377: Chapter 377 Kunlun Space Station Core Module
October in Hainan, the wind from the South China Sea carried a salty, damp scent, sweeping past the coconut groves and launch towers of the Wenchang Space Launch Site. The morning mist was like a thin veil, shrouding the coastline of Longlou Town. In the distance, the lights of fishing boats gradually flickered out as the sky shifted from deep blue to light blue, and finally to a fish-belly white. At Launch Pad No. 1, the Tianlong-9 heavy rocket stood majestically, like a slumbering giant dragon waiting to awaken.
This rocket was a behemoth unlike any seen in human aerospace history—120 meters tall, equivalent to a 40-story building, with a diameter of 12 meters. Four boosters surrounded the core stage, each comparable to a medium-sized rocket. The swing arms of the launch tower had all been opened, leaving the rocket fully exposed to the morning light. On the fairing, two massive characters, "Kunlun," shone brilliantly in the sunlight, written in the powerful strokes of Chinese Clerical Script as if carved into rock.
The viewing platform was packed with over five thousand guests. In the front row were veteran scientists from the China National Space Administration, their hair white as snow, wearing neat white shirts with national flag pins on their chests. Behind them were representatives from global aerospace agencies—NASA officials with complex expressions, ESA representatives whispering to one another, and Russian Space Agency engineers with solemn faces, constantly looking toward the distant rocket.
Further away, on the beaches of Longlou Town, hundreds of thousands of tourists had gathered. They had come from all over the country; some had driven for three days and nights, while others had taken a thirty-hour train ride. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders, waving national flags. Young people held up their phones, livestreaming the rocket. Elderly people sat in beach chairs, fanning themselves and gazing into the distance. The air was thick with the scent of coconuts, sweat, and an indescribable excitement.
Chu Tianming stood at the very front of the viewing platform, wearing a deep blue Xingchen Aerospace uniform with a silver Xingchen logo embroidered on the chest. He checked his watch and turned to Liu Peiqiang beside him, saying, "Thirty minutes to go."
Liu Peiqiang was sixty-two years old, with a head of silver hair and reading glasses, holding a data sheet. He nodded upon hearing this, his gaze never leaving the distant rocket. "Forty-five tons. The heaviest space station module in human history. Three times heavier than the International Space Station's Zarya. If this thing succeeds, the history of human aerospace will have to be rewritten."
Chu Tianming smiled. "Professor Liu, will it be rewritten after it succeeds, or has it already been rewritten before it succeeds?"
Liu Peiqiang adjusted his glasses. "After it succeeds. In aerospace, success makes you a hero, and failure makes you a joke. If it flies, you're a hero. If it doesn't, you're a laughingstock."
The countdown began.
On the large screen, the numbers began to tick down from three hundred seconds. In the command center, technicians at hundreds of workstations held their breath, their eyes fixed on the screens. Status data from various systems constantly flickered—first-stage oxygen tank pressure normal, second-stage helium bottle temperature normal, third-stage engine pre-cooling complete, escape tower status on standby. Every piece of data had been triple-confirmed, and every parameter was within the normal range.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—"
"Ignition!"
Flames erupted from the base of the rocket as eight liquid oxygen-kerosene engines roared simultaneously. The orange-red flames met the seawater, instantly vaporizing into white steam. The steam rose like a mushroom cloud, swallowing the entire launch tower. The rocket slowly left the launch pad, moving slowly at first like a giant beast awakening from sleep. Then it went faster and faster, faster and still faster, trailing a tail of fire a thousand meters long as it pierced the sky.
The earth trembled. People on the viewing platform could feel the vibration beneath their feet; the air roared, and chests resonated with the sound. Hundreds of thousands of people on the beach gasped in unison, their voices intertwining with the roar of the rocket in a deafening crescendo.
Thirty seconds later, the rocket pierced through the low-altitude clouds, leaving a massive hole in the sea of clouds. Sixty seconds later, it became a mere point of light in the sky. Three minutes later, it vanished from the limit of human sight, leaving only a determinedly advancing dot on the radar screens.
