A2-03 Hesitation

"Give me a week," you tell the UN representative.

During that week, you try to understand what being the Swordholder truly means.

You go to see Luo Ji.

This is not easy — the Swordholder lives in a heavily secured bunker deep underground, cut off from the world. But your candidate status grants you special clearance.

The elevator descends for a long time. When the doors open, you see an unexpectedly austere space — a modest room with a bed, a chair, a few shelves of books. A painting hangs on the wall: a woman holding a child, standing by a lake.

Luo Ji sits in the chair.

He is older than you imagined. Sparse white hair, a face covered in wrinkles. But his eyes — those eyes are like two deep wells, with fire at the bottom.

"Sit," he says. His voice is hoarse but steady.

You sit down. You notice his right hand rests on a plain-looking small table — on it is a red button, covered by a transparent flip cap. That is the trigger for the gravitational wave broadcast system.

Sixty-two years. His hand has never left the vicinity of that table.

"You came to find out what this job feels like." Luo Ji doesn't ask — he states.

"Yes."

He is silent for a moment. "I'll tell you. This job feels like death's waiting room. You sit here, waiting for a moment you pray will never come. Your entire life is compressed into a binary choice: press, or don't press. Every meal you eat, every book you read, every dream you have is covered by the shadow of that button."

"Do you regret it?"

He shakes his head. "Regret requires having had another option. I didn't."

Then he looks at you, his gaze sharpening.

"But you do. Cheng Xin, you are not suited for this position."

You are taken aback. "What?"

"You are too kind." He says this without any trace of contempt — simply stating a fact, like saying "water is wet."

"The essence of deterrence is credibility. The Trisolarans must believe the Swordholder will press the button — not might press, not probably will, but will with one hundred percent certainty. I can achieve that, because I no longer care — I've sat in this basement for sixty-two years. My wife and daughter aged and died on the surface while I remained here. I have nothing left to lose."

"But you —" he studies you, "you still have hope. You still believe kindness has value. You still believe peace is possible. These convictions make you a good person, but they will lead the Trisolarans to conclude: she won't press it."

"And if they conclude you won't press it — deterrence collapses."

You are silent for a long time.