive debate, we decide on a minimal-contact exploratory step: a hidden landing site in a remote region, carrying only lightweight gear. Observe. Collect environmental samples. Avoid disturbing any local populace.
Just before dawn on their planet’s southern continent, Zoey executes the short-range cold jump. A swirl of displaced air envelops the small away craft. When the motion settles, we find ourselves on an empty plain ringed by distant mountains. Pale sunlight washes across rolling grasslands.
We step out onto the soil—crisp, greenish-brown grass crunching underfoot. I catch the dawn sky tinted in magenta. The air is oxygen-rich, slightly sweeter than Earth’s, tinted by atmospheric compounds that our suits handle easily. My heart thuds with wonder.
“So familiar,” I whisper, glancing at Joras and Zoey. “It’s like stepping into Earth’s ancient cradle, yet everything is just a bit different.”
A breeze grazes our suits, carrying distant birdlike calls. We walk a short distance, scanning for microbes in the soil. Harmless. The universal building blocks of life swirl around us, eerily akin to those on Earth—reinforcing the human nature of this world.
A Chance Encounter
Midway through collecting water samples from a narrow stream, we hear hushed voices. I freeze. Just beyond a copse of tall, reed-like plants stands a pair of locals. They are young—perhaps teenagers—clad in simple woven garments. They stare at our small landing craft, half-concealed behind a ridge.
My heart pounds. We intended no direct contact, but fate disagrees. Rose moves to my side, eyes wide.
One of the teens takes a tentative step forward. I sense a swirl of curiosity radiating from him—though we have no neural link, the body language is universal. Meanwhile, the other teen looks ready to sprint away in alarm.
“Joras…” I breathe, the adrenaline spiking through my mind. “Do we… speak to them?”
He shares a tense glance with Rose, then looks to me. “We can’t erase this moment. We can only handle it carefully.”
We step forward, hands open in what we hope is a sign of peace. Slowly, hesitantly, the braver teen tries a greeting in a melodic language. The words are foreign, but the tone suggests neither hostility nor panic—just wonder.
Joras carefully memorized the local tones of Blue Two and speaks a friendly message to the teens, partly assisted by ANGI creating a small holograph of local symbols. A tentative attempt at responding. The local pair exchange wide-eyed looks, clearly astonished.
We do not remove our suits—our presence is jarring enough already—but we continue to gesture gently: We mean no harm. We bring no grand gifts or overt signs of our technology. Just the improbable fact of our arrival.
A flicker of alarm crosses the second teen’s face. He keep repeating a single word that could mean “sky-walkers” or “star-people.”
He tugs at his braver companion, urging him back. Within seconds, both of them spin on their heels, sprinting away through the reeds. Even the bolder one seems to lose his nerve, jolted by the reality of our presence and the strange image, created out apparent thin air. We remain rooted for a moment, stunned by how quickly fragile contact can unravel into fear.
A heartbeat later, Joras hisses under his breath, “We should go—now.”
Rose nods, wide-eyed. With no time to linger, we sprint back toward our small landing craft, navigating the uneven ground as adrenaline surges in our veins. Behind us, the teens’ footsteps fade across the plains. They’ll have stories to tell—stories no one else may believe.
Reaching the craft, we scramble in and secure the hatch. In the engines the condensate hums to life with a low, rising whine. Zoey doesn’t hesitate—she closes her eyes and on pure intuition makes the short-range cold jump straight to orbit. My stomach flips as the surrounding air warps with a distorted shimmer. In a split second, the grassland vanishes, replaced by the familiar stretch of blackness and starfields seen through the craft’s viewports.
We’re back in the quiet void above their world, hearts pounding from the sudden flight. Nervous glances pass between us. Whatever just transpired on the surface, it’s clear our arrival won’t remain a secret for long.
The Road Unfurls
Back aboard Iter ad Astra One, we review the brief but monumental encounter. The local pair ran home, presumably to spread tales of the strange visitors who spoke in mechanical echoes. Already, we imagine the legends that might form, whether we remain or not.
In a closed session, our small circle confers with ANGI. Through the Zhao Network, the entire Homo Universalis stands at the threshold of a decision. Some argue for a structured introduction, offering incremental aid to Blue Two’s inhabitants. Others warn of irrevocable cultural upheaval. And some propose a gentle watch-and-wait approach, letting curiosity guide slow, mutual discovery rather than a sudden “reveal.”
Zoey paces the deck. “If we vanish, they’ll be left with rumors. Fear could drive them to chaos. Or wonder could spur them to dream bigger. Either way, we’ve changed their course.”
ANGI speaks calmly, her voice woven with the wisdom of billions. “Perhaps the best approach is honesty—limited, careful guidance if they invite it. Let them set the terms. A handshake, not a conquest.”
I share a soft look with Joras. “So we wait for them to approach us again?”
He exhales. “And if they do, we respond gently. No illusions of divinity. No overwhelming show of advanced technology. We remain travelers—distant cousins from a different star.”
A Delicate Horizon
For now, we keep our distance. Our small away craft returns to orbit, leaving behind minimal traces on the plain. But we do not depart entirely. Instead, we linger, watching from the vantage of the sky. We choose not to upend Blue Two’s destiny in one fell swoop. Instead, we stand poised on the outer boundary of possibility, uncertain yet resolute in the understanding that a new chapter has begun—for them and for us.
In the weeks that follow, a handful of searching parties appear across the plains, scanning the skies with telescopes of wood and metal, beckoning the star-people to return with their crude communication devices. Word of mouth travels across the region. Through our drones, we witness gatherings where elders debate the newcomers’ nature: are they gods, demons, or simply others?
Within Iter ad Astra One, we debate equally hard, forging a policy of light touch and open hearts. We will not smother Blue Two with technology, nor vanish into total secrecy. A gentle bridge: that is our vow. If they reach toward us in peace, we will reach back in kind.
And so, the final frontier is no longer just the lonely vacuum beyond Neptune or a wormhole’s swirl. It is us, standing at a crossroads of empathy and choice, with entire an world dreaming towards unknown skies.
Time, we have learned, is as much a resource as light or water, and Homo Universalis can harvest it in ways our ancestors never imagined. Linked through the Zhao Network, we extend our senses across teraseconds and megaparsecs, each new discovery folding into the tapestry of our collective mind. For us, a megaseconds can feel like a thoughtful pause, the turning of a single page.
And yet on Blue Two life moves to a different drum. In fields of seasonal harvest, in kilosecond struggles and triumphs, its people remain bound by mortal clocks. They must fashion their own meaning from the raw clay of change and uncertainty. Every choice will be urgent, every opportunity fragile, while we steadfastly wait.
While we linger on our choice for first contact, the cosmos presents us with that other puzzle: the wormhole. More than a tunnel through spacetime, it violates all chance by linking Earth and Blue Two as if they were neighboring towns instead of worlds light-years apart. We do not know who shaped this corridor—if anyone—or how it defies every model of cosmic chaos. That mystery draws us onward, the promise of revelation glittering in the dark.
In that pursuit, one question resonates: Are these pathways mere cosmic accidents, or something more deliberate? With our expanded lifespans and patient technologies, we can afford to ask. We can bide our megaseconds puzzling it out, unweaving the tapestry to its final thread. Meanwhile, our newly found cousins must race through their own chapters of history, forging destiny under the same distant stars. Our timelines may differ, but the wonder for the unknown is mutual—and in that shared wonder lies the bridge between us.