On the viewing platform, applause thundered like a storm. The veteran scientists stood up, their hands trembling as they clapped, tears glistening in their clouded eyes. The NASA representatives sat in the corner, expressionless, but their fingers gripped the armrests of their chairs tightly. The Russian Space Agency engineers stood up and applauded—this was professional respect, unrelated to politics.
Chu Tianming gazed in the direction the rocket had vanished and murmured, "Kunlun has gone to the heavens."
Liu Peiqiang took off his glasses and wiped the corners of his eyes. "Forty-five tons. Damn, that's heavy."
9:30 AM, Command Center Command Center.
The front of this circular building was a full glass curtain wall, directly facing Launch Pad No. 1. At this moment, the large screen displayed the rocket's real-time trajectory—the third stage had separated, and the core module was coasting by inertia. Data streams flickered constantly: altitude 400 kilometers, velocity 7.8 kilometers per second, attitude stable.
Chu Tianming stood before the command console, facing a row of microphones and intercoms. He took a deep breath and pressed the talk button: "Tianhe Plus, prepare for spacecraft-rocket separation. All systems, confirm status."
"Structural system normal." "Propulsion system normal." "Power system normal." "Thermal control system normal." "Communication system normal."
"Ten-second countdown. Five, four, three, two, one—Separation!"
On the large screen, the core module was ejected from the rocket's final stage, and four solar panels slowly unfurled like a giant butterfly spreading its wings. The golden panels shimmered in the sunlight, forming a sharp contrast against the blue background of the Earth.
Thunderous applause erupted in the command center. Some stood up and cheered, some hugged each other, and some took off their glasses to wipe away tears. Liu Peiqiang stood before the large screen, hands behind his back, watching the core module as it slowly deployed its panels, his lips trembling slightly.
Chu Tianming picked up the intercom: "Awaken 'Zhulong'."
An engineer typed the command on the keyboard. On the large screen, a line of white text slowly appeared against the background of the real-time feed from the core module's internal camera—an empty module, silver walls, blue storage bags, everything as quiet as a new home waiting for its owner to move in.
"Zhulong has been awakened. Space station status normal. All systems self-check passed. Solar panel power generation normal. Attitude control system stable. Thermal control system functioning normally."
This was the first time the Xingchen AI operated autonomously in space. Zhulong was not a simple program, but an intelligent system with autonomous learning capabilities—it could monitor every parameter of the space station, independently adjust attitude, temperature, and air pressure, and even automatically switch to backup systems in the event of a failure. It didn't need ground commands; it only needed power to keep the space station alive.
Chu Tianming looked at that line of text and smiled. "From now on, the brain of the space station is in its hands."
Liu Peiqiang nodded. "Before people go up, it has to guard the home first."
10:00 AM, Press Conference.
Chu Tianming stood on the podium. The large screen behind him displayed a rendering of the Kunlun Space Station core module—a massive silver cylinder with deployed solar panels on both sides, a docking interface at the front, and a propulsion module at the rear. The background was deep space, dotted with starlight.
"The Kunlun Space Station core module 'Tianhe Plus' weighs forty-five tons, is eighteen meters long, and five meters in diameter, with a design life of fifteen years. It can accommodate six permanent astronauts and up to nine people at maximum capacity."
He pressed the remote, and the next page of technical parameters lit up:
Core Technologies
AI Brain: Xingchen 'Zhulong' system, autonomously controls space station operations, capable of processing data from 100,000 sensors
Laser Communication: 10Gbps bandwidth, a hundred times faster than the International Space Station, capable of real-time high-definition video transmission
Docking Capability: Six experimental module interfaces, two manned spacecraft interfaces, two cargo spacecraft interfaces
Life Support: Closed-loop regenerative system, 98% water recovery rate, 99% oxygen regeneration rate
Construction Plan
2022: Complete all assembly (six experimental modules)
2023: Six permanent astronauts to carry out large-scale scientific experiments
2025: International cooperation module docking, accepting foreign astronauts
Reporters below recorded frantically, the sound of shutters like a rainstorm. A reporter from The New York Times raised their hand: "Mr. Chu, compared to the International Space Station, where do the advantages of the Kunlun Space Station lie?"
