A1-02 Proposing the Brain

You stand up. Your voice is steady, but inside, you are churning.

"Given current propulsion technology and payload constraints, the Staircase Project can send a maximum effective payload of approximately 860 grams — with radiation shielding and a basic cryogenic life-support capsule, the total weight cannot exceed 50 kilograms."

You pause.

"That weight... is exactly enough to carry a human brain."

The air seems to drain from the conference room.

You continue: "Trisolaran civilization's technology far surpasses our own. Based on our analysis of sophon technology, they possess the ability to manipulate matter at the microscopic level. We have reason to believe that if the Trisolarans are willing, they can revive this brain — even reconstruct a complete body for it."

"What are you saying?" A general interrupts. "You want to kill someone and shoot their brain into space?"

"Not kill," you correct him. "It would involve... extracting a volunteer's brain after death or in their final moments, preserving it through ultra-low-temperature cryogenics, and then —"

"How is that different from killing?"

"The difference is," your voice trembles slightly, "this may be humanity's only chance to send a reconnaissance asset toward the Trisolaran Fleet. A conscious human brain, if revived by the Trisolarans, would be our agent embedded within the enemy. No probe can replace a human consciousness capable of thinking, judging, and acting at the right moment."

The silence stretches on for a long time.

Finally, a senior PDC official speaks: "This proposal... has its logic. But who will be this 'volunteer'?"

That question hangs over everyone like a boulder.

Weeks later, the proposal is approved after fierce ethical debate. The military begins a secret search for a "volunteer" — more precisely, a terminally ill person willing to donate their brain.

The criteria are extraordinarily strict: the candidate must be in the late stages of a terminal illness (to avoid the ethical dilemma of outright "killing"), must possess sufficient intelligence and psychological fortitude, and must consent voluntarily.

Then, a name appears on your desk.

Yun Tianming.

You know him. He was a classmate from your university days — you were in the same graduate program, though in different departments, and your paths crossed a few times. He was a quiet, unremarkable young man who always sat alone in the back corner of the classroom. You remember the way he looked at you — that gaze mingled with admiration and self-doubt, careful and cautious.

He has lung cancer. Terminal. There is no hope of treatment.

The military considers him the perfect candidate: dying, no family ties, intellectually qualified.

You are assigned to "persuade" him.

Because you know each other. Because he trusts you.

You hold the dossier, looking at Yun Tianming's photograph. That gaunt face, those quiet eyes.

You know he has feelings for you. Back in university, he never confessed, but you could tell. You always pretended not to notice.

Now, you are going to find him and tell him about a plan that could "extend his life."

But what you are really doing is persuading a man who loves you to let his brain be launched into the darkness of space.