Recently, I read the novel Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, and it was so interesting that I could not stop reading it. In this article, I would like to write a short story as a book review or unrelated fan fiction. There is no dramatic story in this novel, but I hope that I could successfully express my impression when reading the story.
I originally wrote this novel in Japanese by myself, and translated it into English with the great help of ChatGPT, but if you find any errors in English, please let me know.
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Holiday in District ■■
In my dream, I was standing in an unfamiliar square. The sky was an impossibly deep blue, almost as if it was close to outer space. The square was scattered with large geometric objects made of inorganic concrete and jet-black marble-like materials, devoid of any context. I couldn’t tell what they were meant to represent. But mathematically speaking, they had complex and incredibly beautiful shapes. It was a beauty that seemed to be filled only with the most beautiful things in this world, yet it somehow felt like it was slowly gnawing away at my heart.
Countless people were busily passing by, but I don’t remember much about them. I only remember thinking that if they were inhabitants of this world, I wanted to be one of them too.
After walking around and looking at my surroundings for a while, I arrived at an object that looked like the top of a pyramid had been cut off.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
When I turned around, a boy dressed in a gray hoodie, his skin as white as snow, was sitting on a bench beside the object, letting out a sigh. He wasn’t wearing the hood, and he looked about elementary school age. On closer inspection, his hair seemed to have a slight bluish tint.
I looked around, but no one else seemed to notice the boy, so it seemed he was talking to me.
“What’s terrible?”
“I think it’s about time humanity got angry.”
“At what?”
“At technology…”
“Technology?”
“I think it’s about time humanity got angry at technology.”
As he said this, the pale boy looked down and kicked his feet childishly.
“And you?”
When I asked, the boy just shook his head. After taking a long pause, he breathed in and murmured,
“I love this world.”
-+-+-+-+-
The sound of the alarm woke me up. It was the sound of an ordinary alarm clock. I could reset it for holidays, but I set it for the same time because I didn't want it to affect how I would feel the day after tomorrow.
Ironically, my Silicon Valley colleague was particularly bad at waking up in the morning. His chronic sleepiness was apparently worse than the alarm clock, and he once complained that he wished the company would implant a company-made alarm clock in his skull. Fortunately, management was not that ethically corrupt, so it remained a joke.
With sleepy eyes, I pressed the button at hand, leaving my shirt and hair in disarray. Immediately, the lights came on and the automatic system parted the black curtains.
Outside the window, a giant ghostly telescope, catching the morning sunlight and piercing through the clouds, stood tall as if it wanted to crumble and attack my defenseless self. There's nothing more depressing than being looked down upon by your workplace on a holiday morning.
Still, for some reason, people seemed to have an unconscious attraction to things that hurt them. I stood up, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, and looked out the window in my underwear, having taken off my pants. No one can see me from the seventh floor of the apartment building, shaded by the morning sun, no matter what I wear. Below, there were numerous familiar telescope technology buildings, probably unaware of the term "zoning," all with stark glass facades and strange pipes and steel beams entwined like vines. Even though it was morning, I could already see busy figures loading goods into black pickup trucks with military insignia.
I realized that it had been six months since I came here. Yet it felt as if I'd lived here for a long time, since childhood.
At some point, holidays here stopped being filled with illusory brilliance. I have had a vague sense since my youth that this feeling would come, and at the time I arbitrarily decided that it was a sign that I was no longer myself. Now I can't say whether that prediction was correct.
In essence, it felt like my entire life was being dictated by these elusive philosophical feelings, which made me incredibly uncomfortable and uncomfortable.
Perhaps the colleague who wanted the alarm implanted in his skull suffered from the same disease as I did.
"Breakfast..."
After getting up and doing my usual morning routine, I made my way to the kitchen. If I wanted a healthier breakfast, I could go to the dining hall downstairs, but since the base has a supermarket run by a private company (even though it feels like the end of the world) and a well-equipped kitchen in every room, my much more competent colleagues often go there. But I just didn't feel like going out.
The first thing that came to mind as I stood in front of the stove was scrambled eggs.
Everything went smoothly. I didn’t go so far as to make a thoughtful salad to go with the scrambled eggs and bacon, but I had some dry bread, so it sufficed for breakfast. Besides, after moving around for the first time in a while, I felt slightly better. Maybe I should ride this momentum and do a deep clean of the room.
