end field

The first sound wasn't an explosion. It was **silence**. For exactly three seconds, the entire Cluster 3 went into a complete shutdown. Service corridor lights went out, control panels went black, and even the air seemed to freeze—as if the planet had just taken a deep breath, preparing itself for me. I stood before the central control panel, my hand still on the main power switch. The dark screen reflected my face: gray, tired, at least ten years older than it had been. “Confirm,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Is it **the entire** power grid?” No one answered immediately. Then Linh’s voice—the on-duty technician—came over the radio, slightly shaky: “Yes. The auxiliary reactor shut down first. Then the storage station. We… lost everything.” I remember the eyes. Three years and seven minutes. That's the maximum time the oxygen maintenance system can operate without electricity. After that, the CO₂ energy will increase quickly enough to kill those in the previous living quarters. The mining area to the east—where the pipelines have deteriorated—is even less. Three seven minutes to decide who will breathe. --- “Activate the emergency line,” I said. “Prioritize the medical area and the main living quarters.” “But if we do that,” Linh hesitated, “the mining area will—” “I know.” I knew it well. The eastern mining area has twelve people. They're working overtime to meet the energy standard that I personally approved this morning. If we cut them off from the sub-network, they won't die immediately—but in this environment of subsonic temperature and unstable application, twelve minutes is all they have. “Is there any other way?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. A long silence followed. “Yes,” Linh whispered. “If… if we shut down the auxiliary living area. Area D.” Area D. Seventeen people lived there. Families. Children. The elderly. They didn’t generate energy, they didn’t mine, they didn’t treat illnesses. They simply existed. I opened my eyes again. On the control panel, the areas appeared as lifeless gray squares. Just a touch. Ten people were working. Seventeen people were living. “How much time is left?” I asked. “Twenty-nine minutes,” Linh replied. --- When we arrived on this planet, I was trained to handle technical crises, not moral ones. In the academy, they taught me how to balance power loads, optimize chain production, and simulate hundreds of catastrophic maps. But none of the lessons taught me that there would come a time when I would have to **choose who gets to survive**. “Commander?” another voice chimed in. It was An—the eastern mining team leader. His waiting speed signal. “We just disappeared. What happened?” I didn’t answer immediately. An was the extra production manager. He said if we met today’s quota, we could upgrade the power station within two weeks. He said it with a hateful conviction. “Commander?” “There’s an effort,” I said. “You and your team need to prepare to retreat.” “Not enough,” An replied. “The portal has closed.” The pressure out there—” I cut the channel. A wise decision. I know. But if I listened another word, I wouldn’t be able to touch the control panel. --- “Make a decision,” Linh whispered. “We don’t have time.” I looked at the two lines on the screen. **East Line – Exploitation** **D Line – Auxiliary Living** This planet doesn't care about my choices. It has no judgment. It only reflects reactions. I placed my hand on the screen. And. --- Sixteen minutes later, the emergency power grid came back on. The medical area lights came on first, then the main living area. The lack of instruments made things easier. A few people switched on their lights. A few people prayed. No one knew—at least not yet—the price of that light. I stood alone in the control room as the signal from the cryogenic line went out completely. No shouting. No prompting. Just a stubborn signal line. --- That night—if this artificial dark cycle can be called a night—I didn't leave the control room. I sat looking at the control panel, where the two lines had once been lit. One of them The clock has gone out forever. I thought about An. About the remaining eleven. About how I would have to stand before the base tomorrow and say that this was a **necessary loss**. For the first time since landing, I understood one thing: We didn't come here to complete this operation. We came here to see what **kind of person** we were willing to become in order to survive. And I wasn't sure which answer I preferred.