A1-05 Gentle Persuasion

When you walk into Room 3012, you've already rehearsed your script countless times in your head.

You won't lie — you'll just... carefully choose which parts to emphasize.

"Tianming," you sit down by the bed, your voice gentle, "I'm here to tell you about an opportunity. An opportunity that could let you live."

He raises his head to look at you. His eyes hold surprise, and more than that, a careful, tentative hope.

"We have a plan called the Staircase Project. Simply put, it would send you to the Trisolarans." You say, "Trisolaran technology is thousands of years ahead of ours. They could very likely cure your illness. Not just cure it — they might even give you an entirely new body."

You watch his expression change. You continue: "Imagine — you wouldn't just survive, you'd become the first human to make contact with an alien civilization. You'd see things we won't see for centuries. Your name would be written into history."

What you deliberately leave out: the probe may disintegrate during acceleration. You also don't mention that "sending you to the Trisolarans" means first extracting his brain from his body. And you certainly don't mention that the Trisolarans' attitude toward humans is far from friendly — they once said, "You are bugs."

Yun Tianming is silent for a moment. Then he asks a question you didn't anticipate.

"Cheng Xin... when you say 'send me to the Trisolarans,' how exactly would that work?"

You pause.

"It's... cryogenic technology," you say, each word testing the boundary. "In the final stage of your life, we would use medical procedures to preserve your — your core — and then send it via a specialized spacecraft."

"My core?" His gaze sharpens. The terminally ill often develop an uncanny perceptiveness. "You mean my brain. Don't you?"

You can no longer maintain the carefully constructed narrative.

"...Yes. Your brain."

Silence falls like a wall.

Yun Tianming slowly leans back and stares at the ceiling. You cannot read his expression — is it fear? Anger? Or the exhaustion of someone who already knew?

"Why didn't you tell me directly from the start?" he asks.

The sentence pierces like a needle through all the words you had so carefully prepared.

Your voice becomes very small. "Because... I was afraid you'd refuse if I told you outright."

He looks at you, his eyes complex. In that gaze you see hurt — not because of the surgery, not because of space, but because of you. Because you came to him with a script.

"Let me think about it," he says, then turns away and won't look at you.

Two days later, you receive word. He has agreed.

But when you go to see him again, his eyes have changed. That careful, tentative admiration is gone, replaced by a lucid, distanced calm.

He agrees to the Staircase Project, but he no longer trusts you.