It took about an hour to complete the entire breakfast process, and then I sat down at the table. To my right was the thick, huge window, the curtains of which I had opened, offering a sweeping view of Hope. It was a scene like an oceanfront resort.
Above all, the weather is good today.
I wasn't in the habit of playing music during meals. For no reason at all, I would pick up the neatly arranged dishes, take the knife and fork in both hands, and eat breakfast.
Just as I was about to take a bite, the intercom buzzer rang unexpectedly.
"Who is it?"
"Hey, um... do you have a moment?"
On the display, I saw my colleague, Deutsch, standing at the entrance.
"I'm having breakfast."
"Okay, I'll come back later then."
"If you don't mind..."
"Really?"
I pressed the button for the intercom, and I saw him through the automatic door opening across from me.
I had Deutsch sit on the sofa in the living room while I continued my breakfast within sight at the dining table. However, our conversation didn't really pick up until after my long meal was over and I joined him on the same sofa. Although we did exchange a few words, it seemed he was prepared to wait patiently until I finished eating.
"The truth is, I have something to discuss with you."
Deutsch's concern hadn't changed for quite some time. It was about the life exploration symposium hosted by the MITSETI Research Institute. Since the project was co-funded by the U.S. Air Force and numerous national observatories, someone had to report the observation results from Hope, the giant radio telescope on the artificial island of Barksdale, and this year, that responsibility fell to him.
"It's tough. Every time I write the draft, I wonder if these words are familiar to the general public... well, maybe not the general public, but at least to the average scientist, and if the concepts might be a bit hard to grasp..."
"Hmm, you worry about that kind of thing."
"Well, you know, some people can explain things very clearly."
"Yeah, it's a kind of talent."
"Probably the result of training," Deutsch said, taking a sip of coffee. "Ideally, I want to make my explanations so clear and engaging that they can't help but be interesting..."
I chuckled a bit. He was a very talented researcher.
"Isn't it a bit beneath you?"
"No way. It's really nerve-wracking. If I leave out even one word or one key point from what I'm trying to explain, it feels like the truth will be misrepresented... Honestly, I envy the BBC. I wish we could poach one of their people."
"Don't overestimate us."
"No way!"
"And even if you convey the truth meticulously and thoroughly, there will always be people who distort it. Just like me."
Deutsch let out a deep sigh mixed with a chuckle.
"That's true..."
I frowned.
"I wanted you to deny."
After I said that, he showed more reflection than I expected, which made me feel a bit sorry for him.
"I'm afraid of being criticized by someone."
Deutsch suddenly smiled.
"I can relate to that."
He occasionally showed a deeply troubled expression. It was hard to notice unless you were paying very close attention, but even so, I thought it would be better if he didn't let it show on his face, and I planned to mention it to him someday.
"But you couldn't have taken it that way during your dissertation defense, right?"
I sighed deeply. Oh, I heard all kinds of things. But unlike the criticism of an art piece, which feels like a part of yourself being attacked, I didn't feel as hurt. Or maybe at that time, I was desperately telling myself that it didn't hurt.
"Even Dr. Hawking's singularity theorem was harshly criticized by the professors at Cambridge."
"I know... That's why I had given up," Deutsch said, letting out a big sigh. "But in his case, it might have been mixed with a bit of envy."
"Undoubtedly."
"When did he develop his condition?"
"1963, two years before he published his paper."
"Really?"
"You didn't know that?"
"Sorry, I only picked up bits and pieces."
He stared out the window at Hope, looking deeply contemplative.
He murmured as if he had just remembered something.
"You seem to be in a better mood than usual."
"Do I?"
"Your demeanor is softer. Usually, you're so reserved and your words so sharp, but today something is different. If you were always like this, it would make me happy."
My hands moved unconsciously. I've always been uncomfortable when others, especially the opposite sex, tried to get closer to me.
"I don't like being with the same type of people for too long."
"I see."
I averted my eyes without thinking.
"I get very anxious. I feel like I'll end up comparing everything with that person using the same standards."
He looked puzzled and pursed his lips.
"But you've been compared to others all your life."