Chu Tianming smiled, a smile filled with the confidence of a technologist. "The ISS is 20th-century technology; Kunlun is 21st-century. It's like the difference between a brick phone and a smartphone. The ISS's communication bandwidth is only 100 Mbps, while Kunlun's is 10 Gbps—a hundred times faster. The ISS's docking system requires manual operation, while Kunlun's is automatic. The ISS's life support system requires regular supplies, while Kunlun's is a closed-loop regenerative system."
He paused: "Most importantly, the design life of the ISS ends in 2024. Meanwhile, Kunlun will only be completed in 2022. By then, there will be only one space station in orbit—and that will be Kunlun."
Below the stage, the expression of the NASA representative grew even more unsightly.
The next morning, Moscow.
The Roscosmos headquarters is located in the northwestern corner of Moscow. It is a concrete building constructed during the Soviet era, with gray exterior walls, tall pillars, and red five-pointed star reliefs that speak of an era when it once vied with the United States for space supremacy. On the top floor of the building, in the Director's office, Dmitry Rogozin sat alone behind his desk.
He was sixty years old, burly, with graying hair and a square face. Between his brows was a certain coldness characteristic of Soviet engineers. On the desk before him lay a thick document—'Evaluation Report on Withdrawing from the International Space Station Program.' On the nearby computer screen, a replay of the Kunlun Space Station core module launch was playing on a loop—the rocket lifting off, the separation of the rocket and module, the unfolding of the solar panels, and the awakening of Zhulong.
He had already watched it three times.
Rogozin picked up the report and flipped to the last page. The conclusion was highlighted in red font:
The International Space Station will be retired in 2024, at which point the Russian segment will lose its value. The lifespan of the American segment has been extended to 2030, but the Russian segment can only last until 2024. To continue maintaining ISS operations, Russia needs to pay five hundred million dollars annually without an equivalent return in scientific research.
For Russia to independently construct a space station, it would require at least fifteen billion dollars and take ten years. Given Russia's current aerospace budget, this money would have to be squeezed from other projects, meaning the lunar program and deep space exploration would be delayed.
Joining the 'Kunlun' program would cost only three billion dollars, with occupancy possible by 2023. Xingchen has already promised that Russian cosmonauts can be permanently stationed on Kunlun, Russian experimental modules can dock with Kunlun, and Russia's Soyuz spacecraft can serve as a transport vehicle for Kunlun.
He put down the report and closed his eyes.
Outside the window, the Moscow sky was gray with a light drizzle falling. In the distance, the Moskva River flowed quietly in the rain. He thought back to 1961, when Gagarin flew into space and the Soviet Union was the pride of all humanity. He remembered 1998, when the first module of the International Space Station, 'Zarya,' was launched, and Russia and the United States fought side by side. He remembered 2011, when the Space Shuttle retired and the Soyuz became the only spacecraft capable of sending astronauts into space.
Now, that era was over.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Su Chen's office, the waters of Shenzhen Bay shimmered, and the distant Hong Kong skyline was faintly visible in the mist. Su Chen sat on the sofa, holding a cup of tea, watching a replay of the Russian launch broadcast.
The phone rang. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar Russian number.
Su Chen picked up: "Hello."
"Mr. Su, this is Dmitry Rogozin." The voice on the other end was raspy and deep, carrying a Soviet-style heaviness. "After watching yesterday's launch, I couldn't sleep all night."
Su Chen set down his teacup, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly: "Director Rogozin, what can I do for you?"
Rogozin was silent for three seconds. Then he said: "Russia has decided to withdraw from the International Space Station. In 2024, we will join the 'Kunlun' program."
Su Chen didn't answer immediately. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the waters of Shenzhen Bay. A cargo ship slowly passed by, and the sound of its whistle drifted over faintly.
Rogozin continued, his tone more urgent: "We can provide docking modules, scientific experiment modules, and Soyuz spacecraft. Russia's docking system is more mature than yours, and the Soyuz is the most reliable manned spacecraft in the world. The condition is—Russian cosmonauts must be permanently stationed on Kunlun, at least two of them."
Su Chen turned around with a smile on his face: "Director Rogozin, welcome to Kunlun. As for the specific details, let the teams negotiate. I only have one requirement."
"What requirement?"
