Chapter 609: Living Brain Cells (XI)

“Midnight Dad, are you really a space alien?”

On the pristine floor, Hydra sat cross-legged, tightening the screws on the security door with a wrench, murmuring: “Something feels off.”

After a lottery draw, the survivors’ new grouping was: Pi Fu, Hydra, Su Nisheng;

Laughing God, dir;

Zhongli Mie Ming, Out of Control, Edith;

Yuanzeshang ， Zaitoupiaofangzhu Midnight Dad Deguochengzhong ， Banyanguanjianjuesede Zhongli Mie Ming Yu Edith， Buyingzaitongyizubie 。

Fouzeruguotaliadoushitaikongyizhong ， Nahetamenfenzaitongyizuderen ， Jibensuanshikezhuoxiafangkoubudiaodexiaoheidian —— Bisi （ Bishi ） Wuyi 。

“ Zenmeshuo ？”

Li Cheng also turned the wrench; for some reason, the motion of tightening screws felt oddly familiar to him.

“Think about it—if Midnight Dad really is a space alien, why would he willingly walk to his death?”

Hydra said: “He’d be better off suddenly lashing out, killing a nearby ordinary person to clear the path for his allies. All space aliens aim to sabotage the repair mission, right?”

“Maybe Midnight Dad fears the sentry robots.”

Su Nisheng said calmly: “After all, no human, no matter how fast, can outrun lightning.”

“Hard to say,” Li Cheng replied casually. “If you told Midnight Dad his girlfriend or lover was pregnant, he might hit 50% the speed of light and vanish.”

Black kids usually don’t have dads, huh? What a hell of a joke.

Su Nisheng’s demeanor was detached; the sarcastic remark only spun briefly in her mind, never spoken aloud. She simply watched Li Cheng and asked: “Have your personal memories returned?”

“A little. Before arriving at Xinxiang Base, I think I ran a factory that made toys.”

Li Cheng tapped his helmet, pausing: “Compared to personal memories, general knowledge has returned more fully and faster.”

“I’ve recalled some memories too—deep sea, hunting, long voyages.”

Hydra said uncertainly: “It seems the noise boy’s memory-cleaning effect is fading over time.”

“That’s good—at least when we finish all repair tasks, upload our consciousness, and get executed, we’ll die as Qingxing ghosts.”

Li Cheng said casually, twisting the wrench hard and unscrewing the bolt from the medical room.

The upper levels of Xinxiang Base are: dining hall, weapons storage, medical room, recreation room.

The dining hall repair task was completed in the previous round. Just now, the three of us fixed the power box in the weapons storage, but all equipment inside is locked in safes, and the few left outside are forcibly bound to specific user profiles.

Items like stun batons, shock guns, high-frequency oscillating cutting blades—all fail to activate. We had to give up.

“This is the medical room? It’s kind of...”

Li Cheng paused, unable to say the word “advanced.”

Compared to other areas of Xinxiang Base, which feature seamless flooring and sleek, sci-fi-style soft lighting and incomprehensible yet impressive devices, the medical room’s decor is decidedly retro: the floor is covered in 1990s-style red-green-yellow terrazzo, the walls are painted green, and on the solid wood desk rests a thick sheet of glass, beneath which are faded photographs, letters from loved ones, birth certificates, stamps, and phone directories; atop the glass sit a calendar, a yellow desk lamp with a cord, and a red landline telephone.

“This decor is older than I am.”

Li Cheng instinctively muttered, faint memories surfacing in his mind.

Placing glass atop solid wood desks was a common folk custom in China during the 1980s–90s, originating from the need for stable surfaces when writing with hard pens, and the emergence of Luoyang float glass technology in 1971.

Indeed, judging from the documents under the glass, the desk and entire medical room belonged to a Dr. Wang, born in 1990, who completed his undergraduate and master’s program at a domestic medical college in 2008, earned his master’s and doctoral degrees seven and ten years later, joined the National Space Medicine Research Center, assisted China’s 2030 crewed lunar landing mission, and in 2031, as a space physician, landed on the lunar permanent base codenamed “Guanghan Palace.” Eight years later, he became a member of the Chinese Academy of Sciences on the Moon.

In 2070, as chief medical officer, he joined the interstellar colony ship “Zhu Xing,” built by the collective effort of all human civilization.

Looking at Dr. Wang’s life, his youth saw his nation still building strength, his home still using terrazzo floors and landline telephones.

In his adulthood, national power surged dramatically; in middle age, he personally stepped onto the Moon; by his eighties, he joined the grand endeavor of interstellar colonization.

Hydra surveyed the room: the spacious hall held only two medical devices—a scanning imaging unit resembling an X-ray machine, and a medical pod the size of a single bed, equipped with a glass cover and precision robotic arms.

The technology was advanced, the aesthetic thoroughly sci-fi—yet starkly contrasted with the retro decor, especially the glass layer still Jiazhe grain coupons marked 【1992, Shandong Province, Jinan City Grain Bureau, Five Jin of Grain Coupons】.

“Incredible.”

Hydra couldn’t help saying: “An 80-year life spanning from grain coupons to fully automated medical pods and sublight interstellar ships...”

“Nothing strange about it. A human lifespan can encompass many historical events that feel worlds apart in sensory terms.”

Su Nisheng carefully examined the documents under the glass, speaking calmly: “When China’s crewed lunar landing occurred in 2030, there might still have been elderly people alive who had seen Emperor Guangxu.”

“True.”

Li Cheng flipped through the calendar, saying casually: “Zhang Xueliang listened to Jay Chou’s songs;

China’s modern diplomat Gu Weijun’s wife died in 2017 at age 112; she was born when Empress Dowager Cixi and Emperor Guangxu were still alive, and died half a year after Trump took office in America;

The widow of a Union veteran from the American Civil War died of COVID-19 in 2020;”

“Wait.”

Even the usually calm and detached Su Nisheng turned back: “The American Civil War ended in 1865, right? That’s 155 years before COVID-19.”

“You wouldn’t know this.”

Li Cheng flipped the calendar page by page backward: “One soldier enlisted in the final phase of the Civil War. In his nineties, childless, he wanted to leave his estate to the descendants of his wartime comrades. But due to high inheritance and transfer taxes, he simply married an underage girl—the daughter of one of his comrades. America forbids single men from adopting underage girls, but child marriage was permitted.”

And that underage girl, the widow of the Civil War veteran, lived into the 21st century—didn’t she die of COVID-19?”

You can do that?

If their space suit helmets had display functions, Hydra and Su Nisheng would definitely be rolling their eyes.

“Anyway, focus on the task.”

Amid his companions’ “Who’s really not doing the job?” glares, Li Cheng lifted the calendar, flipping to the last few pages: “See? From January 2070 to March 2071, and beyond, these calendar pages were drawn by this Dr. Chen himself.”