I found myself at a loss for words.
"Maybe that's why it's a trauma."
"Hmm... that's odd."
"Aren't you the same?"
"Not really... Even if you were ten times better than me, it wouldn't mean I'd starve. You would end up somewhere else without me, so you wouldn't even be a rival. Besides, I was never that excellent to begin with."
I closed my eyes and shook my head.
"That's not true..."
Why does this feel so comfortable? As he said, I dislike being with other people intensely. Yet, for some reason, a deeply satisfying atmosphere fills the room.
"So, you don't go to amusement parks, do you?"
He broached the topic.
"Well, no."
"Because you dislike people?"
...Dislike people?
"That's part of it, but mainly,..." I didn't really understand conversations. I was just leaning into his kindness. Memories of a big fight with my family at an amusement park resurfaced, further dulling my instinct for casual social interactions. "I really don't like places designed with a specific purpose."
He nodded in agreement and fell silent.
But after a while, his face brightened suddenly, as if he were brimming with joy.
"Then let's go outside. Not to an amusement park or anywhere with a specific purpose, but just to the nearby airport."
He stood up and pulled my hand. I, surprised, muttered with a neutral expression.
"Well... that's true."
"On a rare holiday, let's step outside the base for once."
We passed through the lobby of the living quarters and boarded the base shuttle, which traveled freely within District ■■. The shuttle was powered by a linear motor and was fully autonomous, with no driver's seat. Unlike my workplace, headquarters was quite a distance from here, but it took less than five minutes with this shuttle.
However, I did not ride it very often. The last time I took it was... three months ago?
The landscape was beautiful that day. Sometimes it was the dirty coastal industrial zone lined with oil tanks, and sometimes it was a vast open field stretching to the horizon. It was easy to forget that we were inside a base.
The midsummer sky over the southern coast of the United States remained an unchanging cobalt blue. That day, as usual, the sunlight was blinding, brightly illuminating the interior of the unlit shuttle. On days like this, it had become a reflex to sit on the left side, facing away from the sun.
The train began to move, and through the window I could see our residence on a small hill, with the giant telescope in the background. In front of us, the monorail of the shuttle crossed the street. There were supermarkets, shopping malls, pharmacies, and it felt like a small town. There was no high wall protecting it, just a four-meter barbed wire fence that disappears into the distant horizon, making it easy to forget that this is a unified Air Force base. A perfect urban space isolated from the outside world. In fact, this base itself was like a kind of amusement park.
Didn't I just say something about facilities made for specific purposes? After all, my idle talk was full of contradictions.
As the scenery outside the window approached the shoreline of the artificial island, the buildings quickly disappeared. Ahead, at the end of the monorail branch, I could see a huge suspension bridge connecting to another artificial island on the opposite shore. The bridge looked like it was made of bright red KAPLA blocks. From here it looked like a scene from a dream.
"How long has it been since you last went outside?"
"I don't know. But it feels like a long time."
With that, he fell silent again. Perhaps because I felt a little more at ease, I added,
"It's troublesome... having to plan, make up my mind, and then go out."
He made a sound of agreement and folded his arms, looking out the window again. The monorail had just reached the coastline of the artificial island and burst onto the long bridge leading to the main island. For a while, the deep blue horizon would dominate the view.
"Making up your mind?"
"Don’t you need to?"
He sighed.
"You’re so dramatic."
Did you think
That upon embarking on that journey
You would find something pleasant
To hold in your hand?
Like many other introverted and awkward people, I had once indulged in writing poetry. However, my motivation was slightly different; most of my poems were like an insurance policy, lamenting my circumstances. They were a way to tell myself "I knew this would happen" when I returned with unpleasant experiences. I believed that by doing so, I could appease the gods and avoid their wrath.
This particular poem was one of my favorites. Up until I was posted here a long time ago, I often wrote it in the corner of my notebook. Sometimes, I even read it aloud. It was a strange but comforting habit.
Basically, it was the small things, but whenever I went out, I always seemed to bring back something unpleasant. At some point, it felt like I wasn't allowed to go out without being prepared to accept that unpleasantness.
"That’s so like you..."
He muttered. His tone was the same as before, just an acknowledgment, so I didn't pay much attention to it.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said." He looked unusually solemn. "It's like worrying is your hobby."