Su Chen's voice was calm but firm: "The rules of Kunlun are set by Xingchen. If you join, you must abide by them. This isn't a place for bickering like the International Space Station. Here, I have the final say."
Rogozin was silent for a long time.
Then he laughed, a bitter sense of relief in his laughter: "Mr. Su, the International Space Station became what it is today precisely because there was too much bickering. Twenty countries, twenty opinions—a single decision would take a year of meetings. We've had enough. You have the final say; that's good. At least someone is in charge."
Su Chen also laughed: "Deal."
NASA Headquarters, Director's Office. Jim Bridenstine sat behind his desk, the telephone receiver still in his hand. His assistant stood at the door, face pale.
"Director, Russia just officially announced that they will withdraw from the ISS in 2024 and join the Kunlun program."
Bridenstine was silent for a long time. He turned his head and looked out the window. The Washington Monument gleamed with white marble luster in the sunlight. He remembered 1998, when the first module of the ISS was launched; he was still on the House Science Committee and had voted in support of the International Space Station program. At that time, everyone believed the ISS would become an eternal symbol of human space exploration.
Now, it was coming to an end.
He murmured: "This will be the end of the International Space Station."
The assistant asked: "What do we do?"
Bridenstine gave a bitter smile: "What do we do? The ISS can still hold on until 2028. By then, it'll just be us and the Japanese, Canadians, and Europeans. But without Russia, the ISS is a lame duck. The Soyuz is the only manned transport vehicle, and Progress is the only cargo ship. Our own spacecraft are at least two years away from flying."
He paused, his voice even more bitter: "In two years, Kunlun will already be built. By then, scientists from all over the world will be applying to do experiments on Kunlun. And we will only be able to watch helplessly."
The assistant fell silent.
Bridenstine picked up the phone and dialed a number: "Get me the White House."
Twitter Trending Topics.
#KunlunSpaceStation topped the global trends at number one, followed by a rocket emoji and a Mars emoji. Retweets surpassed one million, and likes exceeded two million.
#RussiaWithdrawsFromISS followed closely behind in second place.
The top hot comment with five hundred thousand likes:
@SpaceGeek: The ISS hasn't even retired yet, and Russia is already running away. Kunlun: I just launched a core module and already kidnapped Russia.
The second hot comment with four hundred thousand likes:
@HistoryBuff: In 1998, the first ISS module launched—US and Russia joining forces, the peak of human space cooperation. In 2020, Russia withdraws from the ISS to join Kunlun. 22 years, the end of an era.
The third hot comment with three hundred and fifty thousand likes:
@AstroPhysicsFan: NASA: Where's my space station? It was just here. Kunlun: Sorry, it's mine now.
The fourth hot comment with three hundred thousand likes:
@RandomUser: Russia: America, let's break up. America: Why? Russia: He's bigger than you, faster than you, and richer than you. America: Who? Russia: Kunlun.
Su Chen stood by the window, looking at the hot comments on Twitter on his phone and smiled. Lin Wan, standing to the side, couldn't help but smile as well.
"President Su, does that call from Rogozin mean the ISS is truly finished?"
Su Chen nodded: "The ISS's lifespan ends in 2024. Once Russia leaves, the US won't be able to sustain it alone. Those people from Japan, Canada, and Europe will also come to us one by one. By then, Kunlun will be the only space station in orbit."
He paused, his gaze fixed on the distance outside the window: "From today on, the center of gravity for human space exploration shifts from the United States to China."
Outside the window, on the waters of Shenzhen Bay, a cargo ship slowly passed by, the 'Xingchen Technology' logo printed on its containers. Further away, the Hong Kong skyline sparkled in the sunlight.
Su Chen said softly: "Kunlun is not the end. It is a springboard. The next step is the Moon, and the step after that is Mars."
Lin Wan looked at his back and didn't say a word.
Outside, the sky was a washed azure, clear for ten thousand miles. That core module named 'Tianhe Plus' was currently orbiting the Earth at an altitude of four hundred kilometers and a speed of 7.8 kilometers per second. Zhulong ran silently within it, monitoring every parameter, waiting for the arrival of the next module.
China's space station, humanity's space station, was right there, waiting to be completed.
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