I smirked a bit.
"If so, it's not a bad hobby to have."
"Come on, I'm worried about you."
"I know."
What is this feeling? Ah, yes. My father felt the same way.
Even after I left for college and started living alone, my father continued to live in the same place. When you haven't been home in a while, you become insensitive to your family's well-being.
To my father, I was always his beloved daughter. No matter how bad my personality was, no matter how much I hated people, no matter how much people hated me, even if I lived in this world just for my own survival, to my father, I was simply his beloved daughter, wounded and needing protection.
Frankly, it was a nuisance. It would have been simpler if everyone but me was an enemy. For a long time, I found comfort in such a binary and simplistic view, or perhaps in that delusion. My love for living alone probably stems from a primal desire for solitude. For someone without ambition, living as a vessel for the vanity of others seemed to be one of the few reasons for my existence.
However, my father, my enthusiastic supporters, and the world itself refused to let things be that simple. Instead, they often caused great turmoil in my heart.
A girl named Zoe was a classmate when I was little. She praised everything I did, especially my homework, diaries, and reports. Whenever my work was posted in the classroom, she always complimented my writing.
However, my writing was only moderately appreciated by the teachers, so I probably didn’t have any particular talent. It was just that Zoe's sensibilities resonated with mine.
When I wrote a book review, Zoe particularly praised it and told everyone in class that they should read my review. I was mortified, but that book, which explained things in an "irresistibly interesting" way, might be the direct reason I ended up here. To me, that book was like a friend who endlessly and repeatedly narrated the vastness of the universe beside my pillow.
Zoe called me a genius. To her, I was indeed a genius. Yet I knew many geniuses whom I could never match, and that word felt endlessly empty to me.
But that's okay, I eventually thought. If I were to lose my job and aim to be a writer, the driving force behind my writing might be those few friends who called me a genius.
"You said earlier that explaining things is difficult."
"Yeah."
"But you do have a clear idea of what you want to do, right?"
"What I want to do?"
"The exciting explanations you want to give. The creative simplifications. Don’t you have those ideas in your head?"
He let out a deep, thoughtful sigh.
"....Yeah, I suppose I do."
The shuttle crossed the long strait and landed on Barksdale Main Island, where the General Affairs Bureau is located. The transparent glass structure of the enormous arch, which swallowed the shuttle's monorail, gleamed a brilliant blue as it reflected the sunlight. Along with this, the modest words "Main Office Station" appeared on the glass display board.
"When you put words together, they gain traction. That's why everyone tries to do it," Deutsch said, folding his arms. "But this kind of work is like swinging a bat wildly. I think it should only be done by those with the proper license."
If my words are of any help.
"Your concern is very valid and noble. If there is a limited amount, then interest and accuracy are likely inversely proportional."
Deutsch nodded with interest.
"So, it's possible to sacrifice accuracy to make it interesting."
That's not exactly what I meant, though.
"Excuse me, I'd like to get a permit to leave the premises..."
The operators sitting side by side were all young women with sharp short haircuts, as if that hairstyle was their very identity. In my opinion, they, like me, were suffering from the same sickness.
"Understood. May I have your ID?"
Even though not many people would want a permit to leave, she didn't even ask why.
Without hesitation, he took out a card from his chest pocket and scanned it. Following his lead, I quickly took mine out from my bag.
My chest ached with a prickling pain. It's probably that self-hatred again. The postal workers I disliked when I was a student were far more human than the people in this office. At least they were straightforward in their open dislike for my personality, which made it easier to understand.
Without interrupting her data entry, the operator spoke to him.
"If you don't mind, may I ask about your plans?"
"I haven't decided yet, I'm just waiting for someone at the airport."
You haven't decided, have you?
"I see..."
A transparent-sounding buzzer, fully managed by the system, rang out, and the permits were attached to our two cards. There’s a rumor that a very thin transmitter is attached to these permits. Well, it's just an urban legend.
"All done. The permits are valid for today. Please present them at each gate when you leave and enter. Have a good day."
"Thanks."
Saying that, she waved with a big smile. That's where she and I are fundamentally different. I could never smile like that. She really seems like a competent operator.
